Page 16 of Betrayed Knocked-Up Mate (Rosecreek Special Ops Wolves #8)

Three days of running, and every mile feels like penance. Each hour stretches longer than the last, marked by gas station coffee and the endless rhythm of wheels on asphalt. We've zigzagged across three state lines, doubling back and switching vehicles twice more, skirting the edge of the Midwest region endlessly, always watching mirrors for signs of pursuit. The spring storms have followed us the whole way, like nature itself mirrors the tempest between us.

Thank God she doesn’t get carsick, I think, and then I shake myself. If Camila hadn’t had her sealegs, she wouldn’t have traveled all that time.

There’s so much I still don’t know about her now.

She hadn't tried to escape since that first night, when she made it halfway across a truck stop parking lot before I caught her. The fury in her eyes when I carried her back to the car haunts me still—not because she fought, but because of how quickly she went limp in my arms, like something inside her had given up. She's barely spoken since, except to reject food or snap responses to direct questions. The silence weighs heavier than her anger ever could.

The motel sign flickers through sheets of spring rain, neon bleeding into puddles that reflect my sins back at me in shades of red and blue. VACANCY blinks like a warning, like a beacon, like everything I've been trying to avoid. I wish we could keep going forever, never having to stop and take stock. We've been driving sixteen hours straight, and even my shifter stamina has limits. The exhaustion drags at my bones, makes every movement feel like swimming through molasses.

The parking lot is mercifully empty save for a single semi-truck idling at the far end, its driver presumably preparing to shut down and sleep in the front. It’s a perfect place for lying low, but terrible for maintaining distance from something I've spent five years trying to deny. The universe, it seems, has a twisted sense of humor.

Once inside, Camila stands at the window of our room—the only room available, because fate despises me—her silhouette knife-sharp against the stormy darkness. The distance between us feels like miles, though it's only steps. We are charged with three days of arguments and escape attempts and things we still can't say.

"I'm not sharing a bed with you," she says for the third time, voice flat with the kind of fury that makes me feel faintly unwell even now, even after days of receiving it. The rain has left her dark hair wild with humidity, curling at her temples in a way that makes my hands itch to brush it back. "I'll sleep in the chair.”

"The chair's broken." I gesture to the rickety piece of furniture, its cushions stained with decades of other people's stories, sharp metal springs poking up out of the plush. I’d rather die than let her sleep there. "And you need real rest. You've barely slept since—"

"Since you kidnapped me?" Her laugh is bitter as the black coffee I’ve been surviving on. "Funny how trauma works."

The words hit like claws across my chest. Because she's right, I know—I did this. Took her from her home, her pack, everything she's built. Just like five years ago, I'm making choices for her, thinking I know what's best.

But the memory of Kane's smile when he saw her, the way his eyes lit with recognition...

No. Better to have her hate me than watch Kane destroy her like he destroyed my parents.

"Take the bed," I say, forcing my voice steady. "I'll take the floor."

She doesn't respond; she just keeps staring out at the rain like it holds the answers I won't give her. The motel room feels smaller by the second, closing in with the weight of everything unsaid. Three days of this—of her justified anger and my desperate need to keep her safe warring with the pull between us that never quite went away.

The secure burner phone in my pocket buzzes, Elena's coded signal. Camila's shoulders tense at the sound, but she doesn't turn.

"Report," I say into the device, keeping my voice low, though I know her sharp shifter hearing will catch every word.

"James is stable." Elena's voice crackles with static and exhaustion. "Still weak, but healing. Kane's forces have fallen back to their temporary base, but they're watching the town. Waiting."

My fingers tighten on the phone. "Any movement toward your location?"

"Not yet. But Marcus..." She hesitates, and my wolf surges with protective instinct. "We think they know you’ve left. They’re probably tailing you. And we don’t have the forces to send out scouts to your path."

"So we’re on our own out here," I finish, the words tasting like ash. Through the window's reflection, I catch Camila's minute flinch. "How long until James can travel?"

"Two days, maybe three. Veronica's doing everything she can, but..." Elena's voice drops lower. "The weapon's residual effects on the pack still slow our healing. And Marcus? They hit another sanctuary pack up north. Six more lost their shifts. It’s… spreading."

Ice floods my veins.

Because this is what Kane does—systematic, patient, inexorable. Each attack perfecting his weapon, expanding his reach. How long until he finds us?

I try to imagine Camila without her shift, without the dark-furred wolf that flashes behind her eyes when she’s happy, when she’s angry, when she’s trying to figure her way out of a problem. It’s an image I can’t bear to hold in my mind.

"Keep me updated," I say shortly. "And Elena? Be careful."

