Chapter 27 Growing Complications
At five months pregnant, my body is no longer my own.
Rory has grown aggressive in her movements—not just kicks anymore but rolling, pressing, stretching. I can see the outline of her tiny fist pushing against my skin from the inside, like she's trying to break free.
The data entry work Carmen's husband arranged is a godsend. I can work from my room, wearing pajamas, with my feet elevated and snacks within reach. The pay is modest—four hundred dollars a week—but it's honest income that doesn't require me to risk exposure.
But even working from home is becoming difficult.
The supernatural aspects of my pregnancy are accelerating. At what should be twenty-two weeks, I look full-term. My stomach is massive, hard as a rock, and constantly in motion. Aurora doesn't sleep on any schedule I can predict. Sometimes she's quiet for hours, then suddenly alive with activity at three AM.
Dr. Chen and Dr. Tanaka are fascinated and concerned in equal measure.
"You're measuring at thirty-six weeks," Dr. Tanaka says during my weekly ultrasound. "Aurora is approximately six pounds now. If she were human, we'd be talking about delivery in the next few weeks."
"But she's not human." My hands shake as I process this. "How much longer?"
"Hard to say. Werewolf pregnancies are unpredictable even in the best circumstances. Your situation is unprecedented." She turns the ultrasound screen toward me. "Look at this."
The image shows Aurora's face clearly now. She's sucking her thumb, her features perfectly formed and achingly beautiful. But there's something else—a shimmer around her, like heat waves rising from pavement.
"What is that?" I ask.
"Energy. Power." Dr. Tanaka's voice is quiet with awe. "She's already manifesting supernatural abilities in utero. I've never seen anything like it."
"Is it dangerous?"
"I don't know. But Sage, you need to prepare yourself for the possibility that Aurora's birth will be... complicated. More complicated than a normal delivery."
The warning settles like lead in my stomach.
That night, I can't sleep. Aurora is restless, her movements almost violent. I pace my room, one hand pressed to my aching back, trying to find a comfortable position that doesn't exist.
Around two AM, a sharp pain lances through my abdomen.
I freeze, waiting. Hoping it's just a cramp.
But it comes again, stronger this time. And again.
Contractions.
"No," I whisper. "No, no, no. It's too early. You're too early."
I stagger to my door and call out for Carmen, trying to keep my voice steady and failing completely.
"Carmen! Rafael! I need help!"
They appear within seconds, both in pajamas, hair disheveled but eyes sharp.
"What's wrong?" Carmen is at my side immediately.
"Contractions. I think... I think I'm going into labor."
"You're only twenty-two weeks. That's too early." But Rafael is already grabbing his keys. "We need to get you to the hospital."
The drive is a blur of pain and fear. The contractions are coming faster now, closer together. Aurora is thrashing inside me, as if she's fighting to be born.
We burst through the emergency room doors at Vancouver General, and someone must recognize me because Dr. Chen appears almost immediately.
"Exam room three, now," he orders, and nurses descend on me, wheeling me through corridors that all look the same.
They get me onto a bed, and Dr. Chen does a quick examination, his face grave.
"You're dilated to four centimeters. The contractions are real." He looks up at me. "Sage, we need to stop this labor if we can. Aurora is too underdeveloped to survive outside the womb yet."
"Do whatever you have to do," I gasp between contractions. "Just save her. Please."
They pump me full of medications—tocolytics to stop the contractions, steroids to speed up Luna's lung development just in case, pain medication that makes everything fuzzy.
The hours blend together. Carmen sits beside me, holding my hand. Rafael paces. Dr. Chen comes and goes, checking monitors, adjusting medications.
Slowly—agonizingly slowly—the contractions ease.
By dawn, they've stopped completely.
"Crisis averted," Dr. Chen says, but he doesn't look relieved. "But Sage, you can't go home. You need to stay here, on bed rest, until we're confident the labor won't restart."
"For how long?"
"At least a week. Maybe longer."
A week in the hospital. A week away from work, from the Garcias' home, from any semblance of normal life.
But if it keeps Aurora safe, I'll do it.
They move me to a private room in the maternity ward. The walls are painted a soothing blue, and there's a window overlooking the city. Carmen brings me clothes and books and my laptop so I can at least try to keep up with work.
But the bed rest is strict. I'm not allowed to get up except to use the bathroom. No showers standing up—only sponge baths. No exertion of any kind.
The boredom is crushing.
On day three, Damon emails.
‘How are you? You haven't written in over a week. I'm worried.’
I stare at the message for a long time before responding.
‘I'm in the hospital. Went into early labor at 22 weeks. They stopped it, but I'm on strict bed rest now.
Aurora's okay. Growing too fast, but okay.
How are things there?’
His response is immediate.
‘Yeshua, Sage. Are you alright? Do you need anything?
Things here are... tense. Stella's pregnancy is progressing normally—she's due in about four months. But she's been increasingly paranoid. Accused me yesterday of being in contact with you. I denied it, obviously, but she's not stupid.
