Page 1 of Betrayed Knocked-Up Mate (Rosecreek Special Ops Wolves #8)

Spring in Minnesota has sharp teeth.

Even now, in early March, frost traces delicate patterns across the garage windows, transforming my brother's cluttered workspace into something almost ethereal in the pale morning light.

I've spent the last three months trying to capture that particular quality of northern light—how it seems to hold secrets in its shadows and turns everyday moments into accidental masterpieces. It's different from anything I've photographed before: the harsh sunlight of African savannas, the diffused glow of Southeast Asian temples, the golden hour in South American rainforests. Here, the light feels older somehow. More deliberate. Like it's trying to tell a story, if only I can figure out how to frame it properly.

I haven’t yet figured it out, obviously.

The garage itself is a study in organized chaos, much like my brother. Tools hang in careful order on pegboards, but the workbench below them is strewn with half-finished projects. A partially dismantled motorcycle engine sits in one corner, surrounded by precisely labeled parts. The air smells like motor oil and coffee and that indefinable scent that means pack , something I'm still getting used to after years of living among humans. My camera equipment is spread across every other available surface, a jumble of lenses and filters that probably cost more than Rafael and Thalia's new house. I’ve been collecting for a long, long time.

"You're doing it again," Rafael says, not looking up from the pile of camera equipment he's sorting. His hands move with the same precise care, whether he's handling weapons or my precious lenses, each piece treated like it might explode if touched wrong.

“What?”

"That thing where you space out thinking about composition instead of actually helping."

I toss a lens cap at his head, which he catches without even glancing up. Show-off. "I'm providing artistic direction. Very different."

"Mmhmm." He finally looks at me, dark eyes dancing with amusement. Even after all these years, it still catches me off guard sometimes—how similar we look, despite only being half-siblings. Same near-black eyes, the same unruly dark curls, the same inability to take anything too seriously most of the time. Though his features have that otherworldly edge from his vampiric parent, mine are purely wolf-shifter: sharp, always looking slightly rough around the edges.

"You know, when you said you wanted to organize your gear, I didn't think you meant ‘watch Raf do all the work while I stare artistically into the middle distance.’"

"I contain multitudes." I rescue my favorite wide-angle lens from his pile before he can sort it into the wrong bag.

It's the lens I used to capture those Siberian tigers last year, the ones that got me that National Geographic spread. The memory stings unexpectedly—another place I ran to, another dangerous situation I threw myself into just to prove I could. The magazine's editor called it "stunningly intimate" and "revolutionary." To my friends, I called it running away with style.

"Besides," I say, forcing my thoughts back to the present, "you're the one who insisted on helping. I was perfectly happy to do this myself."

"Right, because the last time I left you alone with an organizational project, it went so well."

"That was one time—"

"You color-coded my entire bookshelf while I was sleeping! And even then, I couldn’t make sense of it!”

"It's called having vision, Rafael." I carefully wrap the lens in its protective cloth, remembering how I used to organize my own bookshelf back home by subject and author, how I’d always mess it up within days but try again eventually.

Stop it, I tell myself firmly. Stop measuring everything against then. I don’t like to think of the past. "And you kept it that way for months, so clearly, I was onto something."

He snorts, but I catch the fondness in it. We fall into a comfortable silence, broken only by the soft clicks of camera equipment being sorted and the distant sound of voices from the pack center.

Through the garage's small windows, I can see people moving about their morning routines—a couple of the pack members’ daughters chasing each other through spring puddles, their laughter carrying clearly to my shifter hearing, Zane helping his very pregnant wife navigate the slick sidewalks with that mixture of devotion and terror unique to expectant fathers, Byron arguing with someone on his phone while gesturing expansively with his free hand. A pair of wolves—probably morning patrol—lope past in shifted form, their fur gleaming silver in the early light.

It's so... normal. Domestic. Nothing like the life I've been living for the past five years, chasing increasingly dangerous photo opportunities across the globe. I've photographed war zones and natural disasters, climbed mountains, and descended into caves, always pushing further, harder, faster. Always trying to prove something—to myself, to the world, to the ghost of a rejection I can't seem to outrun.

My camera roll tells the story better than I ever could: temples in Cambodia where the monks let me photograph ancient ceremonies in exchange for basic computer lessons. A pride of lions in Tanzania, the cubs playing while their mothers watched me with ancient, knowing eyes. Mountain gorillas in Rwanda, their expressions so human it hurt to look at them. Polar bears in Norway, their massive forms dwarfed by endless ice. Each shot more dangerous than the last, each risk carefully calculated to be just this side of suicidal.

The latest memory card holds pictures from my last assignment in Vietnam—rice paddies stretching to the horizon like mirrors reflecting the sky, water buffalo moving through morning mist like living shadows. I was planning to head to Indonesia next, chasing rumors of a newly discovered species of clouded leopard.

