Page 46 of Betrayed Knocked-Up Mate

"Kane's people hit Rosecreek again." Elena's voice crackles with exhaustion and static. "They repelled them, but... it was close.”

Ice floods my veins. "Casualties?"

"None, thank the gods. But Asher took a hit protecting Thalia, so we’re still stuck here. Aris keeps saying it’s fine but… anyway. We’re stuck for now, there’s not much to be done about it.” She hesitates, something heavy in the pause. "Marcus? Rafael's worried. Says Camila's not responding to his texts like usual. Says she sounds... different."

My eyes cut to Camila's reflection in the windshield. She's gone completely still, the way prey animals do when they sense something watching them.

But she shouldn’t be scared. She should be fearless, brave, perilously confident.

But she’s not.

"We're fine," I say shortly, though nothing about this feels fine. "Keep me updated on Ash."

"Marcus—"

I end the call before she can say more, before she can voice the concern I hear building in her tone. Through the fraying, distant pack bond, I feel her frustration, her worry, her determination to keep everyone safe.

Camila says nothing. I watch out of the corner of my eye as she pulls her phone out of her pocket and stabs out a text message to her brother.

The miles blur together as morning bleeds into the afternoon, marked only by the steady decrease of the fuel gauge and the growing weight of everything unsaid. Camila's scent spikes occasionally with something that might be nausea, might be fear, might be fury. Each time, my hands tighten on the wheel until the leather creaks.

The gas station appears like a mirage through the summer heat haze, shimmering at the edges like a fever dream. It's one of those independent places you find scattered across America's back roads—cracked concrete, rusty pumps, a sign so sun-bleached the prices are barely legible. The kind of place that sees more tumbleweeds than customers, where cash is king and questions aren't asked.

Perfect for staying under Kane's radar. Terrible for defense. We shouldn’t linger here.

My wolf's hackles rise as we pull off the highway. Something about the emptiness sets off warning bells—no other cars despite the reasonable gas prices, no movement inside the store except for a bored-looking clerk scrolling through his phone. The afternoon light casts long shadows behind the building, creating too many blind spots for comfort. But we're running on fumes, and the next station is forty miles away, according to the GPS.

"This doesn't feel right," I mutter, more to myself than Camila.

Camila's scent shifts again. She's been doing that more often lately—these sudden spikes of complex emotion that my wolf can't quite decode.

"Stay in the car," I say as I pull up to the pump. "I'll—"

"No." She's already opening her door, movements sharp with defiance. "I need air."

I want to argue, want to explain all the reasons she needs to stay where I can protect her. But the set of her shoulders warns me that pushing will only make things worse. So I watch as she stalks toward the convenience store, my wolf straining against its chains with each step she takes away from me.

I'm halfway through replacing the gas cap when the wind shifts, bringing with it a scent that makes my blood run cold. Gunmetal and aggression, are the particular chemical edge that marks professional soldiers. I’ve come to know them well by now. My enhanced hearing picks up the whisper of tactical gear, the near-silent communication of a coordinated strike team.

We’re surrounded.I realize it in a cold, heady rush.They’re already here.

They've been waiting. All this time, hiding behind the building, letting us pull in, letting us get comfortable. The realization hits like ice water in my veins—this wasn't a random encounter. They knew we'd need to stop eventually, knew we'd look for isolated places away from witnesses.

The attack comes like lightning, like a nightmare, like everything I've been dreading since we left Rosecreek.

Before I can move, five of them emerge from behind the building, moving with the kind of precision that comes from years of training together. Through my rising shift, I catch details that my tactical mind catalogs automatically: long rifles, the subtle bulge of serum injectors at their belts, the way they spread out to cut off escape routes.

Two more appear from inside the store—they must have taken out the clerk while we were pulling in. The knowledge sends fury racing through my blood. More innocent lives are endangered because of me, because of choices I made, because of secrets I still can't tell.

"Camila!"

The shout tears from my throat as I spin toward the store, already shifting. But she's moving too, halfway out the door, predator grace carrying her into a defensive crouch as three of Kane's men emerge from the shadows.

What happens next feels like a dance we've practiced a thousand times.

Camila drops and rolls as the first attacker lunges, coming up inside his guard with deadly efficiency. When he tries to grab her, she's already moving, using his momentum to send him crashing into a gas pump. My wolf snarls with pride even as I engage my own opponents, claws extending, teeth sharpening, the shift rippling through me like lightning.

We move in perfect synchronization, covering each other's blind spots without needing to speak. When I drive one attacker back, she's there to cut off his escape route. I'm already moving to guard her flank when she ducks under a wild swing.

---