She doesn’t make an affirmative noise. Just breathes for a moment, as if unsure what to say to that.

The line goes dead, leaving me alone with Camila's silence and the endless drumming of rain.

"Another pack?" she asks finally, still facing the window. "More people losing their shifts?"

"Yes."

She turns now, moonlight catching the gold in her eyes. "Why Kane's targeting your people? Why he's so determined to destroy everything you care about? You can’t tell me he’s just a madman. Sure, he’s hitting anywhere he can, but… he hunted you. I know what being hunted looks like, Marcus, and you can’t deny it, not to me.”

"Camila..."

"No." She stalks toward me, all predator grace and banked fury. "Don't 'Camila' me. You dragged me away from my home, my pack, my brother, claiming it was for my own protection. The least you can do is tell me what I need protection from."

She's close enough now that her scent fills my lungs—gunmetal, sandalwood, and something wild that strains my wolf against its chains. Close enough that I can see the tiny scar above her left eyebrow, new since California. Evidence of all the battles she's fought without me.

"I can't," I grit out, but every instinct screams to tell her everything. "It's safer if you don't—"

"Safer?" She laughs, the sound sharp as breaking glass. "Jesus, Marcus, you’re a broken record. You’re the exact same man you were back then.”

"That was different."

"Was it?" Another step closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating off her skin. "Or is this just another example of Marcus Hillmarton deciding he knows what's best for everyone? Playing Alpha even with people who never asked for your protection?"

I hate to hear her talk like this, and I know myself well enough to know it’s because, on some level, I’m aware that she’s right. It’s awful, the things I’ve done to her. And I yearn to explain. I yearn to tell her just what he threatened to do to her all that time ago.

But would knowing do anything? Would it help, or would it only increase her fury, her hurt? It wouldn’t change anything in her mind, that I’m sure of. Either way, no matter what else you take into consideration, I broke her trust. I took away her choice. I didn’t explain why, just pushed her away.

I told her I didn’t want her. Rafael was right—it’s unforgivable. And if I try to fight for that forgiveness and fail to get it, I know it’ll destroy me.

"You don't understand what he's capable of," I say, my voice rougher than intended. "What he does to people I—to people who matter."

"Then help me understand!" She shoves at my chest, and the contact sends electricity arcing through my body. "For once in your life, Marcus, just tell me the truth!”

The truth. As if it's that simple. As if I could explain about my parents, about Kane's ideology, about all the ways love becomes a weapon in his hands. How he’s lived in my mind all this time, taunting me. How every single time I meet someone new and begin to love them, begin to care, I fear every moment spent with them that he’ll appear to take them away, to hurt them, to kill her. As if I could tell her that seeing her in that clinic, unconscious and bleeding because of me, nearly broke something vital in my chest.

"I can't," I say again, though the words feel like razor wire in my throat. "Please, Camila. Just... trust that I'm trying to protect you."

Her resulting laugh holds no humor. "I told you I was your mate, and you walked away. You know as well as I do that that kind of heartbreak kills people. God knows it almost killed me. You’re lucky, Marcus, that I’m as strong as I am, as strong as I have been. I’m still here, despite you, not because of you, so get that into your head—”

“I don’t want you to die, Camila—”

“I can’t live like this—”

I move without thinking.

My wolf is wild, almost feral, utterly untamed. It is hungry, desperately hungry with five years of denied need. My hands find her waist as I spin us, pushing her hard back against the wall beside the curtained window.

The impact draws a gasp from her lips, one that hits me low in the gut.

"Don't," I growl, though I'm not sure what I'm asking her not to do. Talk about California? Remind me of everything I lost? Make me want things I can't have?

Her pulse races under my palms, where they bracket her shoulders. This close, I can see the individual droplets of rain still clinging to her eyelashes, the way her throat works as she swallows. Her scent fills my head, seeps right into my brain, fills my mind with thoughts so crazed with desire they almost physically hurt.

"Don't what?" she breathes, a desperate sound, and something in her voice makes my control snap.

The kiss is violent, desperate, years of separation exploding between us like the apex of a storm. She makes a sound against my mouth that might be protest or might be surrender, her hands coming up to fist in my shirt.

I should stop. Should pull away, maintain distance, keep her safe. Does she even want this?

Instead, I press closer, drowning in her taste, in the way she feels against me, all soft curves and sharp edges. Her teeth catch my lower lip hard enough to draw blood, punishment or permission or protest or all of them at once. I force her up against the wall, boxing her in with my body, overtaken by something I can’t describe—

Then her hands are shoving at my chest, breaking the kiss. I back off instantly, back to my senses. God, what have I done.