Then the call came, the call that informed me that Rafael had nearly died. Suddenly, all my carefully-laid plans seemed meaningless.

Something in my chest tightens at the thought. Three months in one place. Three months of pack bonds humming at the edges of my consciousness, of morning runs through forests that smell like home, of learning the rhythms of a life I thought I'd never want. Three months of not running away.

It’s a record for me.

"You're doing it again," Rafael says, softer this time. When I look at him, his expression has shifted to that particular brotherly concern that always makes me want to simultaneously hug him and punch him in the arm. The scar on his neck—still new, still angry-looking—catches the light, a reminder of how close I came to losing him. "Different kind of spacing out, though."

The garage door swings open with a bang that makes us both jump.

Bigby fills the doorway, his massive frame blocking most of the morning light. His expression is tight, serious in a way that immediately sets my wolf on edge. Even after three months, I'm still getting used to how pack bonds work—how emotions ripple like stones dropped in still water. Bigby's urgency sends little shockwaves of tension through the connection, making my hands twitch toward my camera. Some habits die hard; I've spent years documenting crisis moments.

"Raf," he says, nodding to my brother. His eyes flick to me briefly, something unreadable passing over his face. The morning shadows deepen the lines around his eyes, making him look older than usual. "We need you at the pack center. Now ."

Rafael straightens, all traces of playfulness vanishing. The shift in his demeanor is subtle but complete—this is the Rafael that commands respect in the supernatural world, not my goofy big brother whose only goal half the time is to make me laugh until I puke. Acutely, I feel his mood shift like a door closing, everything personal and warm tucked away behind layers of professional calm. "What's wrong? Thalia—"

"She’s fine. Another team just arrived requesting sanctuary." Bigby's voice is carefully neutral, but there's an undercurrent of... something. Tension? Concern? His gaze slides to me again, then back to Rafael. "It's complicated. Aris wants everyone in the core team there."

The words "another team" echo strangely in my mind. In the three months I've been here, I've seen how Rosecreek works—they're selective about who they shelter, careful about the risks they take. Supernatural politics are delicate things; one wrong move can spark conflicts that burn for generations. They’ve been cautious since the Smoke fell, since well before it. For Aris to call an emergency meeting...

"What team?" Rafael's voice has taken on a careful neutrality. I can see him gathering himself, mental walls clicking into place.

"I'll brief you on the way." Bigby's tone allows for no argument. "They're waiting in the main hall."

Rafael nods, already moving. He pauses at the door, looking back at me. The morning light catches his face at an angle that makes him look older, more tired. "Sorry, Mila. Rain check on finishing this?"

"Go," I wave him off, though something uneasy stirs in my gut. My wolf paces restlessly, picking up on something in the air that my human senses can't quite grasp. "Go be important. I promise not to reorganize anything while you're gone."

He grins, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

Then they're both gone, leaving me alone in the suddenly too-quiet garage. Through the window, I watch them stride toward the pack center, heads bent in conversation. Their breath clouds in the crisp air, and something about the sight makes me reach for my camera almost unconsciously—two figures moving through the morning mist, urgent with purpose, the weight of responsibility visible in their bearing.

But for the first time in years, I don't take the shot. Something holds my hand still, some instinct deeper than my photographer's eye. The morning light seems different now, harder somehow. Less ethereal and more exposing. The frost patterns on the windows cast shadows that look almost like claw marks.

My wolf whines softly in the back of my mind, sensing change on the wind. In five years of chasing dangerous shots around the globe, I've developed a sixth sense for when situations are about to shift, when the perfect moment of calm precedes the storm. It's what's made me good at what I do—that ability to feel the instant before everything changes.

I feel it now. Standing in my brother's garage surrounded by the familiar tools of my trade, I feel it in my bones: something's coming. The light is changing, the shadows lengthening, and all my hard-won peace feels suddenly fragile as frost.

And I can’t take the shot.

Through the pack bonds, still, barely there even after three months, I imagine I can catch echoes of surprise, tension, a spike of something that might be recognition. My fingers itch for my camera, but I force them still. Some moments shouldn't be captured. Some changes need to be lived through, not observed from behind the safety of a lens.

Instead, I start packing away my equipment with methodical care, each piece in its proper place. Whatever's coming, I have a feeling I will want my gear ready to move. Five years of instinct doesn't lie.

The light through the windows shifts again as clouds move across the sun. In the distance, a wolf howls—morning patrol changing shifts. Just another day in Rosecreek.

But nothing stays the same forever. I've spent five years running from that truth. Maybe all that movement has finally caught up with me.

I close my camera bag with a final, decisive click. Time to face whatever comes next.