Morgan's POV
The waiting room smells like antiseptic hope and quiet desperation, and I am sitting in a plastic chair pretending to be someone named Rebecca Torres while a woman across from me knits tiny yellow booties.
Ricky sits beside me, flipping through a magazine about nursery color schemes with the forced casualness of a woman who has never decorated a nursery in her life.
Her knee bounces against mine every few seconds, a nervous rhythm she probably doesn't realize she's broadcasting.
"You're fidgeting," I murmur without moving my lips.
"I'm reading about the psychological impact of wall colors on infant development." She turns a page with exaggerated interest. "Did you know sage green promotes emotional regulation? Fascinating stuff."
"You're holding the magazine upside down."
Ricky glances at the cover, rotates it silently, and continues pretending to read.
The waiting room holds six other women in various stages of pregnancy, their bellies forming a timeline of what awaits me if I survive long enough to see it through.
A teenager with purple hair chews her thumbnail while her mother fills out paperwork. A woman in business attire types furiously on her phone between contractions she's clearly trying to ignore.
Twin toddlers chase each other around their exhausted mother's swollen ankles.
The doubt gnaws at me with sharp teeth, questioning whether appearing in public was reckless when Sarah could be hunting every clinic within a hundred miles.
But I needed this. I needed to see with my own eyes that the flutter beneath my skin was more than fear and imagination.
'Normal,' Nireya observes from somewhere deep in my consciousness. 'This is what normal looks like. We are spectacularly bad at it.'
The receptionist calls out, "Rebecca Torres?"
I stand on legs that feel disconnected from my body and follow a nurse in cheerful scrubs down a hallway lined with posters about folic acid and the importance of prenatal vitamins.
The examination room is small and aggressively cheerful, decorated with cartoon storks and pastel clouds that seem designed to convince patients that reproduction is whimsical rather than terrifying.
"The doctor will be with you shortly," the nurse says, handing me a paper gown. "Go ahead and change, and she'll be right in."
The gown crinkles when I move, announcing my presence like a poorly designed alarm system. I sit on the examination table and stare at the ultrasound machine in the corner, its dark screen waiting to reveal the impossible thing growing inside me.
'Stop catastrophizing,' Nireya says mildly. 'The machine can't judge you.'
"Everything in this room is judging me," I mutter. "The storks are definitely judging me."
The door opens before Nireya can respond, and a woman in her fifties enters with a clipboard and a smile that manages to be warm without feeling performative.
Her graying hair is pulled back in a practical bun, and her name tag reads Dr. Miriam Okonkwo.
"Rebecca, it's wonderful to meet you." She settles onto a rolling stool and crosses her legs at the ankle. "I understand this is your first prenatal visit. How are you feeling today?"
"Nervous," I admit, because it's the only honest thing I can say.
"That's completely normal, especially for a first pregnancy." Dr. Okonkwo's pen hovers over her clipboard. "Let's start with some basic information. When was your last menstrual period?"
The question should be simple. It isn't.
I calculate backward through weeks of chaos and displacement, trying to remember the last time my body operated on any recognizable schedule. "Early October, I think. The dates are a little unclear."
"That's all right, we can estimate based on the ultrasound." She makes a note. "And the father—will he be involved in the pregnancy?"
The laugh that escapes me sounds slightly unhinged even to my own ears. "That's complicated."
Dr. Okonkwo's expression doesn't change, but something in her eyes softens with understanding.
"I'm not here to judge your circumstances, Rebecca. I'm here to make sure you and your baby are healthy. Do you have any medical conditions I should know about? Any family history of complications during pregnancy?"
'Tell her your family history includes transforming into a wolf during emotional distress,' Nireya suggests dryly. 'I'm sure that won't raise any concerns.'
"Nothing significant," I say instead. "I've always been healthy."
"Excellent. Let's take a look at how things are progressing, shall we?" Dr. Okonkwo wheels the ultrasound machine closer and gestures for me to lie back. "This gel will be cold, but it helps us get a clear image."
The gel is cold. The wand presses against my lower abdomen, and I stare at the screen while Dr. Okonkwo adjusts settings and angles.
Then I see a small flutter of movement in a sea of gray static. A shape that looks nothing like a baby and everything like a heartbeat made visible.
A tiny impossible thing exists because two men touched me in different moments of weakness and strength, and now this creature floats in darkness waiting to be born into a world full of wolves and war and women who want me dead.
"There we are," Dr. Okonkwo says softly. "Strong heartbeat, measuring right around nine weeks. Everything looks exactly as it should."
The screen blurs, and I realize I'm crying.
'Morgan.' Nireya's voice carries none of its usual sarcasm. 'Breathe.'
"It's real," I whisper, and the words feel inadequate for the magnitude of what I'm witnessing.
"Very real child." Dr. Okonkwo prints an image and hands it to me with gentle care. "Your baby is about the size of a raspberry right now. By your next appointment, they'll be closer to a lime."
I hold the photograph with fingers that tremble despite my efforts to steady them, staring at the grainy shape that has already changed everything about my future.
The drive home passes in silence until Ricky clears her throat at a red light.
"Morgan." She keeps her eyes on the road, her grip tight on the steering wheel. "I've been watching you since we left that clinic, and I need to say something that might be hard to hear."
"Then say it." My voice comes out flatter than I intend.
"You don't have to keep this pregnancy." The words tumble out like she's been holding them back for miles. "If you're not ready for this, I just need you to know there are options. Safe options, with no judgment from me."
The suggestion lands in my chest with unexpected weight.
I stare at the photograph still clutched in my hand, at the small flutter of life captured in grayscale, and I let myself consider it fully for the first time.
A child born into a war between packs. A child whose father could be one of two brothers who would tear each other apart over the answer.
A child raised in hiding by a mother with no resources, no pack, no protection beyond a human woman with a mysterious past.
The cost of bringing this baby into the world is staggering.
The cost of not bringing this baby into the world is unthinkable.
'You already know,' Nireya says quietly. 'You've known all along.'
"Ricky." I turn to face her profile, watching the streetlights play across her features. "I ran away that night because Sarah figured out I was pregnant. But I didn't run to escape Paul or Zane or even Sarah."
Ricky's hands tighten on the wheel. "Then why did you run?"
The answer rises from somewhere deeper than thought, from the place where Nireya and I have finally stopped fighting each other.
"I ran to protect this child." I press my palm flat against my belly, feeling the warmth beneath my skin. This baby is mine, and I will burn down anyone who tries to take that away from me."
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