Her lips are swollen, eyes very bright. We stare at each other in the darkness for a moment, both breathing hard. Horror floods through me as I realize what I've done—taken yet another choice from her, crossed another line without permission.

"Camila," I start, already stepping back. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"

She moves like lightning, like fury given form. Her hands fist in my shirt again, but this time she's pulling me back, crashing our mouths together with five years of pent-up need. We stumble backward until she hits the tiny, scuffed desk, the impact sending my papers fluttering to the floor. I catch her hips, lifting her onto the wooden surface as her legs wrap around my waist.

“I can’t stand to hear you say another word,” she growls against my mouth. “Kiss me.”

I obey without hesitation, claiming her mouth with a ferocity that surprises even me. My hands roam her body, rediscovering curves I've dreamed about for years. She arches into my touch, a soft moan escaping her as I trail kisses down her neck, tasting rain and salt and Camila .

"You’re still mine," I growl against her throat, my wolf surging to the surface. The possessiveness I've fought so hard to contain breaks free, flooding my veins like liquid fire. "You're mine, Camila, you always were.”

I’m not sure whether I mean it, or I just want to finally be able to say it.

Her nails dig into my shoulders, leaving crescents I know will mark even through my shirt.

"Prove it," she challenges, voice husky with desire.

The desk creaks ominously as I press her back, scattering the remaining papers. My hands find the hem of her shirt, pushing it up to reveal smooth skin I've dreamed about every night for days upon days upon days. I lift the fabric higher, revealing inch after tantalizing inch of Camila's skin. My hands roam greedily, mapping the planes of her stomach, the curve of her ribs, the soft swell of her breasts. She arches into my touch, a soft gasp escaping her lips as my thumbs brush over her nipples through the thin lace of her bra.

"Marcus," she breathes, and the sound of my name on her lips ignites something primal within me.

I growl low in my throat, capturing her mouth in another searing kiss as I fumble with the clasp of her bra. When it finally gives way, I toss it aside without care, breaking our kiss to feast my eyes on her newly bared flesh.

She's even more beautiful than I remembered. The moonlight streaming through the window paints her skin in silver, highlighting the graceful slope of her shoulders, the elegant line of her collarbone. My hands explore reverently, tracing the curves and planes of her body as if committing them to memory. I cup her breasts, marveling at their perfect weight in my palms, the way her nipples harden at my touch. I squeeze, gently at first, then hard, rough, possessive. I couldn’t stop myself if I wanted to.

Camila arches into me, a soft moan escaping her lips as I lower my head to taste her skin. I trail open-mouthed kisses along her neck, savoring the salt-sweet flavor of her. My teeth graze her pulse point, drawing a shudder from her that I feel to my very core.

"Mine," I growl again, nipping at the juncture of her neck and shoulder. I trace the subtle ridges of her ribs, the taut plane of her stomach, the flare of her hips. My fingers dip beneath the waistband of her jeans, teasing the soft skin there. I'm consumed by her scent, her taste, the feel of her under my hands.

Camila's fingers tangle in my hair, tugging me closer as I lavish attention on her breasts. I take one nipple into my mouth, swirling my tongue around the sensitive peak before sucking hard. She cries out, back arching off the desk. My free hand kneads her other breast, rolling and pinching the nipple between my fingers.

"Marcus," she gasps, voice thick with need. "Please..."

I growl against her skin, trailing open-mouthed kisses down her stomach. My hands find the button of her jeans, fumbling in my haste to undress her.

I yank the denim down her legs, tossing it aside carelessly. My hands roam back up her thighs, reveling in the silky smoothness of her skin. I grip her hips, pulling her to the edge of the desk as I drop to my knees before her.

Camila's most primal scent envelops me, intoxicating and hot. I press my face to the juncture of her thighs, inhaling deeply. She whimpers, fingers tangling in my hair as I nuzzle against her through the thin fabric of her underwear.

"Please," she breathes again, hips canting towards my mouth. Desperate, needy, out of her mind with desire.

I growl low in my throat, hooking my fingers in the waistband of her panties and tearing them away. The scrap of lace falls forgotten to the floor as I feast my eyes on her, spread out before me like a banquet.

My hands slide up her thighs, pushing them further apart. I trace the crease where leg meets hip, reveling in the way she shivers at my touch. My thumbs brush teasingly over her outer lips, already slick with arousal.

"So wet for me," I murmur, voice rough with desire.

I part her folds with my fingers, exposing her most intimate places to my hungry gaze. She's flushed and swollen, glistening with need. I can't resist any longer.