Hilary Holden—the investigator—is still searching Vancouver. He reported back that he'd located your workplace but lost track of you after you quit. Stella was furious.
Be careful. She's obsessed with finding you.
And Sage? I'm here if you need me. Even if you can't see me, I'm here.’
His words bring tears to my eyes. Damon, still fighting for me from a distance. Still risking everything to keep me informed.
‘Thank you. For everything.
Stay safe. And don't let Stella's paranoia put you at risk.’
On day five, I wake to wetness between my legs.
For a terrifying moment, I think my water has broken. But when I look down, I see blood.
Not a lot. Just spotting. But any blood during pregnancy is cause for concern.
I press the call button, trying not to panic.
The nurse who responds takes one look and immediately calls for Dr. Chen.
He arrives within minutes, his face set in grim determination.
"Let's see what's going on," he says, prepping for an examination.
The ultrasound shows Aurora still safely in the womb, heartbeat strong. But there's something else—a small separation between the placenta and uterine wall.
"Partial placental abruption," Dr. Chen explains. "Not severe enough to require immediate delivery, but concerning. We'll need to monitor you even more closely."
"What does this mean?" I ask, terror making my voice shake.
"It means your body is under tremendous stress. The accelerated growth, the early contractions, the supernatural demands Aurora is placing on you—it's all taking a toll." He meets my eyes. "Sage, I'm going to be honest with you. I don't think you're going to make it to seven months. I think Aurora is going to come earlier. Possibly much earlier."
"How early?"
"Six months, maybe. Possibly sooner if the abruption worsens."
Six months. I'm barely at five and a half months now.
"Will she survive?" The question I'm terrified to ask.
"Given her size and development? Yes, I believe so. She's already larger and more developed than most full-term human babies. But Sage, a birth that early will be dangerous for you. The abruption, the blood loss, the physical trauma—you need to prepare yourself."
"I don't care about me. As long as Aurora survives—"
"Aurora needs her mother," Dr. Chen interrupts firmly. "So you need to survive too. We'll do everything we can to keep both of you safe."
After he leaves, I lie in the hospital bed and cry. Not pretty crying—ugly, gasping sobs that shake my entire body.
This isn't how it was supposed to go. I was supposed to have more time. More time to prepare, to save money, to figure out how to be a mother.
But Aurora has her own timeline. And I'm just along for the ride.
Carmen visits that evening, bringing flowers and Chinese takeout.
"How are you holding up?" she asks, arranging the flowers in a vase.
"I'm terrified." No point lying. "What if I can't do this? What if I'm not strong enough?"
"You're the strongest person I know," Carmen says firmly. "You survived banishment. Survived almost dying in the woods. Survived losing one baby while fighting to save the other. You can survive this too."
"But what if—"
"No what-ifs." She takes my hand. "You're going to give birth to a beautiful, healthy daughter. And Rafael and I are going to be there to help you every step of the way. You're not doing this alone, Sage. Not anymore."
Her conviction is so absolute that I almost believe her.
Almost.
On day seven, Dr. Chen finally clears me to go home—with strict instructions.
"Modified bed rest," he says. "You can move around the house, but no stairs, no lifting, no strenuous activity. Work from your bed or a recliner. And if you feel any contractions, any bleeding, any unusual pain—you come back immediately."
"I will. I promise."
The Garcias have prepared for my return. Rafael has moved the data entry work station into my room so I don't have to climb stairs. Carmen has stocked the kitchen with easy-to-prepare meals and snacks I can grab without much effort.
They've transformed the spare room into a nursery.
When Carmen shows it to me, I burst into tears for what feels like the hundredth time this week.
The walls are painted soft yellow. There's a crib in the corner—not new, but sturdy and clean. A changing table. A rocking chair. Shelves with diapers and wipes and tiny clothes.
"We know you're not due for a while yet," Rafael says. "But we wanted to be ready. Just in case."
Just in case Aurora comes early, he means.
Just in case I have to deliver at six months instead of seven or eight or nine.
"Thank you," I whisper, touching the crib rail. "This is... it's perfect."
That night, working on invoices from my bed, I feel Aurora move. Not her usual violent thrashing, but something gentler. Almost like she's settling in, getting ready.
Getting ready to be born.
I place my hand on my stomach and close my eyes.
"Stay in there as long as you can," I whisper to her. "I know you're ready. I know you're strong enough. But I need more time. Just a little more time to prepare."
Aurora's response is a soft flutter. Agreement, maybe. Or maybe just acknowledgment.
Either way, I know our time is running out.
Dr. Chen's prediction is going to come true. Aurora is coming soon.
Whether I'm ready or not.
Two weeks later, at what should be twenty-four weeks but looks like forty, I collapse.
One moment I'm walking from my room to the kitchen. The next, the world tilts sideways and I'm on the floor.
Carmen finds me there, barely conscious, bleeding again.
The last thing I remember before the ambulance arrives is her voice, calm and steady even though I can see the fear in her eyes.
"Stay with me, Sage. Aurora needs you. Stay with me."
Then darkness.