Page 37 of Betrayed Knocked-Up Mate

"You need to eat something," Marcus says, breaking the tense silence between us for the past three hours. His voice used to make my heart race. Now, it just makes me want to bite him. "Byron texted. He said there are protein bars in the—"

"Don't." The word comes out higher than I would have liked it to, a desperate kind of sound. "Don't pretend to care about my well-being after what you just did to me.”

He exhales slowly; that controlled release of breath means he's trying to keep his temper. "Camila—"

"No." I turn to stare out the window, watching trees flash past in a green blur. "You lost the right to say my name like that five years ago. You losteveryother rightjust now."

In the glass of the reinforced window, I catch his reflection flinching at my words. Good. Let him hurt. Let him feel a fraction of what he's put me through—first with his rejection, now with this high-handed kidnapping disguised as protection.

Marcus doesn’t try to convince me to eat again. He doesn’t say anything at all. I relish in the hurt of his silence.

The morning stretches into the afternoon, marked only by the sun's slow arc across the sky and the steady decrease of the fuel gauge. Eventually, we stop for gas, the routine almost choreographed in its precision, reminding me that Marcus was on the run for weeks before he came to Rosecreek: he pulls into a remote station, checking sight lines before letting me out of the car, his body constantly between me and potential threats.

I consider making a break for it—my wolf wants me to take off into the woods on the other side of the long, empty highway, but logic wins out. He'd catch me before I got fifty feet, and then what? Another scene like the clinic, another display of his ability to physically overpower me?

No, I think as we re-enter the car and take off again, back down the endless highway out of the state. Better to wait, to watch, to gather information like I learned to do in all those war zones and disaster areas. To find the perfect moment when his guard drops, when I can—

"We need to swap vehicles," Marcus says suddenly, pulling off onto a barely visible dirt road. "This one's too easily tracked. The team sent coordinates for a pick-up.”

He pulls us off onto another turning. Trees close in around us, branches scraping against the truck's sides like claws. After a few minutes of rough terrain that has me gritting my teeth against the jolting, we emerge into a small clearing. A weathered cabin hunkers at its center, and parked beside it is another vehicle—a dark SUV with heavily tinted windows.

"Safe house," Marcus explains as he kills the engine. "Rosecreek’s team is well-connected. We—Iowe them a lot."

"Fascinating," I say flatly, though part of me catalogs this information for later use. "Your paranoia knows no bounds, you know.”

His jaw tightens. "It's not paranoia if they're really hunting you."

"No, what's paranoia is kidnapping someone 'for their own good' without even letting them say goodbye to their brother." The words taste like acid, like all the bitter things I've wanted to say since he manhandled me into the truck. "What's paranoia is making choices for other people without explaining why, without giving them any say in their own lives. You’ve made a habit of it.”

"You don't understand—"

"Then help me understand!" The shout tears from my throat before I can stop it, echoing off trees and metal and five years of silence. I turn to face him, hands tugging fruitlessly at my seatbelt. "For once in your life, Marcus, just tell me the truth. What happened five years ago? What does Kane have to do with any of this? Why did you—" My voice cracks traitorously, and I can’t continue.

I just can’t.

For a moment, just a moment, something raw and vulnerable flashes across his face. His scent shifts with an emotion I refuse to analyze, his hands tightening on the steering wheel until I hear the leather creak.

"I took you because I had to. Get your things," he says finally, already moving to exit the truck. "We need to be on the road again in ten minutes."

The dismissal hits like a physical blow. Of course. Of course, he won't explain or give me even this small piece of truth. Why change the pattern now?

Did he know that wasn’t going to be the question I asked? Did he just not care?

We transfer supplies to the SUV in tense silence, our movements efficient despite the anger crackling between us. The new vehicle is better equipped—medical supplies in hidden compartments, weapons secured under seats, emergency rations packed carefully away. Everything a pair of virtual fugitives might need.

Everything except the answers I want.

"How long?" I ask from my place beside the car as Marcus checks the SUV's systems. "How long are you planning to keep me prisoner?"

He goes still, his back to me. "You're not a prisoner."

"Really?" Bitter laughter bubbles up in my chest. "So I can leave? Go back to my brother, my pack, my life?"

"You know I can't let you do that." His voice roughens with something that might be regret. "Not while Kane—"

"While Kane what?" I step closer, wolf surging forward with challenge, arms folded. "I don’t know Kane, Marcus. I don’t know him, I don’t care what he wants, I don’t care about your history and your paranoia and your past, all of it, I just don’t care. And unless you tell me how and why I’m involved, I won’t start to. What gives you the right to—"

He spins to face me so quickly that I almost lurch back. Almost. But five years of photographing war zones have taught me not to flinch, not to yield ground even when everything in me screams to retreat.

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