Page 45 of Betrayed Knocked-Up Mate

My legs give out, and I slide down the wall, tile cold against my spine as reality crashes over me in waves.

A baby.

Marcus'sbaby.

A tiny spark of life created in that moment of weakness, of need, of five years of denial finally breaking. My hands press against my still-flat stomach, trying to feel something, anything, that might make this feel real. My wolf whines with a mixture of joy and terror that makes me dizzy.

Another text lights up my phone—Asher, this time, checking our coordinates for the next safe house. My fingers hover over the keys as I draft and delete a dozen messages:

Has he been with anyone since me?

Did he ever talk about California?

Why did he really leave?

But each question feels like admitting defeat, like giving power to fears I'm not ready to face. The cursor blinks accusingly as I delete the draft one final time, letting my phone clatter to the floor beside me.

Through the wall, I hear Marcus beginning to stir. Soon, he'll wake, will notice my absence, and come looking with that mixture of concern and control that makes me want to kiss him and kill him in equal measure. Soon, I'll have to put on a mask of normalcy, pretend my entire world hasn't just shifted on its foundation.

Soon, but not yet.

For now, I press my forehead to my knees and try to remember how to breathe. Try to find strength in the silence, the space between heartbeats, the tiny spark of life that changes everything and nothing all at once.

Morning light creeps under the bathroom door, begging a question I'm not ready to answer. Somewhere outside, the world keeps turning. Somewhere to the west, Kane hunts us through the dawn. Somewhere behind us, my brother waits for answers I can't give him.

And here on this cold tile floor, I've never felt more alone.

Chapter 18 - Marcus

Something's wrong with Camila.

The realization has been building for days, gathering like storm clouds on the horizon. Her scent has shifted—subtle changes that nag at my instincts, that make my wolf pace restlessly behind its cage of ribs. The notes of her distinctive scent I remember are still there, but underlaid with something new. Something that makes my protective instincts surge every time she's more than arm's length away.

Perhaps she’s sick. Maybe she’s so stressed and sad and hurt by it all that she’s withering away. The thought makes me feel ill.

She's stopped eating properly, picking at diner food without appetite. She stopped arguing, too, which worries me more than her anger ever did. The fire that's always defined her—that drew me to her in California, that kept her alive through five years of dangerous assignments—seems banked, hidden behind walls I can't breach.

Morning light spills through the car windows as we cross another state line, painting her profile in shades of gold and shadow. She hasn't spoken since we left the motel three hours ago; just stares out the passenger window like the passing landscape holds answers I won't give her. Dark circles shadow her eyes, evidence of another night spent pretending to sleep while her heart races with secrets I can't decode.

"You should eat something," I say, breaking the silence that's stretched between us since dawn. The protein bar I offer feels like a peace offering, like an apology, like all the words I can't seem to say. "You barely touched breakfast."

She doesn't even look at me; she just curls tighter in her seat. "Not hungry."

"Camila." Her name feels like glass in my throat. "What's wrong? You've been—"

"Don't." The word comes out sharp as a blade. "Marcus, I can’t do this today. I can’t do you caring today."

"I've always cared." The admission slips out before I can stop it, heavy with five years of regret.

Now she does look at me, her eyes hard as winter frost, and I feel cold with it, cold down to my bones.

"I can’t,” she repeats.

The words, simple and short, rake over me, threatening to tear me open. Silently, I nod. It’s all I can give her.

The secure phone buzzes in my pocket, Elena's signal cutting into the tension but not quite through it. Camila turns back to the window, dismissing me as completely as if I'd ceased to exist.

"Report," I say into the device, trying to focus on anything but the ache in my chest.

---