Page 6 of Betrayed Knocked-Up Mate (Rosecreek Special Ops Wolves #8)

The water’s surface ripples under a chill spring wind, turning Half Moon Lake's glossy surface into sheets of hammered silver. Bigby takes point as we approach the tree line, his massive frame moving with surprising stealth. Behind us, Ado ghosts through the underbrush like a shadow, covering our flank with the kind of fluid grace from years of special ops training.

And Camila, damn her, walks between them like she belongs there. Like she hasn't just invited herself along on a potential combat situation with absolutely no tactical training or protective gear.

"You don't need to be here," I say for the third time, trying to keep the growl from my voice. "We have it covered."

"I know these woods better than you do." She doesn't even look at me; her attention focused on our surroundings with predator intensity. When did she learn to move like that? The Camila I knew five years ago was all artist's grace, not warrior's vigilance. Maybe somewhere far across the ocean, traveling alone through a foreign and unsafe world, she learned to become this strange, stealthy thing, blending perfectly in.

“You’re new here, too,” I point out.

“Not as news as you. Plus, I like to walk.” She shoots me a look. "Besides, four sets of eyes are better than three."

My wolf snarls at her casual dismissal of the danger. Doesn't she understand what we might be walking into? Kane's people are professionals. They don't leave survivors.

But before I can argue further, Bigby raises a fist—the universal signal to halt.

"Scent marker," he says quietly. "Fresh. But something's off about it."

I move forward to investigate, cataloging details automatically. The marker is crude, nothing like Kane's people's usual precision. The scent carries notes of aggression and territorial challenge, but lacks the clinical edge I've learned to associate with our pursuers.

"Not Kane's," I confirm, relief warring with continued tension. "Different signature entirely."

"Ferals," Ado confirms quietly, materializing beside me like smoke. "We've had more and more lately. All the pack dissolutions in the Midwest have left a lot of displaced shifters. Some can't handle being packless, end up going feral."

Bigby nods grimly. "Three major packs dissolved just in Minnesota this year. Territory disputes, internal conflicts, increased violence between different supernatural factions. When packs break apart, not everyone finds a new home. Some just... break."

"And the ones who break end up here?" Camila asks, her voice carefully neutral.

"These woods have always drawn strays," Ado explains. "But lately it's gotten worse. The ferals are more aggressive, more desperate. Last month, we heard another pack had to put down a whole group of them near the state border. Usually, they don’t end up on our borders. Used to be just spring migrations causing problems, but now..."

"Now it's symptomatic of something bigger," Bigby finishes. "Whole communities falling apart. These aren't Kane's people we're tracking—just the aftermath of what's happening to our kind everywhere."

Camila edges closer to the group, and my entire body tenses at her proximity to potential danger.

Bigby straightens, scanning the trees. "Either way, we should—"

A branch snaps somewhere to our left.

Every instinct I possess screams at me to put myself between the sound and Camila. But she's already moving, fluid as water, positioning herself with the rest of us in a defensive formation I know she's never been trained in. Instinct, I think—either that, or she was watching me.

The thought of the latter makes me just a little nauseous.

"Just wildlife," Ado says after a tense moment. "Probably deer. The scent's hours old now."

"We should still sweep the perimeter," Bigby decides. "Ado, take the north side. I'll check the boat launch. You two..." He glances between me and Camila, something knowing in his expression. "Check the old dock. Radio if you find anything."

I want to protest the pairing, but there's no tactical reason to. Besides, something in Bigby's scent suggests this isn't a coincidence. Aris must have told him about our history.

"Fine," I say shortly. "Camila, stay alert. Even if it's not Kane's people, feral shifters are unpredictable."

Camila makes a soft sound that might be amusement or annoyance. "I can handle myself."

The words hit like a physical blow. Because she shouldn't have to know how to handle herself in combat situations. She shouldn't have to know anything about ferals, territorial markers, or defensive formations.

She should be safe. That's all I ever wanted.

We move through the woods in tense silence, following the lakeshore toward the abandoned dock. Spring has barely touched this part of the forest—bare branches reach toward a pearl-gray sky, last year's leaves crackling under our feet. The air smells of wet earth and new growth, and beneath it all, Camila's familiar scent still makes my wolf howl.

"I didn’t ask you to do that," she says suddenly. “I don’t know why you assume you have the right to.”