I slide one finger inside her, groaning at the tight, wet heat that envelops me, then a second, relishing the way she clenches around me. My thumb finds her clit, circling the sensitive bud as I pump my fingers in and out. Camila moans, head thrown back in ecstasy.

"That's it," I growl, curling my fingers to stroke that spot inside her that makes her see stars. "Let me hear you."

I set a punishing pace, fingers thrusting deep and hard. My other hand grips her hip, holding her in place as she writhes beneath me. I can feel her getting close, inner walls fluttering around my fingers.

"Marcus," she gasps, voice high and breathy. "Oh god, Marcus , please..."

I can feel her trembling on the edge, so close to release. But I'm not ready to let her fall just yet. I slow my movements, drawing out each thrust of my fingers until she's whimpering with frustration.

"Not yet," I growl, nipping at her inner thigh. "I'm not done with you."

I withdraw my fingers, ignoring her cry of protest. I straighten and flip her over in one fluid motion, pressing her chest to the cold desk. My hand on her upper back holds her in place as I kick her legs further apart.

Camila gasps, fingers scrabbling for purchase on the smooth wood. I run my free hand down her spine, savoring the way she arches into my touch. My fingers dip between her legs again, teasing her slick folds.

"Please," she begs, voice muffled against the desk.

I position myself behind her, the heat of her body calling to me like a siren's song. My hands grip her hips, fingers digging into soft flesh as I pull her back against me. The head of my cock slides through her folds, gathering her slickness. Camila whimpers, trying to push back, to take me inside, hips grinding needily upward, but I hold her still.

"Patience," I growl, though I'm barely hanging onto my own control.

I tease her mercilessly, rubbing the length of my shaft against her sensitive flesh. Each pass draws a desperate sound from her lips, her hips jerking in my grasp. I can feel her trembling, smell the heady scent of her arousal. It's intoxicating, driving my wolf wild with the need to claim, to possess.

"Marcus," she pleads, voice thick with need. "Please, I need—”

"Tell me what you need," I growl, nipping at her shoulder. "I want to hear you say it."

Camila whimpers, frustration and desire warring in her voice. "You know what I need."

"Say it," I insist, grinding against her. "Beg for it."

She's trembling beneath me, every muscle taut with need. I can smell her arousal, heady and intoxicating. My hands roam her body possessively, kneading her breasts, trailing down her sides to grip her hips.

"Please," she gasps finally, voice breaking. "Please, Marcus, I need you inside me. I need you to fuck me, please—”

The desperation in her voice snaps the last threads of my control. With a feral growl, I thrust inside hard.

I surge forward, burying myself to the hilt in one mighty thrust. Camila cries out, a sound of mingled pain and pleasure that sets my blood on fire. She's impossibly tight, her inner walls clenching around me like a vice. I hold still for a moment, savoring the exquisite sensation of being sheathed inside her once more.

Then, I begin to move, setting a punishing rhythm that has the desk creaking beneath us. My hips snap forward with brutal force, driving into her again and again. One hand grips her hip hard enough to bruise, holding her in place as I take her. The other slides up her back, tangling in her hair and yanking her head back.

Camila arches into me, a breathless moan escaping her lips. I growl in approval, using my grip on her hair to pull her halfway upright.

Thrusting hard and fast, I release her hair, and my hand slides around the front of her body, cruelly tweaking her nipple between my fingers, squeezing her breasts hard. My hand slides around to the front of her throat, fingers splaying possessively across her delicate skin. I pull her head back roughly, arching her spine as I drive into her with relentless force. The new angle allows me to penetrate even deeper, hitting that spot inside her that makes her see stars with every thrust.

Camila's cries grow louder, more desperate, echoing off the bare walls of the small room. Her body trembles against mine, sweat-slicked skin sliding together as I pound into her mercilessly. My grip on her throat tightens, not enough to choke but enough to remind her who she belongs to.

"Mine," I growl into her ear, teeth grazing the sensitive shell. "Say it, Camila. Tell me who you belong to."

She whimpers, struggling to form words as pleasure overwhelms her senses. I can feel her squeeze infinitely tighter as she orgasms hard for the first time, mouth lolling open, fucked out of coherence.

But I'm not done with her yet. Not even close.

I maintain my punishing pace, fucking her through her orgasm and beyond. Her cries turn incoherent, a stream of breathless gasps and broken moans. I can feel her legs trembling, threatening to give out, but I hold her upright with an arm around her waist.

"That's it," I growl, nipping at her earlobe. "Let go. Let me hear you."

My free hand slides back up her body, fingers tracing the column of her throat before pressing against her lips. Camila parts them instinctively, taking two of my fingers into the wet heat of her mouth as the desk creaks loud and rhythmic beneath us.

