A fresh IV mixture with a different color hue is hung overhead. I stare at it. “What’s that?” She smiles gently, as if proud of me for asking.
“Hormone stabilizers. All used in advanced maternal care. Nothing harmful.”
The hormones of pregnancy.My pulse skitters wildly. “But I’m not…” I can’t finish the sentence, as my breaths are heavier pants now.
“Not yet,” she says softly, rubbing my slightly protruding lower tummy with one of her palms. “But you will be ready. Phase Two requires a receptive system. Your endocrine profile is nearly perfect.”
Nearly.She injects the clear medication into the IV line. A cool sensation spreads through my arm, then my ribs, then my throat.
“Relax,” she murmurs. “Your body knows what to do.” I swallow hard.
Deep Voice Man steps closer to check the restraints. His fingers brush my wrist, not touching, just verifying. The belt around my hips is tugged once.
The pump restarts. I gasp at the first pull. The nurse pauses, studying my face.
“Still so sensitive,” she murmurs. “That will change soon. You’ll adapt.”
Adapt. To be drained. To be fed. To being bound. To be primed. I need to be prepared for something I can’t even process without falling apart.
By Wednesday,or so they tell me, I finally stop resisting the shakes.
It feels like giving up. But fighting takes more energy than I have. And every time I try to refuse, a sedative bottle is held to my lips until I go limp.
So now I swallow the shakes. Let them settle. Feel the herbs and hormones working. The nurse praises me. The security men nod approvingly. The pump fills faster. Every few hours, a woman checks the IV line.
“Beautiful absorption.”
“Excellent hydration.”
“Perfect tissue response.”
Perfect.I’m losing pieces of myself in every compliment, and I’m beginning to believe… that Erik is never coming to get me. This is my life now, and I’ll never see him, or Grace, or the rest of the Halvorsen brothers ever again. Tears stream hot and wet down my cheeks. I’ve lost count of how often I cry anymore. This is my life now. I’m just a breeding cow for the pleasure of my soon-to-be new owner.
Towards the endof the third week of month two, the senior tech, Devereux, returns. She carries a tray with sterile syringes, a small cooler of vials, and a handheld scanner.
She looks me over with a clinical assessment.
“You’re ready,” she says. “Your hormone markers are aligning with the late-partum metrics.”
My stomach drops. “What does that mean?”
“That your body is transitioning beautifully into the receptivity window.”
“Receptivity?” I echo.
“For Phase Two,” she says. “Your system is primed for gestational implantation.”
My hands shake against the restraints.
“I’m not, I can’t! You can’t make me!”
She cuts me off gently. “Little cow, nature is doing most of the work. We’re simply guiding it.”
Guiding it.My ribs tighten with panic. She scans my abdomen, my chest, and my lymph nodes and nods.
“Fluid retention is excellent,” she says. “Weight gain is ideal. Tissue density is increasing as predicted.”
She says it like she’s checking off bullet points. I force myself to whisper, “How much have I gained?”
