Page 38 of Betrayed Knocked-Up Mate

"He kills mates," Marcus grits out, his eyes bleeding gold at the edges. "He kills the mates of his enemies. He did it to… to my mother, after my father made an enemy of him. Killed her and then killedhimfor good measure. He uses them to make examples, to break packs apart from the inside. To destroy everything that makes us strong."

He looks at me as if he expects I’ll understand now. Now, I’ll know why he’s doing this.

But I don’t. Of course I don’t.

"I'm not your mate," I say finally, the words tasting like ash. "Marcus, I don’t know what you think you’re saying… but, none of that matters, because I’m not your mate.”

You made it clear five years ago. We’ll never be mates.

Something that might be agony flashes across his face.

"Camila—"

"No." I cut him off before he can say whatever carefully crafted half-truth he's prepared. "You don't get to use that as an excuse. Not now. Not after everything. You don’t get to rub it in my face—do you know how much that hurts?”

For a heartbeat, we stare at each other in the growing dusk. The space between us feels charged with electricity, memory, and all the things we can't seem to say. His scent wraps around me like a familiar blanket---pine needles and winter air and something darker now, something haunted that makes my wolf whine with recognition.

"We need to go," he says finally, turning away. "Kane's people will be expanding their search radius. We can't stay in one place too long."

I follow him to the SUV, because what choice do I have? Let him throw me over his shoulder again? Watch him bare his throat in unconscious apology even as he forces me into the passenger seat? No. Better to move under my own power, to maintain what little agency I have left.

The engine rumbles to life as darkness creeps through the trees. Marcus navigates back to the main road with the same focused intensity he brings to everything—watching mirrors, checking blind spots, constantly alert for threats. In the dashboard's blue glow, his profile looks carved from marble, all sharp edges and contained power.

I hate that I still notice these things. Hate that even through my fury, my wolf recognizes him, yearns for him, wants to press close and demand answers with teeth and claws and whatever it takes to break through his walls.

But mostly, I hate that after five years of running, of building myself into someone stronger, someone who doesn't need anyone else's protection... here I am again. Running because Marcus Hillmarton decided it was best for me, carrying secrets he won't share, leaving behind everything I've fought so hard to build.

He still rules me. I suppose I should start to make peace with that awful truth.

The highway stretches endlessly ahead, empty and dark. Somewhere behind us, Rosecreek prepares for war. Somewhere ahead, Kane's people hunt us through the night. And here in this SUV, trapped between past and present, Marcus and I carry on our own battle—one fought with silence and secrets and things we can't seem to say.

I turn to watch the trees blur past my window, letting the motion lull me into a state of dangerous calm. My wolf paces restlessly, torn between fury at being caged and that old, aching need that never quite went away. The same need that made me run across oceans, chase increasingly dangerous shots, throw myself into any situation that might make me forget the way Marcus used to look at me.

The way he's looking at me now in the rearview mirror, when he thinks I can't see---like I'm something precious and terrible, something he has to protect even if it kills us both.

Even if it’s already killed me.

Chapter 16 - Marcus

Three days of running, and every mile feels like penance. Each hour stretches longer than the last, marked by gas station coffee and the endless rhythm of wheels on asphalt. We've zigzagged across three state lines, doubling back and switching vehicles twice more, skirting the edge of the Midwest region endlessly, always watching mirrors for signs of pursuit. The spring storms have followed us the whole way, like nature itself mirrors the tempest between us.

Thank God she doesn’t get carsick, I think, and then I shake myself. If Camila hadn’t had her sealegs, she wouldn’t have traveled all that time.

There’s so much I still don’t know about her now.

She hadn't tried to escape since that first night, when she made it halfway across a truck stop parking lot before I caught her. The fury in her eyes when I carried her back to the car haunts me still—not because she fought, but because of how quickly she went limp in my arms, like something inside her had given up. She's barely spoken since, except to reject food or snap responses to direct questions. The silence weighs heavier than her anger ever could.

The motel sign flickers through sheets of spring rain, neon bleeding into puddles that reflect my sins back at me in shades of red and blue.VACANCYblinks like a warning, like a beacon, like everything I've been trying to avoid. I wish we could keep going forever, never having to stop and take stock. We've been driving sixteen hours straight, and even my shifter stamina has limits. The exhaustion drags at my bones, makes every movement feel like swimming through molasses.

The parking lot is mercifully empty save for a single semi-truck idling at the far end, its driver presumably preparing to shut down and sleep in the front. It’s a perfect place for lying low, but terrible for maintaining distance from something I've spent five years trying to deny. The universe, it seems, has a twisted sense of humor.

Once inside, Camila stands at the window of our room—the only room available, because fate despises me—her silhouette knife-sharp against the stormy darkness. The distance between us feels like miles, though it's only steps. We are charged with three days of arguments and escape attempts and things we still can't say.

"I'm not sharing a bed with you," she says for the third time, voice flat with the kind of fury that makes me feel faintly unwell even now, even after days of receiving it. The rain has left her dark hair wild with humidity, curling at her temples in a way that makes my hands itch to brush it back. "I'll sleep in the chair.”

"The chair's broken." I gesture to the rickety piece of furniture, its cushions stained with decades of other people's stories, sharp metal springs poking up out of the plush. I’d rather die than let her sleep there. "And you need real rest. You've barely slept since—"

"Since you kidnapped me?" Her laugh is bitter as the black coffee I’ve been surviving on. "Funny how trauma works."

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