Another poke urges me into motion. I push myself upright, awkwardly swing my legs over the side of the bed, and slowly rise to my feet. My protruding stomach leads the way as I head toward the bathroom with one hand pressed against my aching lower back.
Preemptively squinting my eyes, I flick on the light and waddle over to sit down. Yes, sit, because for the last three months or so, my stomach has been too big for me to be able to aim while standing. Another reason pregnancy sucks for me.
Once my bladder is as empty as it’s going to get for now, I leverage myself to my feet by holding on to the counter, wash my hands, and head back to bed. Julien rolls over as I lie back down, tugging me backward so my ass is cradled against his body and nosing at my neck.
“Is the little one restless again?” he mumbles in a sleepy voice.
I huff out a soft laugh. “Of course. When is this baby ever not restless?”
Julien’s arm curls around what little is left of my waist, one of his hands coming to rest against my belly. He rubs soft circles on my skin. The baby must sense their other daddy’s presence, because they start pushing back against Julien’s hand.
Julien chuckles. “Let your father rest, little one.”
Maybe my mate put a touch of Alpha command in there because my passenger settles down almost immediately. I’m able to drift back to sleep with Julien’s soft breath a steady comfort against the back of my neck.
A dull but slowly crescendoing pain yanks me out of sleep not much later. I instinctively curl around my stomach as I squeeze my eyes shut. A small whimper escapes from between my lips.
Julien is instantly awake, though not necessarily coherent.
“What? Who?” He thrashes around, trying to push the covers down, but only tangling his legs up in the fabric even more.
The pain recedes and I blindly reach backward to pat Julien’s thigh reassuringly.
“Just another one of those Braxton-whatevers,” I say, fairly certain in my self-diagnosis. My due date, as best anyone could tell without a clear ultrasound, is still a couple weeks away and the pack doctor has scheduled my c-section for eight days from now. I’ll never get to the point of actual labor.
And thank everything holy for that. Topping off months of general discomfort with an indeterminate number of hours of physical pain is definitely not high on the list of things I want to experience in my life.
My confidence in my ability to recognize real contractions disappears ten minutes later when another one hits, followed by the unmistakable feeling of liquid dripping from my ass.
I scramble out of the bed—well, struggle would probably be the more accurate description—and whirl around to stare at the sheets. There’s definitely a visible wet spot. Reaching around, I brush my hand over the back of my boxers. Those are wet too.
“What the fuck?” I mutter, shock making the words much louder than I intended.
Julien jolts awake for the second time tonight. “Huh?”
“I think…I think my water broke?” I hold my damp fingers up like proof. “But I don’t know how that’s possible since I don’t have a birth canal?”
That’s what Ben said anyway, and I’d been depending on the accuracy of that information. The last thing I want to do is try to…er,pusha baby out.
An even worse thought hits me and my entire body goes cold. “What if something’s wrong?”
“I’m sure everything is fine.” Julien drags his hand over his face and gives himself a shake as he tries to banish his lingering sleepiness. “Let’s call Doctor Benton.”
“Okay,” I say in a weak voice.
Julien grabs his phone off the nightstand and makes the call. He quickly explains to the pack doctor what’s going on and then says ‘uh huh’ a lot while glancing at me.
“What did she say?” I ask as soon as Julien hangs up.
“She said you’re probably right about your water breaking, but not to worry. Based on what Ben originally said about male omegas lacking a birth canal, she believes that although you’re not built to deliver children naturally because you, uh, don’t stretch the same way, there’s still a passage to your womb so that’s why you’re, uh, leaking from there.”
I doubt Doctor Benton’s explanation was quite that vague, but it’s still reassuring.
“But…” says Julien, a more tentative note in his voice, “She doesn’t know what effect full blown labor might have on your body and she wants me to bring you into the office so she can do the c-section. Now.”
I curl my arms around my middle, suddenly terrified and so not ready for this.
But what other choice do I have?
