Page 5 of Betrayed Knocked-Up Mate (Rosecreek Special Ops Wolves #8)

Spring rain drums against the pack center's windows, turning the world outside into an impressionist blur. I've spent twenty minutes trying to capture the exact way the droplets catch the morning light, but my camera refuses to cooperate. Or maybe I'm the one who can't focus. Every click of the shutter feels like an accusation: You're hiding. You're stalling. You're afraid.

"I think that's enough test shots," Byron says gently from behind his laptop. He's been patient with my procrastination, but an urgency underneath his calm reminds me why we're here. "Want to see what I've done with the background setup?"

I lower my camera, forcing myself to turn away from the rain-streaked windows. The conference room we've transformed into a makeshift photography studio is all business: white backdrop, professional lighting, equipment that appeared mysteriously overnight after I agreed to help. Byron's expertise shows in the setup—he's thought of everything, down to the specific angles we'll need for new ID photos.

"Show me what you're thinking," I say, moving to look over his shoulder. The screen displays a series of carefully constructed digital backgrounds—different cities, landmarks, locations that could convince anyone the Marshall City pack is anywhere but here.

"Each team member needs at least three different IDs," Byron explains, fingers flying over the keyboard. "Different names, different backgrounds, different lives. We'll need casual photos, too, for social media trails. Make it look like they're scattered across the country instead of all in one place."

The technical details are a relief—something to focus on besides the hollow ache in my chest that hasn't gone away since that day in the clinic. Three days have passed, and I haven't seen Marcus once. I tell myself that's a good thing.

"These are good," I say, studying the backgrounds. "Really good. Where'd you learn to do this?"

Byron's smile is wry. "Rosecreek has had me do some crazy stuff over the years.”

“God knows where you would have ended up working if not for them,” I joke.

Byron laughs, an open, genuine sound. “Probably better this way,” he agrees.

I think of my own path here—the endless running, the increasingly dangerous assignments, the desperate need to prove something to myself.

“Better this way, yeah,” I agree.

The door opens, and Asher enters, carrying two coffee cups. He's been a constant presence these past few days, coordinating between his team and ours. There's something steady about him, a calm certainty that makes even my wolf relax slightly. I can even ignore that Marcus is his Alpha—and apparently his best friend.

"Thought you could use this," he says, handing me one of the cups. "Elena says you were here before dawn."

I accept the coffee, grateful for both the caffeine and the kindness. "Thanks. How's James doing?"

"Better. Veronica redid his stitches yesterday. She thinks the healing delay might be due to some nasty new poison on Kane’s people’s weapons." Asher settles into a chair, his large frame making the furniture seem smaller. "The whole thing's got everyone on edge."

The mention of Kane sends a chill down my spine. I've learned more about him in the past few days than I ever wanted to know—a radical who believes shifters who cooperate with humans are traitors to their kind, who's willing to strip other shifters of their abilities to prove his point. The type of fanatic that makes even hardened fighters like Asher look worried.

"How long have you been dealing with him?" I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it. What I really want to know is: Did Marcus know about this five years ago?

Asher's expression turns carefully neutral. "A while. It got worse after he developed the suppression weapon. Before that, he was just another extremist. Now..."

"Now he can actually hurt people," I finish. The thought of losing my shift, of having that core part of myself stripped away, makes my wolf whine anxiously. "And you're sure there's no cure?"

"Not yet. James and Veronica are working on it, but..." He trails off, his scent colored with grief and anger. "Fiona and Michael, the ones who were hit, were more than just pack. They were family. Michael was a team member, and Fiona was training to join us. We were… close. It’s still fresh, for all of us."

The raw pain in his voice makes me look away. I've learned that the Marshall City pack’s defense team is small, tight-knit. Every member is carefully chosen, bonds forged through shared battles and mutual trust. To have two of them violated like that...

"I'm sorry," I say softly. "I know it's not much, but... I'm sorry."

Asher nods, accepting the inadequate comfort. "That's why this matters." He gestures to our setup. "Every day we can keep Kane's people confused about our location is another day James has in order to work on an antidote. Another day to figure out how to stop him before he can do this to anyone else."

