Chapter Eight
Ciel
I lie back on the padded table, nerves buzzing beneath my skin.
The lights above are too bright, too white. My belly is bared to the sterile air, and my fingers twitch against my thighs—tight, restless. I can't remember the last time I was somewhere this clean. This safe.
I don't trust it.
Not yet.
The doctor hums softly as he rolls his stool closer. He offers a polite smile, but I barely see it. My eyes are glued to the probe in his hand and the clear gel bottle he uncaps without warning.
A shiver jolts through me as the cold liquid hits my stomach.
I flinch. Reflexive. Embarrassed.
"It'll just be a moment," the doctor says kindly. "You'll hear the heartbeat first."
I can't respond. My throat's too tight. My palms are clammy against the edges of the table.
A heartbeat.
I nod, lips pressed together. My chest tightens painfully. I've felt the flutters, the soft kicks at night—but I've never heard my baby. Never seen him.
What if something's wrong?
What if I've already failed?
My nails dig into the vinyl padding—until a larger hand slips into mine.
Big. Steady. Warm.
I blink up at Jack. He's standing beside me, dark eyes unreadable but soft. He doesn't speak, just squeezes my hand.
And it's enough. For now, it's enough.
The probe glides across my stomach. Static fills the air.
Then—
Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
A heartbeat.
I freeze.
That sound—it cuts through everything. Every fear. Every thought.
That's my baby.
Tears sting my eyes before I can stop them. I try to blink them away, but they spill, hot trails down my cheeks.
The doctor turns the monitor toward us. And there it is.
A small, grainy shape. Curled, fragile, impossibly human.
Alive. My baby.
Clutching Jack's hand tighter, breath hitching. My other hand drifts instinctively to my stomach.
The doctor glances up. "Would you like to know the gender?"
My heart stutters.
Jack looks at me, waiting for my answer.
I nod. Whisper, "Yes."
"It's a boy," the doctor says gently.
The words slam into me, soft but devastating.
Not just a pregnancy. Not just a heartbeat.
A boy. My boy.
A strangled sound escapes me—half-sob, half-laugh. I bury my face in my hands, the printout pressed to my chest when the doctor hands it over. Jack's thumb rubs slow circles into my palm, steady as stone.
On the page, the fuzzy outline of a spine, a leg, the soft curve of a head.
My son.
For the first time in months, peace flickers in my chest.
*
I barely notice when we're led from the exam room to a softly lit office, decorated with pastel paintings and silver-framed certificates. I clutch the ultrasound image like it's a lifeline.
Jack's hand brushes my lower back as I'm guided into a chair. Gentle. Careful not to linger.
Then the doctor says something that makes the air crack.
"—As the child's father, Mr. Jack, it's fortunate your pheromones are compatible."
My head snaps up.
The what?
Father?
I turn to Jack, waiting for him to correct the man, to laugh, to deny.
But he doesn't.
He just nods. Calm. Silent. Accepting.
My stomach knots.
The doctor continues smoothly, tapping on his tablet:
"His pheromone levels are extremely unbalanced—classic for omegas in the second trimester without stable alpha exposure. High cortisol, chronic fatigue, sleep disruption. Left untreated, it risks early contractions."
My lips part. I hadn't realized… I thought the nausea, the bone-deep exhaustion, the mood swings—they were just normal.
But no.
Something's wrong with me.
I glance sideways at Jack. He looks calm, but his fists tighten against his thighs.
The doctor goes on:
"He needs your pheromones, Mr. Jack. Luckily, you're a strong match."
The words echo, ringing in my skull.
Compatible. A strongmatch.
"In many cases," the doctor explains, "alpha pheromones are toxic to pregnant omegas—especially if they're not the biological sire, in rare cases even if the said alpha is the biological sire. But the fetus bonds early to whichever alpha the body recognizes as safe. A mismatch destabilizes hormones, strains the omega's system."
And suddenly—I understand.
The suffocating nights with the dukes. The nausea that churned until I couldn't breathe. The way their scents clung, bitter and choking—smoke, steel, ash—until I thought I'd crawl out of my own skin.
My body rejected them.
Even before I knew I was pregnant—my body, my baby already knew.
The doctor leans forward now, professional but firm.
"His instincts are already telling him where safety lies. Skin-to-skin is the fastest stabilizer. With consent, routine bonding with you will keep both mother and child healthy."
My face burns. I look away, shame prickling under my skin.
Jack doesn't. He just nods. Steady as ever. "Understood."
The doctor straightens. "We'll schedule weekly monitoring, pair you with a nutritionist, and—if you choose—a perinatal counselor. What matters most is stability: rest, hydration, consistent exposure to Jack's scent. The baby is strong, but keeping him that way will require teamwork."
Teamwork.
The word makes my throat tight.
I clutch the ultrasound picture until the paper creases. My son. My boy. Still alive.
And beside me—Jack's hand again at my back, grounding, silent, steady.
For the first time, I let myself believe.