Page 8 of Betrayed Knocked-Up Mate

"Show me," I say, moving to look over her shoulder. The screens display various angles of Rosecreek's perimeter—woods, roads, the lake shore. All potential approaches Kane might use. All the places we need to watch.

"Aris's systems are good," Elena notes, fingers flying over her keyboard. "Better than good, actually. Whoever designed this setup knew what they were doing."

"Byron Cox," Asher supplies from where he's checking sight lines through the windows. "He's their tech specialist. Qualified after the military with some crazy credentials. He’s good.”

I file that information away automatically, the same way I catalog every detail about our temporary sanctuary. Every scrap of knowledge could mean survival if—when—Kane finds us. Byron was always a tech wiz, even back in the army. It’s good to know he’s still doing it.

Back in Marshall City, we had rooms full of computers, monitors, screens, detectors, radios. It’s all gone now.

The memory of another destruction rises unbidden, sharp as broken glass. It hits me out of nowhere.

My mother’s study, meticulously organized, as always. Maps and documents spread across her desk, each one marking another successful negotiation between human governments and shifter packs. Father's voice in the hallway, talking about their latest breakthrough in cooperation talks.

The pride in their voices when they told me about their work. The way they believed so completely in building bridges, in proving that humans and shifters could work together, could make each other stronger.

The way the study looked afterward, papers scattered and bloody, their bodies arranged like warnings...

"Marcus." James's voice, gentle but firm. He's always been the best at reading my moods, at knowing when the memories threaten to overwhelm. "The medical supplies arrived from the clinic."

I force myself back to the present, to the reality of our situation. "Everything we need?"

"More than." He begins unpacking boxes with practiced efficiency. "Their doctor—Veronica?—she included extra antibiotics, specialized shifter painkillers, even some hybrid-specific medications I've never seen before. Could be useful for James’ condition."

Hope flickers in Elena's eyes before she can hide it. She's been putting on a brave face, but her sister losing her shift hit her hard. "Any notes on what we passed on about the antigen? Treatment protocols?"

"They’ve given us all they have, though it isn’t much." James holds up a thick file. "She wants to consult when you're feeling up to it. Apparently, she has experience with supernatural genetic modification, given her own hybrid status. And she wants to re-do James’ stitches; she heard they’ve been giving him trouble.”

It's good news. The kind of breakthrough we've been hoping for. But before I can respond, a knock at the door sends us all into defensive positions—Elena's hands moving to hidden weapons, James shifting to cover her, Asher materializing at my shoulder.

"It's open," I call, scenting the air. Pack, but not threatening.

Aris enters, followed by Bigby and Byron. They take in our battle-ready stances with understanding rather than offense. They know what it's like to live on high alert.

I missed them, I realize, even after all this time. We mostly lost touch after we all left the military. Aris and I exchanged the occasional letter, but that was the extent of it. After he and the rest settled in Rosecreek, their lives got busy, just like mine did after I started running Marshall City.

It’s with no small amount of shame that I regard where we are now. They’re successful, surviving, thriving, protected. And half my settlement is gone, demolished.

"Getting settled?" Aris asks, though his eyes track the tactical setup we've created. Analyzing, assessing, just as I would in his position.

"Your hospitality is appreciated." The formal words come automatically. Pack politics demand certain courtesies, even—especially—between allies.

"I've been thinking about your situation," he says, settling into one of the chairs we've positioned for optimal defensive coverage. "About how to keep Kane's forces off your trail while you're here."

Something in his tone sets my wolf on edge. "What did you have in mind?"

"We have someone here who's skilled at editing and forging documents. Apparently, she did it for a while as a side hustle before she made it in photography. Documentation, background stories, the works. She's helped other refugees before, and her photography and editing skills could be useful for creating false trails, making it look like you're somewhere else entirely."

No.

The word rises in my throat before he can say her name. But Bigby's already continuing: "Camila's work is exceptional. She could help hold off Kane and his people for longer, buy you—and us—more time. Byron can handle distribution and giving them a false trail to follow.”

Camila. Of course, it's Camila.

Because the universe isn't content just having her in the same town—now they want her actively involved in the very danger I've spent five years trying to keep her from.

"No," I say aloud, and my voice comes out harder than intended. "We'll find another way."

Elena's head snaps up from her screens, surprise and confusion warring in her scent. In five years of leading this team, I've never dismissed a tactical suggestion so abruptly.

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