Page 1 of Breeding Clinic

Chapter One

KAT

Maybe this is a bad idea.I’m thirty-five and packless. I live alone with only my cat to talk to some days. My palms are sweating, and I’m gripping the steering wheel too tightly while I sit in the breeding clinic’s parking lot. It’s not too late to turn around and go home. Nobody but Jen knows I’m here.

As if my thoughts summon her, her name flashes across my car’s dashboard display. I tap the green icon and wait for it to connect.

“How is it? Is it nice?” Jen asks.

“I haven’t gone in yet.”

The building is nondescript from the outside. White painted brick with a powder blue sign showing their medical logo. It could just as easily be a radiology office or dentist. Even their name is subtle. Family Solutions. It’s a fertility clinic. One of the best. Word of mouth says that Dr. Fugo gets results. His success rate is twelve percent higher than his peers.

“Are you thinking of turning around?” she asks.

“Maybe. What if they turn me away?” Not all clinics or sperm banks allow single patients. But after a pack dissolutionand four lost pregnancies, being thirty-five means if I don’t do this now, I might never do it at all.

“You won’t know if you don’t walk in,” she says. “But if you’re not sure yet, then don’t. You can wait for another heat cycle or two. And there’s always adoption.”

Adoption is an option, although it’s a hard one if you’re single. Part of me still wants the experience of being pregnant. Of growing my baby in my womb and giving birth. Nursing and looking at the child I made. One who looks like me. All I need is the sperm.

If I don’t go in now, I’ll never come back.

Resolved, I grab my phone off the charger and turn off my car. “I’m going in.”

“Thatta girl. Call me the minute you’re done. I want to hear everything.” Jen’s kids scream in the background, and she sounds rushed when she says, “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Bye,” I say, but she’s already hung up to deal with her kids. They’re two and four years old and a handful. But their cute smiles and the sheer joy on their faces when they witness something exciting and new for the first time makes my ovaries twist with longing. I want a hellion or two of my own.

I slam my car door shut and press the button on my fob to lock it, then walk across the parking lot. Before I chicken out, I tug the door open. A blast of cold air hits me, cooling the sweat gathered on my brow. It’s only April, but you wouldn’t know it from this heatwave. It’s supposed to be a scorching summer.

A pretty brunette beta receptionist greets me with a smile and asks if I have an appointment.

“Hi, I’m Kathleen. I have a one o’clock with Dr. Fugo. I’m a new patient.”

She taps on her screen, then hands me a clipboard with new patient forms and a pen. “You’re seeing his NP today. He’s outsick for the week. Here, fill these out and bring them up to me when you’re done. I’ve got you all checked in.”

“Oh, okay.” That’s a bit disappointing. I’d wanted to meet the renowned fertility specialist. I take the forms and sit, then fill them out. The packet is seven pages thick and thorough, going over everything from pack status to demographics to previous pregnancies and a long family history form. Filling it out takes my focus until I’m done and I’ve handed it in.

Now there’s nothing between me and my anxiety as I wait. A medical assistant eventually calls my name and I follow her, listening to her new patient spiel. She shows me to a room and grabs a set of vitals before leaving me alone.

Twenty minutes later, the NP comes into the room and looks over my chart. “Kathleen? Hi. I’m Amanda. So I see that you’re here for a new patient evaluation. Can you tell me more about what brought you here today?”

“Everyone calls me Kat, and…” My heart pounds in my chest, vacillating between hope and dread. Will they say no? Turn me away? That’s the worst part of all of this. The endless brief periods of hope between the long stretches of grief. “I’d like to have a baby.”

She smiles and takes a seat, going over my paperwork more thoroughly. “Well, you’re in the right place. That’s what we do here. If you wanted a root canal, then we’d have a problem.”

I laugh nervously at her corny joke. Relief washes over me and the tight knot in my chest unclenches. I’m glad I came. “So you think it’s possible?”

“There’s always a chance. I’ve read through the testing you’ve had at other practices. Seems like you’ve run through the whole gauntlet of tests and there weren’t any significant findings. I understand you had four losses with your old pack? No births?”

I swallow past the lump in my throat. The lost pregnanciesare old, but the hurt never fully fades. Not all the way. Maybe if I’d been able to move past it, my pack wouldn’t have rejected me. But I didn’t know how. I still don’t. Not when being a mother is the one thing I’ve always wanted since I was a girl myself. “That’s right. They all happened early, even though the doctors said my progesterone level was fine.”

“Most pregnancies that fail do so in the first trimester. It’s a sensitive time period, and if things don’t divide and multiply right, it won’t stick. But after three years of trying to conceive with no live births, we have to assume there’s something more going on.”

I nod. It’s nothing I haven’t already heard. This is the third fertility specialist I’ve seen.

The NP continues, saying, “Unexplained infertility is an umbrella diagnosis for disorders we don’t fully understand yet. But your heat cycles are regular according to their notes. Your old ultrasounds show you’re ovulating fine. That means we have a few options.”

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