The weight of what we're doing settles over me. This isn't just about fake IDs and doctored photos. It's about protecting people—not just Marcus's pack, but every shifter who might be targeted by Kane's twisted ideology.

It’s about protecting Rosecreek, too. Holding Kane off until we can’t anymore. And some part of me knew I was signing up to protect them when I agreed to stay, I know. Rosecreek attracts trouble—this pack, I’m learning, has terrible luck.

"Okay," I say, picking up my camera with renewed purpose. "Let's make this convincing."

***

The next few days blur together in a rhythm of shutter clicks and careful lies. Elena is first in front of my camera, her petite frame belying the steel in her spine. She tells stories about her sister Fiona between shots, little details that make my heart ache—how Fiona used to bake when she was stressed, how she'd sing off-key while cleaning weapons, how she hasn't done either since losing her shift.

"Look slightly left," I instruct, adjusting the lighting. "We want these to look candid, like someone caught you unaware. They’re for social media spoofs.”

"Shouldn't be hard," Elena says with a wan smile. "Being caught unaware is basically our life now."

Her words hit harder than she probably intended. I think of Marcus in that hallway, the shock in his eyes when he saw me. The way neither of us was prepared for that collision of past and present. Was I just one in an unending chain of nasty surprises?

James is next, his movements still careful around his healing wound. He's quiet during his session, but his eyes are sharp, observant. When I show him the first set of photos, his approval is thoughtful.

"You have a gift," he says, studying the images. "For capturing people as they really are."

"That's not always a good thing," I reply, thinking of all the harsh truths I've documented over the years. War zones. Natural disasters. The aftermath of supernatural violence.

He looks at me then, really looks, and something in his expression makes me wonder how much he knows about me and Marcus. About what happened five years ago.

"Sometimes the truth is necessary," is all he says.

Through it all, Byron works his digital magic, building layers of deception. Each photo becomes a story—Elena at a café in Seattle, James walking through Chicago, casual moments that never happened but look real enough to fool anyone scanning social media. We're creating a trail of breadcrumbs leading away from Rosecreek, away from the truth.

"The trick," Byron explains as we review the day's work, "is in the details. Not just the big things, but the little ones. The coffee cup brand in the background. The weather matching actual conditions. The timestamp correlating with real events. They’ll be looking at the trees. We don’t want them to see the forest."

I lean closer, fascinated despite myself. "Like building a perfect lie."

"Like a perfect photograph," he corrects. “You know about that.”

His words follow me home that evening, echoing in my head as I sort through the day's shots. A perfect photograph. Each image tells a story, but not the whole story. Just like the careful distance Marcus and I maintain, passing one another like ghosts in the pack center's halls, never quite meeting each other's eyes.

I wonder what story those moments tell. What truth hides behind our careful avoidance.

The rain hasn't stopped, turning Half Moon Lake into a slate mirror that reflects the clouded sky. From Rafael's kitchen window, I watch droplets trace patterns on the glass, forming and reforming like thoughts I can't seem to shake.

"The rain isn’t going to tell you its secrets if you stare at it long enough," Rafael says from behind me, his voice gentle but knowing.

I snort. “Maybe if I just try for a little longer.

He comes up to my shoulder and hands me a mug of tea—chamomile, my favorite. "Want to talk about it?"

For a moment, I'm tempted. I want to tell him everything—about Marcus, our history, and the way seeing him again feels like reopening a wound I thought had healed. But the words stick in my throat.

"Just thinking about the project," I say instead. "It's... complicated."

I’m sure I’ll tell him soon. We tell each other everything. But today, I just can’t.

Rafael studies me over his mug; I know he sees more than I'm saying. But he doesn't push, and I love him for that.

"Well," he says finally, "if you need anything..."

"I know." I manage a smile that feels almost real. "Thanks, Raf."

***

Morning brings Asher to my makeshift studio, his expression more serious than usual.

"Marcus wants an update on our progress," he says without preamble, watching my reaction carefully. "He'll be stopping by later."

My hands still on my camera.

