Chapter 50 Pregnant
But excitement flickered too, tiny, forbidden. A baby. Our baby. Part of him, part of me. The bond pulsed at the thought, warm and insistent, like it knew already. But fear drowned it. Alexander had never mentioned kids. Did he even want them? With the pack war's aftermath, Moonclaw's ghosts, the company pressures, he had enough burdens. How could I drop this on him? Scared didn't cover it. Terrified. Paralyzed.
I stood on unsteady legs, splashing cold water on my face from the sink. The mirror reflected a ghost, pale skin, wide eyes shadowed with dark circles, hair a tangled mess. I had to know. Now.
I changed quickly, jeans that felt too tight around my waist, a thick sweater that swallowed me whole, boots laced with numb fingers. The fabric rustled softly as I moved, the zipper of my coat a sharp rasp in the quiet cabin. Alexander's room was empty when I passed, bed made, his scent lingering like a promise: pine, leather, warmth. His car keys sat on the foyer table; I grabbed them without thinking, the metal cold and heavy in my palm. He was probably in his study or outside; it didn't matter. Nothing mattered but the truth.
The garage air was frigid, smelling of oil and rubber. The black SUV started with a low purr, engine humming smoothly as I backed out. The gates opened automatically, Alexander's tech, and I drove into the winter landscape, heart racing faster than the speedometer. The road wound through snow-dusted pines, the tires hissing over packed ice, the world a blur of white and green. My mind screamed: What if? What then? Ben's face when he finds out, twisted, vengeful. Alexander's shock? Joy? Rejection? Tears blurred the windshield; I swiped them away, gripping the wheel until my knuckles ached.
The pharmacy was a small, nondescript building in the nearest town, twenty minutes away, driving a haze of panic. The bell tinkled cheerfully as I entered, the air inside warm with the scent of antiseptic and candy from the front display. Shelves lined with boxes and bottles blurred as I hurried to the aisle, pregnancy tests stacked neatly, pink and blue packaging mocking my terror. I grabbed two kits, digital, clear results, no ambiguity, and paid at the counter, avoiding the cashier's eyes, my hands shaking as I swiped the card.
The drive back was torture, every bump in the road jarring my thoughts, the kits burning a hole in the passenger seat bag. Back at the cabin, I parked and slipped inside quietly, the foyer silent except for the distant crackle of the fire. No one was around. Good.
In my bathroom, the door locked with a soft click, I tore open the first kit. The instructions blurred through tears, but I knew the drill, pee on the stick, and wait three minutes. The plastic was cold in my hand, the cap snapping back with a finality that made my stomach lurch. I set it on the counter, the timer on my phone ticking down like a bomb.
Those three minutes stretched eternal. I paced the small space, tile cold under my socks, the mirror fogging slightly from my ragged breaths. Thoughts spiraled: Positive, and what? Tell Alexander? Watch his face fall? Or keep it secret, carry this alone? Ben, God, Ben. Married on paper, pregnant by his stepfather. Scandal of the year. Mom would be devastated. Lily will be disappointed. And me? Terrified mother, unraveling everything? Excitement whispered too, a tiny life, ours, but fear roared louder.
The timer beeped, shrill, piercing.
I grabbed the stick, hands shaking so badly it nearly slipped.
Two lines. Positive.
The world tilted. I sank to the floor, back against the cabinet, the test clutched in my fist. Positive. Pregnant. The word echoed, surreal. Joy flickered, brief, bright, a baby, Alexander's baby, but terror crashed over it like a wave. Scared didn't cover it. Terrified. Petrified. Alexander had never mentioned kids. Never hinted if he wanted them, if his world of packs and power had room for a family. The bond pulsed warmly, as if sensing the life inside me, but what if he didn't feel the same? Rejection? Disappointment? And Ben oh God, Ben. The fake husband, the real threat. Pregnant by his stepfather? He'd explode, expose everything, destroy us all for spite.
Tears burned hot tracks down my cheeks. I couldn't tell anyone. Not yet. Keep it secret. Figure out what to do. Alone.
The cabin felt smaller suddenly, the walls pressing in. But the secret burned brighter, a tiny flame in the dark.
What now?
Definitely keeping to myself for now.
Two days had blurred into a monotonous haze since that disastrous Christmas morning confrontation on the deck. The cabin, once a cozy escape with its warm cedar scents and crackling fire, now felt like a prison of my own making. I'd barricaded myself in my room, the door locked not just against Ben and Alexander, but against the chaos swirling inside me. The space was small but suffocating, white linens rumpled from fitful sleep, the massive window framing the frozen lake like a mocking reminder of freedom just out of reach. The air smelled stale, laced with the faint pine from the woods outside and the lingering bitterness of coffee I'd spilled on the rug yesterday.
I only ventured downstairs for food, quick, stealthy raids on the kitchen when I heard their voices fade to the living room or deck. The stairs creaked under my socks, the cold wood biting through the fabric, and I'd grab whatever was easy: cold roast chicken from the fridge, its savory juices slick on my fingers; bread toasted golden with butter melting into pools; fruit that burst sweet and tart on my tongue. I'd pile it on a plate, the clatter of utensils echoing too loudly in the empty space, then hurry back up, heart pounding as if I were stealing secrets instead of sustenance. Eating alone in my room, cross-legged on the bed, the flavors felt amplified, hunger striking at odd hours, ravenous and unrelenting, like my body was demanding payment for the shift, for the life growing inside me.
The pregnancy test strip lay on the nightstand, a constant companion I checked obsessively, as if staring at those two pink lines would make them fade or solidify into certainty. I'd hidden it in a drawer at first, but now it sat out, mocking me. Every hour or so, I'd pick it up, plastic cool and smooth in my palm, and squint at it under the lamp's warm glow, willing it to change. Still positive. The thought sent my pulse racing, a mix of terror and something softer, more dangerous: wonder. A baby. Alexander's baby. The idea excited me in stolen moments, imagining tiny fingers, his or her dark eyes staring back at me, but fear crushed it every time. What if he didn't want kids? We'd never talked about it, never even hinted. His world was packs and power plays, not diapers and midnight feedings.