I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think. Meredith swallowed and studied me like I was an unexploded bomb.
“Rhea,” she said slowly, with awe and something close to fear, “what kind of alpha did you mate with?”
16
— • —
Rhea
Meredith’s clinic suddenly felt too small, the walls closing in as the healer’s words sank in. Twin offspring were common. And in most cases one of them would be a beta or an omega, while the other would take on the genetics of an alpha. But twin Alpha offspring. The term carried weight in our world, the kind of weight that crushed unprepared omegas. I’d heard whispers of such pregnancies during my father’s political gatherings, always discussed in hushed tones with sideways glances. Children born to the strongest alpha bloodlines, demanding extraordinary resources from their carriers. Not just nutrition and care, but actual life force, cellular energy, the very essence of their omega parent.
My hands trembled as I pulled the paper gown tighter around my shoulders. The vinyl examination table creaked beneath me as I shifted, trying to process what this meant. Meredith hadalready moved to her desk, pulling out a tablet that looked as ancient as her ultrasound machine. Her fingers flew across the cracked screen with practiced efficiency.
“Here.” She turned the tablet toward me, revealing medical texts that probably predated digital formatting. “These are survival statistics from the last comprehensive study. The Medical Council buried the research after the results proved... problematic for their narrative about alpha-omega bonds.”
The numbers swam before my eyes, each percentage a nail in my coffin. Graphs and charts painted a picture I didn’t want to see but couldn’t look away from. Fifty percent of alpha twin carriers made it to term without intervention. The red line showing that statistic looked like spilled blood against the white background. Of those who reached delivery, only thirty percent survived without alpha support. The math was simple and devastating.
“The studies are old,” Meredith continued, her clinical tone a thin veil over genuine concern. “From before modern supplementation. But the core issue remains unchanged. Twin alpha offspring required energy frequencies only their sire can provide efficiently. They were designed to draw from both parents, creating a circuit of power that strengthens the bloodline.”
She returned to the examination, her movements carrying new urgency. The blood pressure cuff squeezed my arm tight enough to leave marks. She frowned at the reading, pumped it up again, frowned deeper. Too low. I could see it in the way her mouth tightened, the quick notation she made on my chart.
“Protein levels?” I asked, though I already knew the answer from the way my muscles had started aching, the way simple tasks left me breathless.
“Depleting rapidly.” She drew three vials of blood with quick efficiency, each one destined for tests I probably couldn’t afford. “The twins are in an active development phase. They’re building neural networks, bone structure, and organ systems. All of that material comes from you.”
The calcium test came next, a simple scan that revealed what I’d felt in my bones for weeks. The density was already decreasing. My skeleton was dissolving to build theirs, my body cannibalizing itself to create something stronger. They were literally building themselves from me, taking what they needed without regard for their host’s survival.
“With regular alpha energy infusions from the father, the odds improve to ninety percent.” She set down her instruments, meeting my eyes with brutal honesty. “The bond creates a feedback loop. He provides the raw power, you provide the physical matrix. Together, you build something extraordinary. Without...”
She didn’t finish, but the implications hung heavy in the antiseptic air. Without him, I was a battery being drained by two devices designed for a power source I couldn’t provide. Without him, my body would give everything until nothing remained. Without him, these children would take their first breath as I took my last.
“You’ll need specialized supplements. Iron infusions. Possibly bed rest by month six.” Meredith pulled open drawer after drawer, gathering supplies with grim efficiency.
“I can’t afford any of that.” The truth sat bitter on my tongue. Wayne paid me barely enough to cover rent and food. Medical intervention of this level? Impossible.
They’re killing me from the inside, just like their father killed me from the outside. The thought rose unbidden, cruel in its accuracy. Damon had destroyed my life with words and laws. His children would finish the job with biology and need. The Kildare line would claim me one way or another, it seemed.
“There are programs,” Meredith began, but we both knew the truth. Programs required documentation. Documentation meant exposure. Exposure meant death of a different kind, but death all the same. I was trapped between biological inevitability and social impossibility, carrying prime predators in a prey’s body with no pack to support me.
“I can’t officially treat you,” she said, not looking up from her work. “Too risky for both of us. The Medical Council has eyes everywhere, even in forgotten corners like Branson. But I can give you enough supplements for two months, and teach you warning signs that might buy you time.”
She pulled a chair close to the examination table, our knees almost touching in the cramped space. The intimacy felt necessary, like she was passing down sacred knowledge that couldn’t be spoken above a whisper. Her hands were steady as she demonstrated on my arm, showing me where to press to check for fluid retention.
“Preeclampsia is your biggest risk with alpha multiples. Your blood pressure will spike, but by then it’s often too late. Watch for this.” She pressed gently above my ankle, showing me how to test for pitting edema. “If your skin stays indented for morethan four seconds, you’re retaining fluid. Headaches that don’t respond to medication, visual disturbances, upper abdominal pain, any of these mean immediate intervention.”
The lesson continued with brutal efficiency. How to count fetal movements, alpha twins should move at least ten times per hour when active. What bleeding meant versus normal discharge, bright red was emergency, dark brown was old blood, clear with streaks was mucus plug. The difference between Braxton Hicks and real contractions, timing, intensity, whether they stopped when I moved. It was a crash course in staying alive while growing apex predators, each bit of knowledge another weapon in an unfair fight.
“Temperature spikes are particularly dangerous,” she continued, placing a digital thermometer in my supply pile. “Alpha offspring run hot. Your normal body temperature will increase by two degrees baseline. Anything over 102 means their metabolisms are overtaxing your system.”
She paused in her packing, a box of iron supplements heavy in her palm. Something shifted in her expression, the clinical mask slipping to reveal the woman beneath. Her hands moved to rest on my shoulder, the touch gentle but grounding.
“There are other options.” The words came carefully, weighted with decades of experience. “The pregnancy is still early enough. The procedure would be simple, safe. You could walk away from this, start over without...”
But my hands moved protectively over my stomach before conscious thought engaged. The gesture was instinctive, primal, my palms spreading across skin that barely showed the changes beneath. Inside me, those two heartbeats continuedtheir hummingbird flutter, oblivious to the conversation about their existence. My omega instincts had already claimed them, bonded with them, accepted them as mine to protect regardless of the cost.
Despite everything, the abandonment that still ached like a phantom limb, the exile that had stripped away my identity, the death sentence growing inside me with each divided cell, I couldn’t unmake them. They were innocent of their father’s crimes, blameless in their biology. They hadn’t asked to be conceived in a moment of heat-mad passion between incompatible souls. They simply were, and I was their only advocate in a world that would use or destroy them.
Meredith nodded, unsurprised by my wordless refusal. She’d probably seen it a hundred times before, omegas choosing their offspring over themselves, maternal instinct triumphing over logic. Her hands resumed their packing with renewed purpose.
