One and a half months later, and I'm gigantic. Gigantic.
"Five months wolf pregnant," I mutter, stirring my yogurt with a little silver spoon, "is about thirteen months human pregnant." Leaning back against my pillows, I raise the spoon to my mouth, but hesitate before taking a bite.
"What?" Sinclair asks, glancing at me from his spot on the bed where he's reading reports on his tablet. "Has it gone sour?"
"No," I murmur, stabbing the spoon back into the cup. "I'm just afraid if I eat another bite, this baby is going to get even bigger."
"Good!" Sinclair declares, grinning at my swollen belly and reaching out to rub my baby bump. "Let him get big and strong before he's born, that way he can come out running and we can play football within a week!"
"Absolutely not," I snap, glaring at him. "I am not growing you a linebacker, Dominic, so get that right out of your head."
Sinclair chuckles, puts his tablet aside, and moves closer to press his ear to my stomach, just above where the baby has settled. "What's that, little Rafe?" he asks, loud enough for me to hear. I twist my lips and shake my head, knowing this is for my benefit. If he wanted to talk to Rafe, he could do it through their bond. "You're perfectly comfortable in there and want to go to full term so you can get big and strong?"
I feel the baby move, responding to his father's voice, pressing a hand or foot against my skin where Sinclair's face is. Sinclair kisses the spot, and I feel Rafe's happiness.
"Tell him it's not true, Rafe," I say, stroking my stomach, which looks like I've swallowed a giant watermelon. "Tell him you're cramped and would like to stretch out in your comfy little baby bed."
Rafe connects with both of us, his emotions ringing with happiness, but also a little pinched feeling, a desire to stretch. "See?" I say, raising an eyebrow at Sinclair as he smiles. "He's sick of it too. Time for baby to be born!"
"Well," Sinclair sighs, sitting up and patting my belly. "We'll see what Cora and Hank say this afternoon at your checkup. Sometimes wolf babies come sooner than six months."
"Really?" I ask, excited.
"Sure," he shrugs. "It's not common, but…"
"Well," I consider aloud, "maybe since he's one-quarter moon goddess…he'll come fast and leave me in peace. I wonder what their average gestation period is…"
Sinclair laughs, helping me to my feet. I head to the closet, eager to get out of my pajamas. I smile at my mate as he returns to his work. He's been so sweet and supportive, even though I've been miserable for the past two weeks, especially the last one. There's been trouble with human insurgents unhappy with the peace talks. They threaten violence unless Sinclair makes more concessions. It's stressing him, but he still makes time for me. I'm so grateful.
As I pull on a clean top and stretchy pants, I consider whether I complain too much. It's not that I'm not enjoying being pregnant—I've loved feeling my little boy grow, every twist and kick, and especially feeling his messages through our bond. He's become so communicative lately, telling us how he feels and what he wants.
It's all been wonderful. It's just…I'm so uncomfortable now. I've always been petite, and even though Rafe was small at first, he's clearly Sinclair's baby now. He's heavy, presses on my back, my ankles are swollen, and I can't find a comfortable sleeping position—even in my nest.
So, I admit I'm a bit torn. As much as I love being pregnant, it feels like the end of a wonderful vacation. I sigh and lean down to pick out sneakers, but stop—I can't bend down far enough. I straighten, glare at the shoes, and kick them out of the closet.
When I peek out the door, Sinclair is looking at the closet, eyebrows raised.
"Can you get those?" I ask, smiling. "I need you to put them on my feet. Baby says no more bending."
My mate chuckles and obliges, scooping up the shoes as I sit on the bed. "Sure thing, Cinderella," he smirks, kneeling and lifting my foot. "Let's see if the slipper fits."
When we reach the doctor's office, the receptionist smiles and takes us to an exam room. I open my mouth to protest about cutting in line, but Sinclair presses a hand to my back. "I paid for this place," he murmurs, smiling. "You can accept a little special treatment, just this once."
I hesitate, then let him lead me, feeling guilty. Sinclair brokered a deal with Cora and Hank to be on call throughout my pregnancy, and they'll be our family physicians afterward. In exchange, they requested he set them up in private practice to see refugee clients for free. Judging by the waiting room, they're taking that seriously.
My thoughts are interrupted by my sister. "Ella!" she says, hugging me. "Wow, you're huge!"
"Thanks," I grimace, rolling my eyes. "Just what every woman wants to hear."
Cora greets Sinclair and takes my arm. "It's different when you're pregnant and visiting your sister," she grins, leading me into the exam room. "We get carte blanche to say whatever we want."
"If you say so," I mumble, getting onto the exam table with Sinclair's help.
Cora begins the standard exam, asking about my feelings and any issues. I report everything's fine, just general pregnancy discomfort. She nods, listens to the baby, takes my vitals, and assesses the baby's growth. Hank enters, greeting Sinclair and me. When Cora finishes, he performs his own exam while Cora prepares the ultrasound.
All is going well until Cora puts gel on my belly and moves the wand. I'm smiling at the image of my baby—so well-formed and big—when I hear her gasp.
"Ella," she says, biting her lip.
"What?" I whisper, my eyes widening. "What's wrong with my baby?"