Page 91 of Ruthlessly Mated
“Am I pregnant?” I blurt the question out.
“Well, that’s a good question,” she says. “Have you been having unprotected sex?”
“I’ve been doing almost nothing else.”
She smiles. “Well, I can give you a urine test, and we can see what that says, though due to your unusual physiology, it’s possible there won’t be the same markers. It’s still possible to do an ultrasound though.”
“Can we skip the pee and go straight to the ultrasound?”
“Sure,” she says. “Come back with me.”
I go back to the room where I bet she stitched Damon back together. I wonder if he thought he was going to die out here. I wonder if he knew he’d get to see any of us again.
Every place seems to have so much resonance at the moment. It’s like there’s meaning everywhere, and I am swimming in it.
“Just lift your shirt. I’ll put some gel on your lower stomach and we’ll see.”
The probe gets smooshed all over my gooey tummy and the doctor starts hunting in my insides for traces of other people. It’s so weird.
“Well,” she says. “You have good instincts.”
“I do?”
She turns the monitor toward me. I can see a dark space inside me, but it’s not the void where my soul should be. It’s a different dark nook, and there’s something dancing inside me. A little bean that isn’t me. It’s the weirdest fucking feeling I’ve ever experienced, seeing that creature, knowing that it will be someone one day. A whole person with a whole life is hiding out inside me, having no idea what it is, or what it will become.
I stare at the screen and have a quiet existential crisis.
Then, in front of my eyes, the dancing little bean does a do-si-do and slides to the side, revealing another dancer.
“What the hell just happened?”
“There’s two,” she says. “You’re having twins.”
“Twins. That’s an extra baby.”
“Yes,” she says.
“I’m growing two people who will have to pay taxes one day.”
“I don’t believe any of you pay taxes now, do you?”
I look over at Mandy. “What if they’re not criminals. What if they’re law-abiding? What if they have to pay taxes? That’s not fair. Look how small they are. They don’t even know what they’re getting into. Fuck!”
She puts a calming hand on my shoulder. “It’s going to be okay,” she says.
“It’s really not. They’re going to have to decide what shoes to wear.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean they have a lifetime of decisions. They’re going to have to brush their teeth, and wash their hands, and learn what polite conversation means, and probably shoot someone one day, and turn into wolves, and be hunted for it, and…”
“Breathe,” she reminds me. “Should I call your mates?”
“No. Don’t tell them. You can’t tell them.”
“I won’t tell them a thing,” she reassures me. “Your medical care is confidential, but you will need support. I’m happy to talk about any concerns you might have…”
“They’re going to have favorite foods. And pet peeves. They’re going to believe in something. Or not.”
