Chapter Thirty

Eve

For all the five-hour car trips to the city, made even longer by the vomiting pit-stops, none of them have felt as long as this. Vaguely I know Thorn is driving me to the hospital, but my inner omega doesn't see things in such rational terms.

Marcus , she's crying. Go to Marcus.

He's worked so hard to keep me and the pup safe. If something is wrong with them … he'll know what to do.

Assuming there's still is a pup to save .

The thought blows up in my mind, impossible to quash, like a big ugly billboard.

"Breathe," Baxter keeps urging me.

Someone's grip on my ankle tightens, then I hear Red's voice. "I think she's about to pass out."

Baxter's hard body gets even harder against me. He adjusts, pulling me upright. Pain twinges in my stomach.

"You're okay, little one," he rumbles at my cry. "Just need to open up your lungs."

My lungs are the least of my concern, but I don't fight him. What right do I have to fight? If the pup is hurt, or worse—

More billboard thoughts. I squeeze my eyes shut, but somehow that just makes them bigger.

"Riley—in the dash," Baxter snaps.

Rummaging sounds from the front seats. Riley passes something back into Baxter's hand.

"Okay." Baxter levers a hard plastic implement between my lips. "Focus on my voice. Need you to take a big breath … in ."

My omega instantly obliges, eager to receive a command, to escape myself. He pushes down on the plunger on my next sharp inhale. At once, space starts to open up in my chest.

"There you go," he softens ever-so-slightly. "That's my girl."

We do it a couple more times, until I'm lucid enough to register the chalky, chemical-y taste. I cough.

"That's enough?" Baxter confirms. "Alright. Now I just need you to relax, and tell me when you feel that pain."

Red's hold on my ankle tightens again. My eyes float up to him. He's paler than I've ever seen him, not to mention quieter, like he's afraid a single word might send me spiraling again.

"Marcus has a wheelchair out front," Riley announces. "Says we can't miss him."

Marcus . That's right. He'll … know what to do. He'll fix this.

Thorn pulls into a big driveway and my alphas instantly stiffen to attention, searching. Another pain grips me, as if something's gotten hooked around my lower left side. It keeps alternating, but always low down, always short, always sharp.

I bite back a whimper. "It's—again."

Baxter's head snaps back down. "Show me where," he says.

Breathing tightly, I guide his hand. He flattens his palm over my lower left side, scowling in concentration, as though he'll be able to somehow extract the pain.

"There he is," Riley announces suddenly.

The car pulls up against the curb, where Marcus is waiting for us with one other nurse and a wheelchair. Red and Riley climb out and Baxter carries me effortlessly around. He shoots an order at Thorn over his shoulder—one my head is spinning too much to hear.

The second Marcus's scent finds me, I want to burst into tears. I'm not sure why—if it's relief, or despair, or just pure shame—but he seems to know exactly what I need.

"We have a room waiting for you, princess," he tells me. "You're in good hands."

I want to reach for him, to drink in more of his reassuring scent, but then he's behind the wheelchair, pushing me through the sliding doors.

***

It takes a lot of encouraging, purring, and convincing to get me calm enough to check my vitals.

A doctor I don't recognize—Marcus calls him Ascott—recommends a mild sedative. He realizes soon enough that this idea only makes me more panicked, at which point my alphas growl and try to shield me, and we're back at square one.

My inner omega becomes more cooperative when Thorn finds us. He scans me up and down on the exam bed.

"What do we know?" he asks.

Marcus puts away the blood pressure monitor. "Her BP is very low, but that's probably the stress."

Red frowns. "Shouldn't it be high if she's stressed?"

"Not with POTS. Heart rate spikes, blood pressure plummets. That's what causes the dizziness."

This stupid body , I find myself cursing over and over. Everything is backwards. No wonder my poor pup can't make heads to tails of it—just learning how to exist, and already forced to contend with their mother's inadequacies.

"We're just about to check on the pup," Baxter informs Thorn, nodding at the monitor next to Doctor Ascott.

"That's right." The doctor wheels it over. "If you'll excuse me," he says to Riley. She begrudgingly shifts out of the way. He lifts my shirt, earning a snarl from Red. Baxter glares at him, but glares at the doctor just as viciously—both in warning.

