Page 59 of Omega’s Forward

The scent thing hasn’t faded yet either. I keep catching woodsmoke where it can’t possibly be. Two weeks ago I woke at three in the morning so certain he was in the flat that I got up and walked every room before my pulse let me lie down again.

I take another sip of peppermint tea. Over across the water, I watch a fishing boat idle its way down the Thames. The water is particularly brown and murky after the recent rain.

I’ve been putting this off, but I can’t put it off forever. I know what’s happening to me. I’ve had a few months to know. My body is changing and I’ve been trying to ignore it. My scent has changed. I’ve long since given up on belts.

This morning while I lay in bed, I felt a solid little kick in my belly, hard enough that I put my hand over the spot.

My mind keeps coming back to the test in my bathroom cabinet.

I bought it when I got back to London and instead of taking it right away, I hid it away behind the aspirin like a coward. That was months ago now.

If I pretend that nothing is happening for too much longer, I’m going to have to also pretend that I’m shopping for maternity clothes because “I’ve put on weight” and then that the squalling noise from the cot in my spare bedroom is—

Is what? Not even I am capable of leaning that far into denial.

Let’s get this over with. I need to start by taking the damn test. I finish the tea, go inside and rinse my mug.

My bathroom is the one room in the flat that doesn’t have a view, just a small window looking out onto a brick wall.

I get the pregnancy test from the cabinet and tip it out into my hand. Both the little plastic pen and a folded instruction sheet tip out.

The instruction sheet is in six languages but it’s not complicated.

I uncap, hover over the toilet and pee on the stick. I manage it with as much dignity as the process allows anyone, then set the stick on the edge of the sink.

I’m not going to sit here and wait. The thought is unbearable. Instead I put the timer on my phone and go back out onto the terrace, scrolling through the newsfeed on my phone to distract myself.

Three minutes goes by in an instant and also seems to take a lifetime.

I steel myself and go back inside. I pick up the stick and stare at it.

Two lines. Strong ones. No squinting required.

Yeah, I saw that coming.

I sit down on the edge of the tub with the stick in my hand. Pregnant. By Brody Callahan. My father spent my adolescence planning the best way to breed a hockey player out of me, and now the Bureau has finished the job for him. Somewhere, the old man is delighted.

I’m going to have to tell Callahan. I don’t want to but I know I don’t really have a choice.

I grew up with a father who couldn’t be bothered. It wouldn’t be fair to my child to think he has the same, without even giving Callahan a chance to be there.

If he doesn’t want it, he can say so himself. And if he does want to be involved, it’s safe to tell him.

I checked before I ever bought the test, which says something about the order of my priorities. In the States, an alpha has more rights to a child than the omega does.

If I went back, I’d be in trouble. Here I’m not.

None of that law crosses the Atlantic. British law doesn’t enforce prime matches. It has no Bureau. Omega rights are far stronger. As long as I stay in this country, this child goes nowhere I don’t agree to.

A phone call is out of the question. His voice will destroy my judgment at the best of times.

It’ll be an email. Not the best method of informing someone of impending parenthood but nothing about this situation is optimal.

I take the laptop to the kitchen counter and it takes me a few drafts to arrive at something I feel okay to send.

Callahan,

I need to let you know that I am pregnant.