Page 21 of Rescued by Four Alphas (Claimed by the Four Alphas #2)

I jolt awake to the burning sensation of another needle sliding into my arm. My eyes fly open, but the harsh fluorescent lights make me wince and turn away. The technician doesn't even acknowledge my consciousness as he pushes whatever new drug they've concocted into my system.

Three days. It's been three days since they brought me here, though time has become slippery in this windowless room. I mark the passage by Reid's visits because he comes twice daily, the shift changes of the technicians, and the gradual, terrifying changes in my own body.

The technician finishes and wordlessly leaves the room, never meeting my eyes. They never do. It's easier to experiment on someone when you don't have to acknowledge their humanity. As the door hisses shut behind him, I cautiously turn my head to look down at my body.

My belly has grotesquely expanded, stretching so rapidly that angry red stretch marks crisscross my skin like a roadmap of torture.

What took five months to develop naturally has been accelerated to happen in just days.

The restraints around my wrists and ankles have been loosened to accommodate my swelling limbs, but they're still tight enough that escape is impossible.

"It's okay," I whisper to my babies, the only comfort I can offer them. "I'm here. We're going to be okay."

A lie, but one thing I have to tell. These four little lives inside me have become my only connection to sanity in this sterile hell. I feel their movements constantly now, more frantic and unsettling than before. The drugs are affecting them too.

The door slides open again, and I don't need to look to know who it is from his precise footsteps and the soft click of his pen against the clipboard.

"Good morning, Dr. Baldwin," Reid says, as if we're colleagues meeting in a hallway. "How are we feeling today?"

I say nothing. I've learned that engaging with him only gives him satisfaction and more data for his meticulous notes.

"Still giving me the silent treatment?" He doesn't sound bothered as he moves to check the monitors. "Your vital signs are excellent, much better than Subject 12's at this stage. Your multiple Alpha bonds seem to provide remarkable stability."

He approaches the bed, pulling back the thin sheet to expose my swollen belly. His hands are cold as he presses and prods. I stare at the ceiling, trying to disconnect my mind from my body as he measures and examines me.

"Impressive growth," he murmurs, mostly to himself. "The accelerant works more efficiently on your physiology than on the standard Omega subjects. The second-generation formula appears to have eliminated the cardiovascular stress we observed in the earlier trials."

Earlier trials. The other women. I hear them sometimes, their cries echoing through the ventilation system, or when the door opens at just the right moment. Yesterday, there was a scream so primal and agonizing that it cut through my drug-induced haze and set my heart racing like a trapped animal.

"Your fundal height has increased fourteen centimeters since yesterday," Reid continues, making notes on his clipboard. "At this rate, we should be ready for extraction within four to five days."

Extraction. Like the babies are resources to be harvested.

"You can't take them," I break my silence. My voice sounds strange and raspy from disuse. "They won't survive outside the womb yet."

Reid looks up, his expression mildly surprised, as if he'd forgotten I could speak.

"Actually, with the synthetic hormones we've administered, lung development has accelerated significantly.

We estimate they're physiologically equivalent to thirty-two weeks' gestation at this point, though chronologically you're only at twenty-two weeks. "

"That's still premature," I argue. "Their nervous systems need more time to develop properly. Their immune systems aren't ready."

"We have state-of-the-art incubation units," Reid dismisses my concerns with a wave of his hand. "And we don't need them to survive indefinitely. Just long enough to complete the primary examination protocol."

The casual way he says this, like he's discussing a routine lab procedure and not the lives of my children, makes bile rise in my throat. I swallow it back, knowing that showing weakness only interests him more.

"Actually, before the routine ultrasound," Reid says, "we need to collect an amniotic fluid sample today. The accelerated development means we can analyze genetic markers in real-time."

The leather restraints bite into my wrists as I pull them against them. "Amniocentesis at twenty-two weeks is dangerous. The risk of infection, membrane rupture, or triggering preterm labor..."

"Is approximately one in three hundred," Reid interrupts, checking something on his tablet. "That's an acceptable odds given the unprecedented scientific value of your specimens."

He signals toward the door, and two technicians enter, pushing a cart loaded with medical equipment.

I recognize the ultrasound machine, but the other items make my stomach clench.