"What?"

"You’re guarding me." Her voice is carefully neutral, but her scent spikes with something complex. "I'm not your responsibility anymore, Marcus. You made that very clear."

The memory hits like lightning: another lake, another spring day. Camila laughing as I taught her to track scents through forest undergrowth, her eyes bright with discovery. The way she looked at me like I hung the moon, like I could never do wrong.

God, how young we were. How na?ve.

"The dock's clear," I say instead of everything I want to. "No fresh scents, no signs of—"

"Why did you do it?"

The question stops me cold. When I turn to look at her, she's staring out over the water, her profile sharp against the silver lake.

"Camila..."

"I deserve to know." Her voice cracks slightly. "Five years, Marcus. Five years of wondering what I did wrong, what made you—"

A growl rips through the forest, too close, too hungry.

Ferals.

Training takes over instantly. I spin toward the sound, placing myself between Camila and the threat even as I catalog details: two distinct growls, movement in the underbrush, the sharp scent of aggression and madness that marks feral shifters.

The first one bursts from the trees like a nightmare—huge, mangy, its eyes glazed with bloodlust. These aren't ordinary shifters who've lost control. These are something worse, something broken.

I meet its charge with a snarl, catching its massive body before it can get anywhere near Camila. We go down in a tangle of fur and teeth—I've shifted without even realizing it consciously, and my teeth come out in a flash. The feral's jaws snap inches from my throat, its breath hot and fetid. I claw at its chest hard, feeling flesh parting near its throat.

But before I can pin it, the second one launches from the shadows, aiming straight for Camila.

My heart stops.

But Camila... Camila moves like lightning. Not good form, sure, but fast and wary. She drops and rolls, stumbling to her feet with only a little unsteadiness. Her shift ripples through her smoothly—claws extending, teeth sharpening, eyes gleaming gold as she sinks toward the ground, dark fur shining in the sunlight. When the feral lunges again, she meets it with precise, messy violence, redirecting its momentum into a nearby tree, claws, and teeth flashing.

The sight distracts me just long enough for my opponent to score a hit—claws raking down my side, drawing blood. Pain flares hot and bright, but I use it, channeling it into focused fury. This close to Camila, I can't risk holding back.

I shift back and drive my elbow into the feral's throat, following with a knee to its sternum. It staggers back, giving me room to shift my stance. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Camila dancing away from her opponent's wild swipes, her movements calculated and efficient.

We've never fought together before, but something ancient and instinctual takes over. When she ducks under her feral's guard, I'm already moving to cover her back. When I drive my opponent toward the trees, she's there to cut off its escape route.

It's like a dance we've never practiced but somehow know by heart.

The fight lasts maybe two minutes, but it feels like hours. Every time the ferals get close to Camila, my wolf surges with protective fury. But she doesn't need my protection—she fights smart, using her smaller size to her advantage, never giving them a clean shot.

Finally, I manage to get my hands around my opponent's throat. One sharp twist, and it goes limp. Beside me, Camila slams her feral's head against a boulder with precise force. The crack of its skull makes me wince, but her expression never wavers.

Silence falls, broken only by our heavy breathing and the lap of lake water against the shore.

"Are you hurt?" The words tear from my throat before I can stop them.

Camila straightens, rolling her shoulders like she does this every day. There's a shallow cut on her arm, but nothing serious. "I'm fine. Your side—you're bleeding."

"It's nothing." I start to reach for her, to check her injuries myself, but stop myself just in time. "Where did you learn to fight like that?"

A bitter smile crosses her face. "Turns out the world's dangerous for lone wolves. Had to learn to handle myself. I couldn’t hold my own on my own, but I’m great at stalling. Sometimes it’s all you need.”

The words hit harder than any feral's claws. Because this is my fault—every skill Camila’s had to learn, every scar she's earned, every moment she's had to be stronger than she should have needed to be.

I’m not guilty for what I did. But at the same time, I… regret it. I regret it more than anything. It’s a strange combination.

"Camila," I start, not even sure what I'm going to say.

But her expression closes off, masks sliding back into place. "We should report this. The pack needs to know about feral activity this close to town."

She's right. Of course, she's right. But watching her walk away, seeing the warrior she's had to become... My wolf howls with a pain deeper than any physical wound.