Page 56 of Betrayed Knocked-Up Mate

Everything hurts, but I catalog it all anyway: ribs cracked from impact with the steering wheel, shoulder wrenched from trying to reach Camila as we went over, head spinning from where it struck the window. The truck lies partway down the slope at an angle, metal groaning like a dying thing in the pre-dawn dark. The windshield is a spiderweb of broken safety glass held together by sheer stubbornness, painted with blood I desperately hope isn't hers.

All of this I note with dulled, cold, hollow detachment.

Then—Camila.

Her name hits my system and sets me on fire, burning away the fog of pain. The passenger seat is empty, the door hanging open at an unnatural angle.

Blood stains the headrest—too much blood—but no body. No Camila.

No sign of our child.

The thought sends my wolf into a frenzy, clawing at my insides with protective fury. The shift ripples beneath my skin, demanding release, demanding blood. But I force it back with iron control. Shifting now would waste precious minutes my mate and unborn child don't have.

My hands shake as I dig out the secure phone, praying it survived the crash.

Two rings, then Asher's voice cuts through static: "Marcus? We lost contact after---"

"They have her." The words taste like copper, like fear, like failure. I register in the back of my mind that my voice is wrecked. I sound like I’ve just crawled out of hell. "Kane's people—they took her. I need—"

"We're already moving." Papers shuffle in the background, voices calling coordinates. "Elena's tracking your location. We’re hours out, but—”

"No time." Through the broken window, I catch traces of scent on the wind under the gunpowder and violence threading through the sharp mineral smell of crushed granite. Recent. Maybe twenty minutes old. "They're moving her through the forest. North, toward the old redwood groves. They’re on foot—”

"Marcus." Asher's voice carries that particular tone he uses when I'm about to do something reckless. "Wait for backup. Are you hurt? What happened? The car—and Kane's expecting you to—"

"Ash, she's pregnant."

The words cast a thick, impenetrable silence over the line. Through our pack bonds, I feel Asher's shock ripple outward, Elena's sharp breath intake, and James going completely still.

I wonder just how many people are listening to this call right now.

"Jesus," Asher breathes. "How long have you—"

"Just found out. Kane..." My voice cracks. "Kane told me. Right before they ran us off the road. I can't—Asher, Ican'twait. Not with both of them in danger."

Silence stretches for three heartbeats, four.

Then: "Understood. We're coming as fast as we can. Just... be careful. Kane's been waiting years for this. He'll have traps."

"I know." Of course, I know. I learned about Kane's methods the hard way, watching him systematically destroy my parents' pack. Watching him turn their ideals of cooperation into weapons, their love for each other into vulnerabilities to exploit. "Track my phone. I'll leave markers where I can."

I end the call before he can argue further or remind me of all the ways this could go wrong. The morning air carries traces of fog off the Pacific, turning the forest into something out of folklore—ancient redwoods looming like sentinels, shadows moving between their massive trunks. Perfect territory for an ambush. Perfect place to spring a trap five years in the making.

Pain screams through my body as I drag myself from the wreckage. Three ribs definitely cracked. Right shoulder partially dislocated. Probable concussion from the impact. But my legs work, and my nose still functions—already picking up traces of Camila's scent mixed with strangers' sweat and gun oil.

They weren't careful about hiding their trail. They want me to follow.

The realization settles cold in my gut as I retrieve weapons from the truck's hidden compartments. This is exactly what Kane's been waiting for—the chance to finish what he started with my parents. To destroy not just me, but any chance of my bloodline continuing. Any chance of my father's legacy surviving.

Focus,I tell myself as I check magazine loads with trembling hands.Think. Plan. Use what you learned.

The lessons come back like muscle memory: tracking techniques learned in the military, honed by years of running from Kane's people. How to read signs of passage without exposing yourself. How to maintain tactical awareness even when your wolf is screaming for blood. How to turn fear into fuel, rage into precision.

How to hunt the ones hunting you.

Their trail leads toward the old-growth forest, where redwoods older than human civilization create perpetual twilight with their massive canopies. Eight sets of boots, moving with military precision. One lighter set of footprints that must be Camila's, stumbling occasionally—drugged, maybe, as well as injured. The thought makes my wolf howl, but I force the sound back behind my teeth.

I can't afford to lose control. Not now. Not with everything I love at stake.

---