Page 3 of Betrayed Knocked-Up Mate

As we approach, the morning light plays across the wooden beams overhead, creating patterns that remind me of military installations I've known, but softer somehow. More like a home than a fortress.

Asher whistles low under his breath. "Look, all the windows have lockdown panels. Look at that installation! Think they'd let me take notes?"

"After we handle a potentially life-or-death situation, maybe," Elena says, but she's studying the building's lines with equal appreciation. "Though I have to admit, their security setup is elegant. Almost invisible unless you know what to look for."

She's right. The cameras are craftily concealed, the defensive positions natural-looking. Someone put serious thought into making this place both beautiful and secure. Someone built it with care.

No one in my team has to mention why we’re so preoccupied. Our own pack center is rubble now.

The front doors open before we reach them.

Aris Cadell steps out, and for a moment, I'm thrown back in time to training grounds in California, to endless drills and shared meals and the forging of bonds that apparently—hopefully—survived half a decade of silence.

He looks exactly the same, except for a few new scars and something settled in his bearing that speaks of hard-won peace. He’s hardly aged, except for a few greys in his beard, which I decide gracefully I won’t be mentioning.

"Marcus fucking Hillmarton," he says, grinning that familiar grin. "I'd say it's good to see you, but given the circumstances..."

"Yeah." The word comes out rougher than intended. "Sorry to drop in like this. We wouldn't have come if—"

"If you had any other choice. I know." His expression softens slightly as he takes in my team's ragged state. We must look rough even cleaned up and rested from our last stop. "Come inside. We've got coffee, food, and secure rooms for briefing."

I feel my team relax fractionally at his welcome. We've been running so long, looking over our shoulders at every turn. The promise of safety, even temporary, is almost overwhelming.

The pack center's interior is as thoughtfully designed as its exterior. The main hall opens into a series of interconnected spaces, each serving multiple purposes. What looks like a casual gathering area could become a defensive position in seconds. The seemingly random placement of support columns would provide perfect cover in a firefight. I approve of the design even as something in my chest aches at the necessity of such preparations.

"Your Linnea’s work?" I ask as we follow Aris through the space.

"It was a bit of all of us, but yes, especially her," Aris confirms, pride and love evident in his voice. "We designed it after the trouble with… well, with the last Alpha. We wanted something that could be both sanctuary and stronghold." He glances back at us, eyes sharp but not unkind. "Seems appropriate, given your situation."

Elena makes a small sound that might be appreciation or might be pain. James shifts closer to her instinctively—we’ve been doing that more since the attack, gravitating toward each other like magnets. I catch Asher watching them with the same mixture of concern and resignation I feel.

We've all changed since Kane's assault on our compound. Some wounds run deeper than flesh.

"From what I know, the pack's grown," I observe, noting the evidence of a thriving community: children's drawings pinned to bulletin boards, training schedules that speak of organized defense forces, the constant movement of people through the halls. All of it speaks of strength, of resilience. Of everything Kane wants to destroy.

"We've had our share of strays finding their way home." Aris leads us into a conference room that manages to feel both professional and welcoming. The long table is solid wood, scarred with age and use. Maps cover one wall, digital displays another. The windows overlook the town square, giving clear sightlines in all directions. "Some by choice, some by necessity. Like old times, I guess.”

The reference to our training days carries weight. We'd all been strays of a sort then—young alphas and betas learning to work together, to overcome the natural tensions between dominant wolves. Those lessons probably saved my life when I had to build my own team. When I had to learn to trust others with not just my life, but my pack's survival.

"Coffee first," Aris announces, "then we talk about what brought you to my door looking like you've been through Hell."

"Feels like maybe we brought Hell with us," James mutters, but he accepts the mug Aris hands him with genuine gratitude.

"Nothing we haven't handled before," Aris returns easily, but his eyes are serious as he studies us. "Though I admit, I'm curious what could drive Marcus Hillmarton's team from their territory. Last I heard, Marshall City was thriving under your leadership."

The words hit like physical blows. Territory. Leadership. Everything I failed to protect.

"Kane," I say simply, and watch recognition flash across his face. "Victor Kane."

Aris goes still in that particular way of predator wolves.

"Shit." He sets his coffee down carefully. "Start from the beginning."

I draw breath to explain, to lay out the nightmare of the past few months in careful, tactical terms. I have to steel myself. It’s still so fresh, and I don’t want to talk about the devastation in detail, the injuries, the blood, the rubble, not in front of my pack.

But I have to. And I know they can handle it.

Time to rip the band-aid off, I guess.

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