Page 18 of Betrayed Knocked-Up Mate (Rosecreek Special Ops Wolves #8)

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.

"Kane's people hit Rosecreek again." Elena's voice crackles with exhaustion and static. "They repelled them, but... it was close.”

Ice floods my veins. "Casualties?"

"None, thank the gods. But Asher took a hit protecting Thalia, so we’re still stuck here. Aris keeps saying it’s fine but… anyway. We’re stuck for now, there’s not much to be done about it.” She hesitates, something heavy in the pause. "Marcus? Rafael's worried. Says Camila's not responding to his texts like usual. Says she sounds... different."

My eyes cut to Camila's reflection in the windshield. She's gone completely still, the way prey animals do when they sense something watching them.

But she shouldn’t be scared. She should be fearless, brave, perilously confident.

But she’s not.

"We're fine," I say shortly, though nothing about this feels fine. "Keep me updated on Ash."

"Marcus—"

I end the call before she can say more, before she can voice the concern I hear building in her tone. Through the fraying, distant pack bond, I feel her frustration, her worry, her determination to keep everyone safe.

Camila says nothing. I watch out of the corner of my eye as she pulls her phone out of her pocket and stabs out a text message to her brother.

The miles blur together as morning bleeds into the afternoon, marked only by the steady decrease of the fuel gauge and the growing weight of everything unsaid. Camila's scent spikes occasionally with something that might be nausea, might be fear, might be fury. Each time, my hands tighten on the wheel until the leather creaks.

The gas station appears like a mirage through the summer heat haze, shimmering at the edges like a fever dream. It's one of those independent places you find scattered across America's back roads—cracked concrete, rusty pumps, a sign so sun-bleached the prices are barely legible. The kind of place that sees more tumbleweeds than customers, where cash is king and questions aren't asked.

Perfect for staying under Kane's radar. Terrible for defense. We shouldn’t linger here.

My wolf's hackles rise as we pull off the highway. Something about the emptiness sets off warning bells—no other cars despite the reasonable gas prices, no movement inside the store except for a bored-looking clerk scrolling through his phone. The afternoon light casts long shadows behind the building, creating too many blind spots for comfort. But we're running on fumes, and the next station is forty miles away, according to the GPS.

"This doesn't feel right," I mutter, more to myself than Camila.

Camila's scent shifts again. She's been doing that more often lately—these sudden spikes of complex emotion that my wolf can't quite decode.

"Stay in the car," I say as I pull up to the pump. "I'll—"

"No." She's already opening her door, movements sharp with defiance. "I need air."

I want to argue, want to explain all the reasons she needs to stay where I can protect her. But the set of her shoulders warns me that pushing will only make things worse. So I watch as she stalks toward the convenience store, my wolf straining against its chains with each step she takes away from me.

I'm halfway through replacing the gas cap when the wind shifts, bringing with it a scent that makes my blood run cold. Gunmetal and aggression, are the particular chemical edge that marks professional soldiers. I’ve come to know them well by now. My enhanced hearing picks up the whisper of tactical gear, the near-silent communication of a coordinated strike team.

We’re surrounded. I realize it in a cold, heady rush. They’re already here.

They've been waiting. All this time, hiding behind the building, letting us pull in, letting us get comfortable. The realization hits like ice water in my veins—this wasn't a random encounter. They knew we'd need to stop eventually, knew we'd look for isolated places away from witnesses.

The attack comes like lightning, like a nightmare, like everything I've been dreading since we left Rosecreek.

Before I can move, five of them emerge from behind the building, moving with the kind of precision that comes from years of training together. Through my rising shift, I catch details that my tactical mind catalogs automatically: long rifles, the subtle bulge of serum injectors at their belts, the way they spread out to cut off escape routes.

Two more appear from inside the store—they must have taken out the clerk while we were pulling in. The knowledge sends fury racing through my blood. More innocent lives are endangered because of me, because of choices I made, because of secrets I still can't tell.

"Camila!"

The shout tears from my throat as I spin toward the store, already shifting. But she's moving too, halfway out the door, predator grace carrying her into a defensive crouch as three of Kane's men emerge from the shadows.

What happens next feels like a dance we've practiced a thousand times.

