Page 47 of Betrayed Knocked-Up Mate

But something's off about her movements. She's fighting more defensively than usual, protecting her midsection in a way that leaves her vulnerable elsewhere. The hesitation in her strikes, the careful distance she maintains—it sets off warning bells in the back of my mind.

Then, one of Kane's people gets lucky.

The knife catches me across the ribs, drawing a line of fire that makes my vision blur. Camila's snarl of fury echoes across the empty lot as she launches herself at my attacker, all precisely controlled violence. But the movement leaves her open, and another of Kane's men strikes, fist flying—

I move without thinking, catching the blow meant for her, right in the centre of my chest. The impact drives the air from my lungs, winds me, but the sight of Camila safe makes the pain irrelevant.

We drive them back together, our combined fury making them reconsider their odds.

When they retreat to regroup, Camila's hand presses against my side where the knife caught me, her touch gentle despite the tremble in her fingers, supporting me, trying to staunch the bleeding.

"In the car," she says shortly, already pulling me toward the store. "You're bleeding—let’sgo.”

Losing the tail takes an hour of driving, looping, stopping, starting, and redoubling. The whole time, Camila holds a balled-up sweater against my ribs until the bleeding stops.

***

Inside the next motel, the front desk clerk is nowhere to be seen. It’s almost midnight by the time we arrive. We make our way to the tiny employee bathroom in the back, Camila's grip on my arm never loosening. The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across her face as she digs through our emergency medical kit, making her look older, more haunted.

"Shirt off," she orders, not meeting my eyes.

I comply without argument, watching as she cleans the wound with careful precision. Her hands are steady now, professional, but I catch the way she swallows hard at the sight of my blood. The way her scent spikes with something deeper than concern.

"I'm fine," I say softly. "It's not deep."

"Shut up." The words lack her usual fire, coming out more tired than angry. "Just… don’t.”

So I stay silent as she works, cataloging the changes in her I've been trying to ignore. The shadows under her eyes. The slight tremor in her hands when she thinks I'm not looking. The way she keeps her distance even while treating my wounds, like she's afraid to get too close.

When she finishes with my ribs, I catch her wrist before she can pull away. Her pulse races under my fingers, hummingbird-quick.

"Let me check you for injuries."

"I'm not hurt." But she doesn't pull away or move as I run gentle hands over her arms and shoulders, checking for damage. Her breath catches when I reach her ribs, though I can't find any wounds to explain it.

"Your fighting was different," I say carefully, still not releasing her wrist. "You left your face open. One of them could have knocked you out in a second.”

She goes completely still under my hands, that same prey-animal stillness from the car. "Marcus..."

"Please." The word comes out rougher than intended. "Something's wrong. I can smell it on you, see it in how you move. Just... tell me how to help. Are you sick? Is there something I can do?”

For a moment, just a moment, something cracks in her expression. It’s a terrible thing to witness. She looks like she’s drowning.

Then, the walls slam back into place.

"You can't help," she says, pulling away at last. "You can't fix this. Not this time. I’m dealing with some stuff. Some stuff you can’t help with. Alright? At least let me have that.”

The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, painting everything in shades of harsh truth and shadowed secrets. Blood seeps slowly through the bandage on my ribs. This physical pain feels insignificant compared to the ache in my chest as I watch her rebuild her defenses.

"Camila—"

"We should go." She's already moving toward the door, all business again. "Kane's people will regroup, try again. We need to put distance between us and here. We can find another motel.”

She's right, of course. But watching her walk away, seeing the careful distance she maintains even as she helps me to the car, feels like losing her all over again. Like watching her slip through my fingers just like she did five years ago, when I thought pushing her away would keep her safe.

The sun rises behind us as we drive west, painting the sky in shades of blood and gold. Camila curls in her seat like origami, like she's trying to make herself smaller, less real.

Something's wrong with Camila.

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