Page 52 of Betrayed Knocked-Up Mate

The vehicles move with military precision, maintaining exact distances between each other as they navigate the switchbacks. Three black SUVs, their windows tinted dark as pitch, followed by what looks like a tactical transport of some kind. Professional. Deadly. Coming for us with the inexorable patience of glaciers.

They found us. They're here. They're coming.

The thought loops in my mind like a broken record as the sun bleeds red across the valley. Each revolution of the words brings new terror—not just for myself now, but for the tiny spark of life I haven't told Marcus about. For all the truths still unspoken between us, all the chances we'll never have, all the futures dying in the gathering dark.

The vehicles draw closer with terrible purpose, their intent clear as mountain water, clear as California light, clear as all the secrets Marcus still won't tell me. My lens captures it all with clinical precision—the way their chrome catches the dying sun-like bared teeth, the dust rising behind them like war banners, the absolute certainty of their approach.

Kane has found us at last, here in the shadow of everything that was and everything that might have been.

And I'm carrying his enemy's child.

Chapter 22 - Marcus

The sound of Camila stumbling through the back door tears through my consciousness like a bullet.

It’s like a shot of adrenaline when I see her standing there, staring, shaking. She's pale, paler than I've ever seen her, one hand braced against the doorframe as if it's the only thing keeping her upright. The phone in her other hand trembles.

"They're coming," she gasps, and the raw fear in her voice makes my wolf surge forward with protective fury. "Kane's people—three SUVs, tactical transport behind them. Moving fast up the mountain."

My body moves before my mind can process, years of training taking over. Weapons cache first—the heavy duffel hidden beneath loose floorboards. Rifle, handguns, extra magazines. The familiar weight of tactical gear settling across my shoulders like armor, like inevitability, like all the choices that have led us here.

Thank God I didn’t dump the car yet. We can still get out, if we just—

"How long?" I demand, already calculating escape routes, defensive positions, all the ways this could go wrong.

"Minutes. Maybe less." Her voice cracks slightly. "They're moving with purpose, Marcus. They know we're here."

Gravel crunches outside—vehicles soon to pull up, cutting off escape routes. The sound of car doors opening with precise coordination, boots on packed earth. Professional. Practiced. Deadly.

"Back room," I order, shoving a handgun into Camila's hands. "There's a hidden panel behind the bookcase, leads to—"

"No." She checks the magazine with movements that speak of practice, I wish she'd never needed. "I'm not leaving you here alone."

"Camila—"

The first shots shatter the front windows before I can finish, spraying glass across the cabin's worn floorboards.

We move as one, diving for cover behind the heavy oak dining table as bullets tear through drywall and timber. The air fills with dust and flying pieces of splintered wood and the particular metallic scent of Camila's fear.

Return fire comes automatically—muscle memory taking over as I sight and squeeze the trigger in controlled bursts. Two of Kane's people go down in the first exchange, but more keep coming. Through the broken windows, I catch glimpses of tactical gear, of coordinated movement, of the terrible precision that marks professional killers.

Camila fights like a cornered wolf beside me, shooting over the top of the table with good aim—her form is untrained, her hands shaking, but her aim is steady and true. She's favoring her left side, protecting her midsection even when it leaves her face and throat exposed, even now. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she’d been grazed, but she did this last time, too.

A ricochet grazes her shoulder and she lurches, twisting to keep her stomach away from the impact. It’s a tiny cut, but the scent of her blood curdles mine.

"Cover me!" she shouts, already moving toward a better position behind the stone fireplace. She shuffles with none of the fluid adaptability I've come to expect. She's fighting defensive rather than offensive.

She’s terrified. Anyone would be. But somehow, something’s still—something’s—

A second shot of adrenaline, then. Stronger and worse than the first.

A new scent cuts through the chaos—gunmetal and madness—and something that makes my wolf howl with five-year-old rage.

Kane.

He enters through the shattered front door like he's arriving for dinner, perfectly pressed suit incongruous among his tactical team, walking without a care through the rubble, shots still popping at his sides.

When he sees me, his smile holds all the warmth of a winter grave.

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