Page 22 of Betrayed Knocked-Up Mate (Rosecreek Special Ops Wolves #8)

The sound of Camila stumbling through the back door tears through my consciousness like a bullet.

It’s like a shot of adrenaline when I see her standing there, staring, shaking. She's pale, paler than I've ever seen her, one hand braced against the doorframe as if it's the only thing keeping her upright. The phone in her other hand trembles.

"They're coming," she gasps, and the raw fear in her voice makes my wolf surge forward with protective fury. "Kane's people—three SUVs, tactical transport behind them. Moving fast up the mountain."

My body moves before my mind can process, years of training taking over. Weapons cache first—the heavy duffel hidden beneath loose floorboards. Rifle, handguns, extra magazines. The familiar weight of tactical gear settling across my shoulders like armor, like inevitability, like all the choices that have led us here.

Thank God I didn’t dump the car yet. We can still get out, if we just—

"How long?" I demand, already calculating escape routes, defensive positions, all the ways this could go wrong.

"Minutes. Maybe less." Her voice cracks slightly. "They're moving with purpose, Marcus. They know we're here."

Gravel crunches outside—vehicles soon to pull up, cutting off escape routes. The sound of car doors opening with precise coordination, boots on packed earth. Professional. Practiced. Deadly.

"Back room," I order, shoving a handgun into Camila's hands. "There's a hidden panel behind the bookcase, leads to—"

"No." She checks the magazine with movements that speak of practice, I wish she'd never needed. "I'm not leaving you here alone."

"Camila—"

The first shots shatter the front windows before I can finish, spraying glass across the cabin's worn floorboards.

We move as one, diving for cover behind the heavy oak dining table as bullets tear through drywall and timber. The air fills with dust and flying pieces of splintered wood and the particular metallic scent of Camila's fear.

Return fire comes automatically—muscle memory taking over as I sight and squeeze the trigger in controlled bursts. Two of Kane's people go down in the first exchange, but more keep coming. Through the broken windows, I catch glimpses of tactical gear, of coordinated movement, of the terrible precision that marks professional killers.

Camila fights like a cornered wolf beside me, shooting over the top of the table with good aim—her form is untrained, her hands shaking, but her aim is steady and true. She's favoring her left side, protecting her midsection even when it leaves her face and throat exposed, even now. If I didn’t know better, I’d think she’d been grazed, but she did this last time, too.

A ricochet grazes her shoulder and she lurches, twisting to keep her stomach away from the impact. It’s a tiny cut, but the scent of her blood curdles mine.

"Cover me!" she shouts, already moving toward a better position behind the stone fireplace. She shuffles with none of the fluid adaptability I've come to expect. She's fighting defensive rather than offensive.

She’s terrified. Anyone would be. But somehow, something’s still— something’s—

A second shot of adrenaline, then. Stronger and worse than the first.

A new scent cuts through the chaos—gunmetal and madness—and something that makes my wolf howl with five-year-old rage.

Kane.

He enters through the shattered front door like he's arriving for dinner, perfectly pressed suit incongruous among his tactical team, walking without a care through the rubble, shots still popping at his sides.

When he sees me, his smile holds all the warmth of a winter grave.

"Hold," he calls, and his people out on the drive freeze mid-motion with terrifying coordination. "Let's be civilized about this.”

"Civilized?" The word tears from my throat like it’ll tear open my voicebox. "You call this civilized?"

"More civilized than what I could be doing, so watch your tone, Hillmarton.” His eyes gleam with something that might be madness or might be perfect clarity.

Crouched behind the fireplace, about to come into his view as he strides forward, Camila makes brief, intense eye contact with me.

Unable to stop myself, I lurch to my feet, trying to stagger between them, my head spinning with fury and terror.

“Fuck you,” I snarl. “Get the fuck away—”

But Kane isn’t listening to a word I say. He rambles on: "Though they brought that on themselves, didn't they, back then? I wasn’t quite so polite to them as I’ve been to you, Marcus, but they just refused to listen to me. All that talk of cooperation with humans, of integration, of weakening our bloodlines for the sake of progress ." He spits the last word like poison. "Your father was supposed to be one of us, one of the best there ever was—a true alpha, a pure wolf . Instead, he chose to be a traitor to his kind."

"My father chose to build bridges instead of walls," I growl, though the memory of their deaths makes my voice shake. "To make us stronger through alliance, not isolation."

Kane's laugh holds no humor. "Stronger? By diluting what makes us special? By bowing and submitting to those who should fear us?" He adjusts his cuffs with deliberate precision. "I made him a promise, you know. The night before, I killed them. I told him I'd end his line before it could taint our kind further. That I'd make sure his progressive ideas died with him."

His smile turns cruel. "But you had to complicate things, didn't you? Running away instead of facing your fate. Building your own pack, spreading the same poisonous ideology. And now..." His nostrils flare slightly as his gaze shifts to Camila. "Now you've had the audacity to try to continue your tainted bloodline."

Movement catches my eye, a few feet away—Camila shifting behind the fireplace, still maintaining that protective stance that suddenly makes horrible sense. Kane's smile widens as he follows my gaze.

I’m not quite between them yet. I try to edge closer and hear a gun click past the smashed windows, then freeze.

