Page 48 of Betrayed Knocked-Up Mate

And this time, I'm terrified I won’t know what it is until it’s too late.

Chapter 19 - Camila

California light is unlike any other light in the world.

That's my first thought as we cross the state line, the afternoon sun painting everything in shades of memory I've spent five years trying to forget. Even the air feels familiar—drier than Minnesota's lingering spring damp, carrying traces of desert sage.

I can imagine the scent of the distant ocean, miles from here but stretching like a sparkling barrier across the horizon in my mind. I regard the thought carefully, tenderly. With longing. With grief.

Every mile closer to Sacramento feels like walking backward in time, like watching a film reel of my life play in reverse: college classrooms and late-night study sessions, stolen kisses between lectures, dreams spun out over coffee and textbooks. Marcus’ military ambitions, helping him with his applications, the way we danced in his room when he learned he had been accepted.

All those dreams shattered like glass the night Marcus walked away.

Of course, the nostalgia making my chest tight might just be the morning sickness talking. That's been happening more lately—emotions tangling with nausea until I can't tell which is causing which. The growing life inside me seems to amplify everything, turning memories into physical sensations that leave me dizzy and raw.

Everyone says you feel the worst in the first trimester. I never thought I’d have to learn that it’s true.

I press my forehead against the cool glass of the passenger window, trying to will away another wave of nausea. The pregnancy symptoms are getting harder to hide, especially in the confined space of the car. My wolf's heightened senses make everything more intense—the hum of tires on asphalt, the whisper of air conditioning, the overwhelming scent of Marcus beside me. Every time his scent wraps around me—pine needles and winter air and something darker now, haunted—my stomach rolls with a complicated mixture of want and fear and bone-deep uncertainty.

"We need to stop soon," Marcus says, breaking the silence between us since dawn. His hands tighten on the steering wheel as he checks the mirrors for the hundredth time this hour. "There's a safe house about thirty miles ahead, in the foothills. Remote enough to—"

"I know where we are." The words come out sharper than intended, though everything feels sharp these days. Sharp and bright and terrible, like California sunlight through a magnifying glass. "We're near Sacramento. Near… near home."

Not far from the town where Raf and I grew up. Not town from the college where I met Marcus. Not far from the site of my cruelest and most wretched fantasies, fantasies of what might have happened if he didn’t turn away, fantasies of what my life might have looked like.

Marcus goes very still, only his eyes moving as he continues scanning for threats. "We don't have to stop here. There's another safehouse further north—"

"No." I straighten in my seat, ignoring how the movement makes my head spin. "Here's fine. I need..."To rest. To breathe. To figure out how to tell you about the life growing inside me."I need to stretch my legs."

He doesn't argue; just takes the next exit with careful precision. The roads are achingly familiar—somewhere along here is the turn-off onto the same route we used to take from campus into the foothills for full moon runs, back when everything felt possible.

This town hasn't changed much in five years. Same sleepy streets lined with oak trees older than the college itself. Same mix of local shops and franchise coffee places catering to students and professors. Same mission-style architecture that made me fall in love with photography in the first place—all those clean lines and deep shadows begging to be captured.

We pass the diner where we had our first date. The park where Marcus first shifted in front of me, trusted me with that vulnerable part of himself. The bookstore where I used to study between classes, dreaming of a future that felt set in stone.

"You'll love Marshall City," Marcus said, sprawling across my tiny apartment's couch while I reviewed my final portfolio. "They're building something incredible there—a pack that believes in integration, in cooperation between shifters and humans. Like your photography—showing the beauty in both worlds. My dad talks about it all the time. He wants to move out there someday with my mom.”

"And you'll be their Alpha?" I teased, though we both knew it was more than teasing. Even then, he had that quality that drew others to him, that made people want to follow.

"Maybe." His smile held promises I thought would last forever. "After the military, after I've learned enough to lead properly. And you'll be there too, documenting everything. Building something together."

The memory makes me nauseous, tightening my throat with years of suppressed grief. I can’t bear to think about it. This is why I left—this, this feeling.

"The cabin's just ahead." Marcus's voice drags me back to the present, though something in his tone suggests he's been lost in the same memories. "It's well-stocked, defensible. We can rest for a few days, let things calm down."

The small, stout building emerges from the trees like something from a fairy tale—all weathered wood and wide windows overlooking the valley below. It's beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache, reminds me of all the places we used to talk about living someday. All the futures we planned before everything fell apart.

Inside, the space feels both foreign and familiar. Comfortable furniture arranged for optimal defensive positions. A kitchen stocked with non-perishables. Weapons concealed in strategic locations. But also touches that speak of actual living—handmade quilts draped over chairs, local art on the walls, books lined up on rough-hewn shelves.

"Some of the sanctuary packs maintain a network of these places," Marcus explains as he checks sight lines and exit routes. "Safehouses for... for people who need somewhere to hide."

"People running from Kane?" The question slips out before I can stop it.

He goes still by the window, afternoon light catching the new silver threads in his hair. For a moment, he looks impossibly tired. "Sometimes. Sometimes from other threats. The supernatural world isn't kind to strays."

"No." I sink onto the couch, suddenly exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with the pregnancy. "It's not."

Silence continues between us, heavy with things we can't seem to say. Outside, birds call to each other in the gathering dusk. The familiar sounds of California evening—crickets starting their symphony, wind through pine needles, distant coyotes testing the air.

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