"Alright," I say, proud of how steady my voice sounds. "It's his operation."

Asher's silence speaks volumes. After a week of working together, I've learned to read the weight of his pauses.

"He's not..." Asher starts, then stops, choosing his words carefully. "I've known Marcus a long time. He's a good Alpha. The best I've served under. But sometimes, he carries more than he needs to. I’m not sure what’s going on between you two, but I want you to know he’s trying.”

I consider my next words carefully. “What’s his history with Kane?”

Something flickers across Asher's face—recognition, maybe, or understanding. "That's not my story to tell."

"No," I agree, turning back to my equipment. "It's not anyone's, apparently. Your pack holds onto secrets like a steel trap."

Asher laughs, a dry, uncomfortable sound.

We work in companionable silence after that, processing the latest batch of photos. I've grown to appreciate Asher's presence—his quiet strength, his careful attention to detail, the way he notices everything but comments on very little. He reminds me of my camera in a way—observing, recording, keeping secrets.

"Tell me about Kane," I say suddenly. The question has been burning in my mind for days. "What makes him different from other extremists? I’ve been… away, for a long time. I come back, and suddenly, shifters are trying to kill each other every other week. I’m trying to learn the new rules."

Asher's hands pause on his tablet. “He’s not new.”

“Well, I suppose I am.” I nod my head forward, gesturing for him to continue.

"He's patient," he says finally. "Most radicals, they're all fury and immediate action. Kane... he plans. Builds networks. Waits for the perfect moment to strike." His scent darkens with something like fear. "And he never forgets a target. He’s held some grudges for years. You’d be surprised, the things he’d do. He’s not… well.”

A chill runs down my spine despite the warm spring day. "Is that what happened to your pack? You were targeted because of a… grudge?”

"Something like that." He meets my eyes steadily. "We thought we were careful. Thought we had time to prepare. But Kane..." He shakes his head. "He'd been watching us for months. Learning our patterns. Our weaknesses."

"Your friends," I say softly. "The ones who lost their shifts..."

His voice roughens. "They were the first test subjects for his weapon, apparently. We didn't even know what was happening until it was too late."

The horror of it settles over me like a physical weight. To have that core part of yourself stripped away, to lose the other half of your soul... "How do you fight someone like that?"

"Carefully," Asher says. "Very carefully. We owe Rosecreek a lot for even letting us be here. God knows you’re all bringing Hell down on yourselves if he comes here. We know it. And Aris does, too."

The door opens, and Byron enters with fresh coffee and more equipment. The conversation shifts to technical details—lighting setups, background variations, the subtle art of making lies look like truth.

But Asher's words echo in my mind: Kane never forgets a target.

I wonder, not for the first time, what Marcus isn’t telling me; what he didn’t tell me now, will likely never tell me at all. The secrets I couldn’t pry from him in California, where for a moment in time, it was almost forever. I believed it was forever.

Thinking about it still never fails to make it sting.

The morning stretches into the afternoon. I lose myself in the work, in the precise adjustments of aperture and shutter speed, in the careful construction of false lives. It's easier than thinking about Marcus's impending visit, easier than wondering what truths hide behind Asher's careful words.

Through the windows, Half Moon Lake shimmers in the spring sunlight, its surface deceptively peaceful. Sometimes, I catch myself staring at it, remembering other waters, other times. A lake in California where Marcus first taught me about pack bonds. A beach where we watched the sunset and talked about futures we thought we'd share.

Focus, I tell myself firmly. The past is past. There are more important things at stake now than old heartbreaks and unanswered questions.

But when the door opens again, and Marcus's scent fills the room, all my carefully constructed walls threaten to crumble.

He fills the doorway like a storm front, all contained power and careful control. The morning light catches the silver threads in his hair—new ones, I notice with a pang. He looks tired in a way that goes beyond physical exhaustion, though his posture remains rigid and strong.

"Asher," he says, nodding to his second. "Byron." His eyes skip over me like I'm part of the furniture, though his scent spikes with something I refuse to analyze. "Show me what you have."