A metal tray holds a long, hollow needle, eighteen-gauge and at least six inches long.

A collection tube sits beside it, labeled "Subject 1A. "

"Dr. Baldwin, amniocentesis is a standard prenatal procedure," Reid says, pulling on latex gloves. Each finger slides into place with a soft snap.

"Standard for diagnostic purposes," I snap back.

"The terminology is irrelevant." Reid nods to the first technician, who begins connecting additional leads to my chest and abdomen. Cold adhesive patches stick to my skin as she attaches monitors for heart rate, blood pressure, and uterine activity.

The second technician wheels the ultrasound machine closer. The screen flickers to life, casting gray-blue light across Reid's face as he squirts gel onto my swollen belly. The familiar cool wetness spreads across my skin.

"We'll extract from Baby A," Reid murmurs, pressing the ultrasound probe firmly against my abdomen. "The largest and most developed specimen."

On the monitor, my baby appears in shades of gray and white. His tiny features were visible, like the curve of his spine, and the flutter of a heart beating rapidly. One hundred sixty beats per minute. The sound fills the room through the machine's speakers, fast and strong.

Reid adjusts the probe, hunting for the optimal angle. "We need a clear pocket of amniotic fluid, away from the umbilical cord and fetal limbs. There... perfect positioning."

The technician hands him the needle. Under the harsh fluorescent lights, the metal gleams like a weapon. The tip tapers to a point sharp enough to pierce skin, muscle, and membrane with minimal resistance.

"Please don't do this," I whisper, but Reid's attention remains fixed on the monitor.

He presses the needle against my belly, just below my navel. The point dimples my skin without breaking through. "The needle will penetrate approximately four centimeters through the abdominal wall, then pierce the amniotic membrane."

Pressure builds as he pushes harder. My skin stretches, then suddenly gives way. The needle slides through with a sensation like it's tearing fabric. Heat blooms from the puncture site, not quite pain yet, but a deep, wrong feeling of invasion.

On the ultrasound screen, I watch the needle's bright white line advance through the gray landscape of my body. Deeper, deeper, until it approaches the dark pool surrounding my baby.

"Stop," I gasp, but Reid doesn't so much as flinch.

The needle pierces the amniotic membrane with a pop I feel rather than hear. Immediately, clear fluid begins flowing back through the hollow core. Twenty milliliters. Thirty. Forty.

"Excellent sample volume," Reid observes, watching the collection tube fill. "The amniotic fluid contains fetal cells shed from the skin, lungs, and urinary tract. We'll analyze the DNA for the unique Alpha genetic markers."

The needle withdraws with a wet sucking sound, and some of the liquid mixed with blood from the puncture wound trickles down my side.

"Very adequate sample for comprehensive analysis," Reid declares, holding up the tube to examine the clear fluid with its floating particles.

He hands the tube to his assistant with the care of someone handling precious artifacts. "Rush this to the genetics lab. I want preliminary results within six hours, and the full analysis within twenty-four."

As the technicians clean up their equipment, Reid heads towards the door. He pauses and looks back at me with what might almost be curiosity. "You might be interested to know that Subjects 7 and 9 expired yesterday during our induction trials."

The room seems to tilt sideways. "What?"

"Two of our other pregnant Omega subjects," he clarifies, as if I didn't understand. "We attempted to induce labor at approximately six months of gestation, but their bodies couldn't withstand the strain. Cardiovascular collapse in both cases."

Two more women are dead. Two more mothers who will never hold their babies. Two more families were destroyed by this man's monstrous ambition.

"You're murdering them," I whisper, tears burning my eyes. "Those women, their babies... you're killing them..."

Reid adjusts his glasses, looking almost offended. "I'm advancing human knowledge about shifter reproduction. Those subjects' contributions will save countless lives in the future when we perfect these techniques."

"You're a monster."

He appears to consider this for a moment, then shrugs slightly. "History will judge my work differently, Dr. Baldwin. Pioneers are often misunderstood in their time." He checks his watch. "I'll return this evening to review the ultrasound results."

As he leaves, I turn my face to the wall, letting the tears flow freely. The worst part of this nightmare isn't the physical discomfort or even the terror of what Reid plans for my babies. It's the aching, gnawing emptiness where the bond with my mates should be.