"Ah yes," Kane says, voice dripping false congeniality. "I should offer congratulations, shouldn't I? Though I must say, Marcus, I'm disappointed. I thought you'd have taken my word for it back then, what I said about taking mates." His nostrils flare slightly. "Especially ones carrying your child."

The world stops.

Everything—the firefight, the danger, the years of running—falls away as I process his words. I remember all the small changes in Camila these past weeks: her altered scent, her sudden aversions, the way she's been protecting her midsection even in combat. Her fear, her brokenness, her quiet.

Of course.

All this time, she was carrying that burden. And all I did was stand there and let it tear her apart.

"You didn't know?" Kane's laugh holds genuine delight. "Oh, this is precious. The great Marcus Hillmarton, so focused on protecting his mate— God, are you even mates yet?—that he missed the obvious. Tell me, my dear," he calls to Camila, "how long were you planning to keep that secret? Until the child was born? Until my men came for you both?"

I look at Camila, really look at her, and see the truth written in the way she can't meet my eyes. In the hand pressed protectively over her stomach. In the tears, she's trying desperately to hold back.

Overcome with fury, I lurch toward Kane, taking a wild swing toward his face, tear bare in a furious snarl.

But Kane's people move with practiced coordination, taking advantage of my shock, my loss of control. Bullets tear through the cabin like angry wasps. One catches me in the shoulder, spinning me back against the wall. Through the haze of pain, I see Camila break cover, trying to reach me.

"No!" The word rips from my throat as another shot goes wide, missing her by inches. My wolf howls with terror—not just for her now, but for the child I didn't know we created. For all the futures I thought I'd lost, suddenly made real and vulnerable in the midst of violence.

What happens next feels like slow motion, like watching a nightmare unfold frame by frame:

Camila diving for better cover as Kane's people press their advantage. The terrible crack of her head against the stone hearth as she lands wrong, trying to protect her midsection. The way her eyes go unfocused, blood matting her dark hair.

Something in me shatters.

The world goes red at the edges as my wolf takes over, fury burning away everything but the need to protect. To defend. To destroy anything that threatens my mate and child.

Kane's smile never wavers as I launch myself at him, shifting mid-leap.

"There it is," he says, meeting my charge with inhuman speed. "There's the monster I knew you could be. You’re so much like your father, you know, but he was a coward. "

We crash together like storm fronts. His claws find purchase in my shoulder but I barely feel it, lost in a haze of protective rage. My teeth sink into his arm, drawing first blood, but his laugh never stops.

"Just like him," he taunts, dancing away from my next attack. "So controlled, so civilized, until someone threatens what you love. Then the true nature comes out, doesn't it? All this talk of uniting with humans, but when you’ve got a bitch, you’re just a dog—”

The fight becomes a blur of tooth and claw and fury. I'm dimly aware of Camila struggling to her feet, of Kane's people maintaining their distance as we tear into each other. Blood—mine or his, I can't tell—sprays across broken furniture and shattered glass.

Then Camila's voice cuts through the chaos, sharp with command: "Marcus, down!"

I drop without thinking, and the shot that was meant for me goes wide as Kane spins out of the way. Glass explodes overhead as more bullets tear through the cabin's windows. Through the chaos, I catch Camila's scent spiking with determination rather than fear.

"The back door," she shouts over the gunfire. "There's a blind spot in their coverage—"

I'm already moving, shifted, and operating on pure instinct. When one of Kane's men bursts through the front door, I don't hesitate—my claws find his throat before he can raise his weapon. The scent of blood fills the air, copper-sharp and familiar.

Camila moves like smoke through the firefight from the hearth. She reaches the kitchen first, ducking under a spray of bullets that shreds the cabinets above her head. Wood splinters rain down like deadly confetti. My wolf mourns at the sight of her in danger, at the knowledge of what she carries, but there's no time for protection now. Only survival.

"Cover me," I order, and she does, laying down suppressing fire while I kick out the back door's deadbolt. The sound of it giving way is lost under another burst of gunfire.

We burst into the night together, moving in perfect synchronization born of desperation and shared blood. The SUV sits twenty yards away, partially hidden by shadows and scrub pine. Between us and freedom: open ground scattered with Kane's people, their weapons gleaming in the moonlight.

No time to think. Only react.

I catch movement to our left—two of Kane's men emerging from behind a boulder. My claws find the first one's chest while Camila takes out the second with a precise shot. The bark of the pistol in her hand that, I don’t recall how she got hold of echoes off mountain stone.

"Marcus!" Her shout comes just in time—I drop and roll as bullets tear through the space where I stood. Come up running, staying low, using the terrain for cover.

Ten yards to the SUV. Kane's cruel laughter carries on the wind, mixing with the percussion of gunfire and the thunder of my heart.

I reach the driver's side first, keys already in hand. Camila slides into the passenger seat as bullets spider-web the windshield but don't penetrate—thank God for bulletproof glass. The engine roars to life under my hands.

Through the cracked windshield, Kane appears in the headlights, smiling as sharply as broken glass. For a moment, our eyes meet across the distance. His lips move, forming words I can't hear but understand anyway:

Next time.

My hands tighten on the wheel as fury and fear war in my chest.

"Hold on," I growl, and then we're flying.