Page 44 of Betrayed Knocked-Up Mate

"They're moving west... pattern suggests... careful of the borders..."

"James still isn't healing right... Elena thinks... infection…"

Each call leaves him more tense, more haunted, more determined to keep moving. But he still won't tell me why, and now that I’ve given up on asking, we simply don’t talk about it at all.

Two weeks since that night in the motel. Two weeks of running feels like forever, and there is no time at all. Two weeks of falling back into each other's orbit while maintaining careful distance, like binary stars locked in eternal dance—always circling, never quite touching, bound by forces we can't escape but won't acknowledge.

The landscape continues to change around us, but some things remain constant: the rhythm of wheels on asphalt, the weight of unspoken words between us, the way Marcus watches the mirrors like he expects Kane to materialize at any moment. The way my heart still races when he touches me, even accidentally. The way neither of us can seem to break this pattern we've fallen into, this careful dance of intimacy and distance, of secrets and silence and things we can't seem to say.

Spring is stretching itself out into early summer, but I feel frozen in that moment two weeks ago, pressed between Marcus and a motel room wall, everything I've spent five years running from catching up at last. Time flows around us like water, like memory, like all the things we keep trying to outrun.

But some things, I'm learning, refuse to stay in the past. Some things follow you across state lines, across years, across all the careful boundaries you try to build. Some things are written in blood and bone and pack bonds that never quite break, no matter how far you run.

All things catch up eventually. If I’ve learned anything in my life, I’ve learned that. I can feel it coming like storm clouds on the horizon, like the pressure drop before lightning strikes. All this running, all this careful distance, all these patterns we've built—they're just delaying the inevitable.

***

My storm arrives on an unremarkable day, in a town I don’t remember the name of, two thirds of the way to California. We’re not far south of Idaho.

Dawn creeps under the nth motel room's heavy curtains like an unwanted guest, painting everything in shades of gray and uncertainty. I'm already awake, hunched over the toilet for the third time this morning, trying to convince myself it's just stress. Just anger. Just the universe's way of punishing me for letting Marcus back into my bed, into my heart, into places I swore he'd never touch again.

Nausea comes in waves, each one stronger than the last. My hands shake as I grip the porcelain, its chill seeping into my palms like a truth I can't avoid. Behind me, through the bathroom's paper-thin walls, I hear Marcus's steady breathing—still deep in sleep, unaware that my world is tilting on its axis.

No,I think desperately, even as my mind starts counting days, weeks, moments. No, no, no.

But my wolf knows. Has known, maybe, since that first night in the motel two weeks ago. Since Marcus pressed me against the wall and five years of denial crumbled like sand castles in the tide.

My hand drifts unconsciously to my stomach, and the gesture feels like surrender.

But I need to be sure.

The convenience store across from the motel looks abandoned in the early morning light, its windows reflecting a sky that can't decide if it wants to rain. The bell above the door chimes too loudly as I enter, making me flinch. The teenage clerk barely glances up from his phone as I wander the aisles, trying to look casual while my heart threatens to burst from my chest.

Three different tests, because I need to be certain. The plastic bags crinkle accusingly as the clerk rings them up, his bored expression suggesting he's seen this dance before—terrified women buying pregnancy tests at dawn, their hands shaking as they count out cash. I wonder how many of them were shifters. How many were running from something. How many felt like their worlds were ending and beginning in the same breath.

Back in the motel bathroom, I line the tests up on the counter like evidence at a crime scene. Each one feels like a confession, like a secret I'm not ready to keep. The instructions blur through tears I refuse to acknowledge:

Wait three minutes.

Pink line positive.

Results accurate up to 99%.

Time stretches endlessly as I wait, each second an eternity. Through the wall, I hear Marcus shift in his sleep, a soft sound that makes my chest ache.

What would he do if he knew? Run again, like last time? Push me away "for my own good" like he always does?

Or would this be different? Would this finally be enough to make him tell me the truth about why he left, about what Kane really wants, about all the secrets he keeps wrapped around himself like armor?

My phone buzzes—a text from Rafael that nearly breaks me:

Still alive out there, Cam? Starting to forget what your voice sounds like.

I stare at the message until the screen darkens, words crowding in my throat. How do I tell my brother that his stupid, reckless sister let herself fall back into bed with the man who broke her heart? That I'm carrying a child whose father might walk away again without explanation? That I'm terrified and alone and desperately pretending I'm strong enough to handle this?

The timer on my phone chirps softly. Three minutes up. Time to face the truth.

Positive. All three tests, lined up like witnesses to my own foolishness. The pink lines seem to glow in the harsh bathroom light, accusatory and final.

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