I busy myself with my camera as Byron pulls up the digital files, pretending to adjust settings that don't need adjusting. But my wolf's attention fixes on Marcus with traitorous intensity, cataloging changes I wish I couldn't see. New scars on his hands. A slight favor to his left side. The way his shoulders carry tension. The hard sharpness of his jaw—he’s lost some weight. Probably recently. Probably stress.

"We've established three distinct trails," Byron explains, pulling up maps dotted with false sightings. "Elena's photos place her in Seattle as of yesterday. James appears to be heading east through Chicago. We're building Asher's trail through Texas..."

Marcus leans over Byron's shoulder, studying the screen with tactical intensity. "Timeline?"

"The Chicago footage goes live tonight. Seattle's already active—Elena's supposedly been there three days, building a convincing pattern of movement."

"Kane's people will be monitoring transport hubs," Marcus says, his voice clipped. "Bus stations, airports—"

"Already handled," I cut in, unable to help myself. "The backgrounds include specific identifiers—ticket stubs, location-specific items. Elena's holding a newspaper from two days ago in the Seattle shots. James's Chicago photos show him at Union Station with the correct time displayed."

Marcus's eyes finally meet mine, and the impact is like touching a live wire. "You've been thorough."

"That's my job, isn't it?" The words come out sharper than intended. "Or did you expect less?"

Asher shifts slightly, a subtle movement that draws Marcus's attention away from me before the tension in the room can become any more awful.

"The authenticity is solid," he says smoothly. "Kane's people are good, but these will hold up to scrutiny."

"Show me the rest," Marcus says, but there's a new tension in his voice.

I take that as my cue to escape.

"I need some air," I announce to no one in particular, already moving toward the door. No one tries to stop me.

The hallway feels too small, too confined. I make my way through the pack center's winding corridors until I reach the back exit, pushing through into the cool Spring morning. The wall's rough brick catches at my shirt as I lean against it, breathing in the clean scent of rain-washed air.

Five years of carefully maintained distance, and still his presence affects me like this. Still my wolf strains toward him like a compass finding north. Still my heart, that stupid, treacherous organ, yearns and begs and wails. I can’t stop it. The thought of feeling like this forever makes the rest of my life feel like a miserable trek.

I push my face into my palms and try to remember how to breathe. My warm breath heats up my own face, and I curl my fists closed, digging them into my eyes.

Then, the door opens behind me. Marcus's scent wraps around me like a memory. A good one. That’s the worst part—it’s a good memory.

"I can go back inside," he says quietly, immediately.

The quiet stretches between us. I’d fill it if I had any idea how, if I had any idea where to even begin.

Despite myself, I laugh, though it comes out more like a sob, a dry, snappish thing. "Why start being considerate now?"

He makes a sound like I've struck him. When I finally turn to look at him, his expression is raw in a way I've never seen before—not even that last night in California.

"Camila," he starts, then stops, like my name is too heavy to carry.

"Don't." The word comes out weary rather than angry. "Just... don't."

But I don't tell him to leave, and he doesn't move away. We stand there in the morning light, close enough to touch, separated by five years of silence and secrets.

"Your work," he says finally. "It's exceptional. Better than we could have hoped for."

"Funny how that works," I say, staring out at the tree line. "People can surprise you. Be more than you expected. More than you believed them capable of."

The double meaning hangs between us like smoke. From the way Marcus's scent shifts, I know he catches it.

"I never doubted your capabilities," he says softly.

"No," I agree. "You just doubted everything else."

He moves closer, almost involuntarily, and something in my chest constricts. His scent surrounds me—pine needles and winter air and something darker now, something haunted.

"Camila," he says again, and this time my name sounds like a prayer. "There are things you don't understand—”

A high-pitched wail cuts through the morning air—the pack's warning system. Marcus goes rigid beside me, all traces of vulnerability vanishing beneath Alpha authority.

"Possible hostiles," he says, already moving, as I see him communicating with his pack through their bond. "Near the lake."

I push off from the wall, wolf surging forward with battle-ready intensity. Whatever lies between us, whatever wounds we carry, none of it matters now.

There are more important things at stake than old heartbreaks.