“No,” I whispered, my hand instinctively cradling my belly. “No, no, no. Not now. Not today.”
Another contraction seized me before I could finish the thought, harder than the first, sending me to my knees on the stairs with a cry that echoed through the empty house. I clutched at the railing, desperately trying to stay upright as my body convulsed with pain.
This couldn’t be happening. Not now. Not when I was alone. Not two weeks early.
The pain eased enough for me to think, and I forced myself to breathe deeply. It was probably just false labor. Dr. Winters had warned me about this—intense contractions that mimicked the real thing but eventually faded.
I needed to get to the walkie-talkie, just in case. Just to let Burke know what was happening.
I made it down three more steps before the next contraction hit, this one so powerful that I lost my grip on the banister. I would have fallen if I hadn’t managed to catch myself against the wall, sliding down to sit awkwardly on the step.
The pain was overwhelming—like someone had reached inside me and was twisting my organs into knots. I could feel tears streaming down my face, though I didn’t remember starting to cry. My breath came in short, sharp gasps as I tried to ride out the contraction.
When it finally eased, I was drenched in sweat, my shirt clinging to my back. This wasn’t false labor. This was the real thing, and it was happening fast.
“Okay,” I panted, trying to gather my thoughts through the fog of pain and fear. “Okay, Danny. Think.”
I needed to get to the walkie-talkie. I needed to call Burke. I needed help.
Using the wall for support, I dragged myself to my feet and staggered down the remaining stairs, one hand pressed against my belly as if I could somehow hold the baby in by sheer force of will.
I made it to the bottom of the stairs before another contraction seized me, doubling me over with a scream that tore from my throat. My vision blurred, black spots dancing at the edges, and I felt myself falling, unable to catch my balance this time.
I hit the floor hard, landing on my hands and knees. The impact sent another shock of pain through my system, and for a moment I thought I might pass out.
“Burke,” I gasped, though I knew he couldn’t hear me. “Burke, please.”
I tried to crawl toward the living room, where I thought I might have left the walkie-talkie on the coffee table. But anothercontraction hit before I’d moved more than a few inches, freezing me in place with its intensity.
It was too much—too fast, too strong. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. Burke was supposed to be here. We were supposed to have two more weeks. We were supposed to drive calmly to the hospital, check in like normal people, have our baby with medical professionals and pain medication and all the safety nets modern medicine could provide.
Instead, I was alone on the floor of our home, my body tearing itself apart with contractions that seemed to be getting stronger and closer together with each passing minute.
Fear settled cold and heavy in my chest. What if something went wrong? What if there were complications? Male omega pregnancies were still relatively rare, still carried risks that female pregnancies didn’t. Dr. Winters had been monitoring me closely, had assured me that everything looked perfect, that there was no reason to expect problems.
But that was assuming I’d deliver in a hospital, with doctors and equipment and emergency protocols. Not alone on the hardwood floor of our entryway.
Another contraction ripped through me, pulling a hoarse cry from my throat. I collapsed onto my side, curling around my belly as if I could somehow protect the baby from what was happening.
“Please,” I whispered, though I didn’t know who I was talking to. God? The universe? The tiny person inside me who seemed determined to enter the world right now, ready or not? “Please, not like this.”
The pain eased momentarily, and I lay there gasping, tears streaming down my face. I’d never felt so alone, so terrified. Not even when Dennis had been at his worst, when his fists had left me bleeding and broken on the floor of our childhood home.
This was different—this wasn’t just fear for myself, but for the tiny, innocent life that depended on me. I couldn’t let anything happen to our baby. I couldn’t.
I tried again to move toward where I thought the walkie-talkie might be, but my body refused to cooperate. My muscles had turned to water, my limbs heavy and unresponsive. All I could do was lie there, waiting for the next wave of pain, hoping desperately that someone would come.
“Burke,” I called again, my voice breaking. “Anyone. Please.”
But the house remained silent except for my labored breathing and occasional whimpers. Outside, birds continued their morning songs, oblivious to the drama unfolding within these walls. Sunlight streamed through the windows, painting bright rectangles on the floor where I lay.
I was completely, utterly alone.
And then the next contraction hit, stronger than all the others combined, and I screamed. The contraction seemed to last forever, my body caught in a vise of pain that wouldn’t release me.
I was so consumed by it that at first, I didn’t notice the dark figure appearing in the doorway. It wasn’t until the pain finally began to ebb that I registered the presence—tall, silent, watchful. For one terrifying second, I thought Dennis had somehow found me. Then recognition dawned through my pain-fogged mind. Not Dennis. Not Burke. Sterling.
“Sterling,” I whispered, his name escaping my lips on a sob of relief.