The cold gel makes me flinch. I turn my face into the bed, humiliated by my tears. I'm not the victim here . Doctor Ascott maneuvers the wand around on my stomach, making me wince.

"Easy," Red growls, looking ready to snatch the wand out of his hands.

"It's okay," Marcus says softly, a careful mediator. "He's just trying to get a clear image."

Apparently a ‘clear image' means massaging directly into where it hurts most. I bite my tongue, silencing the pathetic noises trying to break free.

"Alright." Doctor Ascott pulls away. "I think I see the issue."

My breath catches, that horrible dream pulsing at the front of my mind.

Blood. Blood-stained.

"There's an issue?" Red snaps. I don't hear the order, but I see Thorn dragging him aside in my peripheral vision.

Someone reaches for my hand. I tear away, needing to hold my stomach, my pup, so they know I'm still here, I still love them, and I'm so sorry.

A doctor's voice cartwheeling around my ears. "It's no good, sweetheart. They're— "

"—fine."

My head snaps up. Doctor Ascott is looking not at me but at Baxter, explaining it to him in a voice so monotone it's almost more surreal than the dream.

"Healthy heartbeat." He gestures at the monitor. "Regular fetal movement. My guess, the pain your omega is feeling is just her ligaments stretching."

"And the blood?" Baxter demands.

"Also normal."

It's like a weight lifts off the room, my alphas' pheromones dispersing into relief. Familiar scents flood my senses—mulled wine, tart caramel, sponge cake, cinnamon, and, finally, pine trees to smooth all the sweetness out. A perfect balance.

"My best guess," the doctor goes on, casting his gaze to me, "she's stressed. High cortisol makes these things come on a lot stronger. Surely you've all scented it."

Even Baxter bristles at this, shifting his body in front of mine.

The doctor wisely takes a step back. "As I said, your pup is fine. But they may not stay that way if this keeps up."

It's like my heart gets stuck in my throat, choking me. Doctor Perez had the same warning. Either I get better—calmer, stronger, whatever—or the pup really will be at risk.

"Honestly," Marcus says, drawing Doctor Ascott's attention away from me, "we've been trying to lower her stress for weeks now, but nothing seems to be working."

That's not entirely true, my inner omega says snidely. I always manage to get in a good rest after I've been knotted. But if that was the solution, surely Marcus wouldn't be insisting on total abstinence. For all I know, my recent knot from Baxter is the whole reason I'm in this position.

"I've been considering antidepressants," Marcus says candidly, making me cringe— more drugs? —"or sedatives."

Red snorts. "She's not crazy, Marc."

"Of course not! But her hormones are under immense pressure, not to mention the pressure of visiting the city every month."

Her hormones . My hormones. He's never brought up the subject of antidepressants with me before, but he'd throw it around with some random doctor like I'm not even here?

"It's an option," Doctor Ascott concedes, "or, maybe, a last resort, if natural remedies aren't doing the trick."

"Like what?" I find myself asking.

The doctor looks surprised to hear my voice, making eye contact with me for what might be the first time since we got here. "Things like rest. Scenting. Nesting."

"Knotting."

Heat blasts up to my ears as I cast my gaze to Thorn. Is he serious!? The situation was humiliating enough, and now he has to bring up that of all things?

Doctor Ascott just shrugs. "Of course." He checks the monitor. "You're, what, eighteen weeks? For an omega at this stage—with a pack of your size—it's crucial to be knotted every couple days at least."

My brain's first response is, No. That's not possible. Or, if it is, then, That doesn't apply to me. I'm not a normal pregnant omega. I can't handle normal pregnant omega things. My alphas—or at least one of them—said so.

"Crucial." Thorn steps forward, his glare narrowing. "Crucial how?"

A hint of nervousness emanates from Marcus, his scent souring. "Thorn …"

No-one even looks his way, glued to the doctor's response.

Doctor Ascott considers, frowning slightly, as though perturbed that we don't already know the answer.

He tells us, "Any less than that could cause severe stress on her and the pup."