Camila drops and rolls as the first attacker lunges, coming up inside his guard with deadly efficiency. When he tries to grab her, she's already moving, using his momentum to send him crashing into a gas pump. My wolf snarls with pride even as I engage my own opponents, claws extending, teeth sharpening, the shift rippling through me like lightning.

We move in perfect synchronization, covering each other's blind spots without needing to speak. When I drive one attacker back, she's there to cut off his escape route. I'm already moving to guard her flank when she ducks under a wild swing.

But something's off about her movements. She's fighting more defensively than usual, protecting her midsection in a way that leaves her vulnerable elsewhere. The hesitation in her strikes, the careful distance she maintains—it sets off warning bells in the back of my mind.

Then, one of Kane's people gets lucky.

The knife catches me across the ribs, drawing a line of fire that makes my vision blur. Camila's snarl of fury echoes across the empty lot as she launches herself at my attacker, all precisely controlled violence. But the movement leaves her open, and another of Kane's men strikes, fist flying—

I move without thinking, catching the blow meant for her, right in the centre of my chest. The impact drives the air from my lungs, winds me, but the sight of Camila safe makes the pain irrelevant.

We drive them back together, our combined fury making them reconsider their odds.

When they retreat to regroup, Camila's hand presses against my side where the knife caught me, her touch gentle despite the tremble in her fingers, supporting me, trying to staunch the bleeding.

"In the car," she says shortly, already pulling me toward the store. "You're bleeding—let’s go.”

Losing the tail takes an hour of driving, looping, stopping, starting, and redoubling. The whole time, Camila holds a balled-up sweater against my ribs until the bleeding stops.

***

Inside the next motel, the front desk clerk is nowhere to be seen. It’s almost midnight by the time we arrive. We make our way to the tiny employee bathroom in the back, Camila's grip on my arm never loosening. The fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across her face as she digs through our emergency medical kit, making her look older, more haunted.

"Shirt off," she orders, not meeting my eyes.

I comply without argument, watching as she cleans the wound with careful precision. Her hands are steady now, professional, but I catch the way she swallows hard at the sight of my blood. The way her scent spikes with something deeper than concern.

"I'm fine," I say softly. "It's not deep."

"Shut up." The words lack her usual fire, coming out more tired than angry. "Just… don’t.”

So I stay silent as she works, cataloging the changes in her I've been trying to ignore. The shadows under her eyes. The slight tremor in her hands when she thinks I'm not looking. The way she keeps her distance even while treating my wounds, like she's afraid to get too close.

When she finishes with my ribs, I catch her wrist before she can pull away. Her pulse races under my fingers, hummingbird-quick.

"Let me check you for injuries."

"I'm not hurt." But she doesn't pull away or move as I run gentle hands over her arms and shoulders, checking for damage. Her breath catches when I reach her ribs, though I can't find any wounds to explain it.

"Your fighting was different," I say carefully, still not releasing her wrist. "You left your face open. One of them could have knocked you out in a second.”

She goes completely still under my hands, that same prey-animal stillness from the car. "Marcus..."

"Please." The word comes out rougher than intended. "Something's wrong. I can smell it on you, see it in how you move. Just... tell me how to help. Are you sick? Is there something I can do?”

For a moment, just a moment, something cracks in her expression. It’s a terrible thing to witness. She looks like she’s drowning.

Then, the walls slam back into place.

"You can't help," she says, pulling away at last. "You can't fix this. Not this time. I’m dealing with some stuff. Some stuff you can’t help with. Alright? At least let me have that.”

The fluorescent lights flicker overhead, painting everything in shades of harsh truth and shadowed secrets. Blood seeps slowly through the bandage on my ribs. This physical pain feels insignificant compared to the ache in my chest as I watch her rebuild her defenses.

"Camila—"

"We should go." She's already moving toward the door, all business again. "Kane's people will regroup, try again. We need to put distance between us and here. We can find another motel.”

She's right, of course. But watching her walk away, seeing the careful distance she maintains even as she helps me to the car, feels like losing her all over again. Like watching her slip through my fingers just like she did five years ago, when I thought pushing her away would keep her safe.

The sun rises behind us as we drive west, painting the sky in shades of blood and gold. Camila curls in her seat like origami, like she's trying to make herself smaller, less real.

Something's wrong with Camila.

And this time, I'm terrified I won’t know what it is until it’s too late.