Page 63 of Omega's Fever

He studies my face like he’s looking for the lie. I let him look. I’ve done plenty of wrong in my life, but this—him, this baby—this I’ll do right.

“And if you end up going to prison?”

The words hit me right in the stomach. He’s right. What then? I’ve just assumed that’s where I’m going to end up but things are different now.

Before I’d have taken the prison sentence if it meant saving Milo from Cobb, but now I have a son or daughter to consider too. I can’t go to prison and leave Milo to raise our child alone.

A knock interrupts, saving me from responding. The doctor enters, tablet in hand. He’s a small beta with silver streaking his black hair.

“Milo.” His gaze flicks to me, assessing. “And you must be...”

“Kellen.” I don’t move from Milo’s side. “The father.”

Something passes between Milo and the doctor, some silent communication I can’t read. Then he nods, all business.

“All right. Let’s see what we’re working with. Milo, lie back for me.”

The next twenty minutes are a blur of medical terms. Blood pressure, slightly elevated. Weight, concerning loss. He asks about symptoms, diet, stress levels. Milo answers in his lawyer voice, like he’s giving testimony. The wobble in his voice from just moments ago is gone.

“The suppressants,” he says. “I was on them for six weeks. What kind of damage...”

“Let’s do an ultrasound before we discuss that.” The doctor says, wheeling over a machine. “This will be internal since you’re still early. It might be uncomfortable.”

I help Milo lie back. His hands are on mine as when the doctor inserts the probe. His fingers tighten as he does his work.

“All right, let’s see...” He manipulates the probe, frowning at the screen. The silence stretches. Milo’s grip tightens until I’m sure he’s cutting off circulation.

Then, a sound. Fast, rhythmic, like a hummingbird’s wings.

“There we go.” He turns the screen toward us. “See that flickering? That’s the heartbeat. Strong and steady at...” She takes measurements. “Approximately seven weeks, which matches your dates.”

I stare at the screen. It doesn’t look like much, just a tiny blob with a fluttering pixel, but something fundamental shifts in my chest. That’s our kid. That tiny, impossible thing is half me, half Milo.

“The suppressants?” Milo’s voice cracks.

The doctor withdraws the probe, helps him sit up. “I won’t lie to you. Those medications do carry risks, especially in the first trimester. But what I’m seeing here looks good so far. Normal development for seven weeks. We’ll need to monitorvery closely, but right now? Your baby appears healthy.”

Milo sags against me. I catch him instinctively, arm around his shoulders.

“However,” he continues, “we need to discuss ongoing care. The stress you’re under, the weight loss, these are concerns. And without suppressants, your hormones are going to be in flux. Have you considered taking time off work?”

Milo laughs, sharp and bitter. “I’m in the middle of a major criminal trial.”

“My trial,” I clarify. “Milo’s my lawyer.”

The doctor blinks.

“We’re a prime match,” Milo says defensively. “It’s not... we didn’t plan...”

“No judgment here.” He types something into his tablet. “But we need to discuss management strategies. Your pheromones are already significantly elevated. Your body is under stress. As the pregnancy progresses, they’ll only get stronger. You need to consider rest. I’m prescribing prenatal vitamins and a mild anti-nausea medication,” she continues. “I want to see you back in two weeks for another scan. Sooner if you experience any bleeding, severe cramping, or other concerning symptoms. And I’m going to recommend a colleague who specializes in high-risk pregnancies.”

“High-risk?” I echo.

“Given the suppressant exposure and the ongoing stress factors, yes. It’s precautionary, but I’d rather be safe.”

He prints out papers, ultrasound images, prescriptions. I pocket one of the grainy pictures while Milo gets dressed: the little blob with its flickering heart. Our baby.

The word sits strange in my mind. I’ve never thought about kids. Never thought I’d live long enough, free enough, to even consider it. But now...