If I have my way, she’ll feel this tomorrow.

From this angle, I can see the side of her face, the lolling of her mouth, her eyes rolling back hard. My fingers slip from her open mouth, trailing wetly down her throat and over her heaving chest. I grasp her breast roughly, kneading the soft flesh as my other hand snakes between her legs. My fingers find her clit, swollen and sensitive from her first orgasm. I rub cruel circles against the bundle of nerves, pushing her pelvis back against me hard, drawing a keening cry from Camila's lips.

"That's it," I growl, nipping at her shoulder. "Let me hear you. Show me how good I make you feel."

Her body jerks against mine, caught between the relentless thrust of my cock and the merciless pressure of my fingers. I can feel her trembling, teetering on the edge of another release. My fingers move faster, harder, matching the brutal pace of my hips.

Camila's cries grow louder, more desperate. She comes again, a furious, shaking thing, with a short and desperate scream.

Moments later, I feel myself climax, too, my vision going white for a moment. I hold her down hard against the desk and release inside her.

As the last waves of pleasure subside, I slowly withdraw from Camila's trembling body. The sudden emptiness draws a soft whimper from her lips, a sound that tugs at something deep within me. I step back, my hands reluctantly releasing their grip on her hips.

Without my support, Camila's legs give out. She starts to slide off the desk, boneless and uncoordinated. I catch her just before she hits the floor, scooping her into my arms. Her head lolls against my chest, eyes half-lidded and unfocused with pleasure. Her skin is flushed and dewy with sweat, and her hair a wild tangle around her face.

I cradle her close, marveling at how small and fragile she feels at this moment. Her breath comes in short, shaky gasps, her entire body quivering with aftershocks.

With Camila cradled in my arms, I navigate the small room carefully. I lay her gently on the bed, the ancient springs protesting under our combined weight. In the pale moonlight filtering through the curtains, I can see the marks I've left on her skin—bruises blooming on her throat, red crescents where my nails dug in, the faint imprint of my teeth on her shoulder. A possessive pride surges through me at the sight, quickly followed by a wave of tenderness.

Camila's eyes flutter open as I settle her against the pillows. Her gaze is hazy, unfocused, but a small smile curls the corner of her lips.

And through all the pleasure and culminated desire, nothing in the world is better than the fact that I've made her smile for the first time since we met again.

I move silently through the dimly lit room, gathering what I need. The floorboards creak softly under my feet, a quiet counterpoint to Camila's slow, steady breathing. Moonlight spills through the threadbare curtains, painting everything in shades of silver and shadow.

With gentle hands, I tend to her, wiping away the slick of our passion between her legs with a damp cloth. The cool water makes her shiver, goosebumps rising on her flushed skin. I'm careful, reverent almost, as I clean between her thighs, marveling at how delicate she seems at this moment.

No words pass between us. The silence is heavy, fragile, like spun glass. I'm afraid to break it, fearful of what might come spilling out if I open my mouth. So, I let my actions speak instead, pouring all my tenderness into each touch.

By the time I return from disposing of the cloth, she’s dead asleep, head tipped back against the pillow.

Hours later, I lie awake in the motel's narrow bed, staring at water stains on the ceiling while she sleeps curled against my chest. Her breath fans warm across my skin, her heartbeat steady against my ribs. She looks younger in sleep, more like the girl I knew in California, before I ruined everything.

Before I ruined her.

The rain continues its endless descent, drawing patterns on the window like tears. Somewhere out there, Kane hunts us through the darkness. Somewhere behind us, my pack struggles to heal from his poison. And here in this bed, holding everything I've ever wanted and everything I can't keep, I wonder if any of it was worth it.

Camila shifts in her sleep, pressing closer, and my arms tighten automatically around her. My wolf whines with contentment and terror alike. Even now, I hear Kane's voice on the phone five years ago, describing exactly what he'd do to any mate of mine.

The truth burns in my throat, desperate to be spoken. About Kane's crusade, his grudges, his maniacal cruelty. About how my parents died trying to build bridges between our worlds. About how their death was just the beginning of his campaign to "purify" shifter bloodlines, to eliminate anyone who threatens his vision of supernatural supremacy.

But I can't tell her. Not yet. Not until I know she's safe. Not until I know it might matter.

So I hold her in the darkness, breathing in her scent, committing every detail to memory. And I pray to whatever gods might be listening that my choices will protect her this time.

The ceiling holds no answers, but still, I stare, counting heartbeats like the rosary beads of a faith I don’t possess until dawn bleeds across the sky. Each beat a reminder of everything I stand to lose. Each breath is a promise I'm not sure I can keep.