Pushing her out the door with finality drained all my strength. Leaning against the cold panel, my body slid down uncontrollably until I collapsed onto the soft carpet. The exhaustion of pregnancy and the violent surge of emotion ebbed like a tide, leaving only a bone-deep emptiness.
Outside: her faltering footsteps as she left. Inside: my own breath, ragged at first, then slowly steadying.
The air still carried traces of her cedar–whiskey pheromones, restless and unsettled—and… a faint, almost imperceptible thread of something else. A primal instinct, perhaps, that an Alpha unconsciously releases when sensing their Omega might be carrying a child. A protective urge she herself might not even realize. No. It must be an illusion.
I shook off the absurd thought, focusing instead on my palm. My abdomen was still flat, yet an odd fullness within could not be ignored. "Nothing to do with you." I whispered the words I had just thrown at her, reinforcing my defenses. Each syllable stabbed like an icicle, sharp pain bringing twisted stability. Yes. It must be so.
In the days that followed, I grew more cautious. I retreated fully into my shell, filling every hour with work and perfumery, avoiding unnecessary contact. Nausea still tormented me, sensitivity to smells grew worse, but I learned to hide it better.
Yet in the silence that work could not fill, my thoughts betrayed me. I began to watch her.
I noticed the foreign Omega scent on her was gone. Her late nights grew fewer; even when working late, she informed the housekeeper. Her gaze at me was no longer only probing or irritable—it carried something more complex. Confusion. Helplessness. And perhaps… a faint, carefully hidden concern.
The first time she slid a lighter breakfast in front of me, casually remarking, "If your appetite's been poor, this might be easier," my hand holding the spoon paused imperceptibly. She knew. She was clumsily adjusting.
That small change was like a pebble dropped into my frozen lake, sending ripples too subtle to ignore.
More troubling were the changes in my body and pheromones. An Omega in pregnancy instinctively craves their Alpha's scent, especially in moments of weakness. It is coded in the genes, beyond willpower's reach.
At night, when nausea or cramps jolted me awake, drenched in cold sweat and alone, I found myself shamefully longing for her cedar–whiskey pheromones—the domineering scent that once calmed every storm.
This biological craving clashed violently with my rational hatred, tormenting me. I despised myself for it. Despised this inescapable Omega "weakness."
So I built higher walls, colder responses, repelling any attempt she made to draw near. Only thus could I prove I had not yielded to pathetic instinct.
But even walls have cracks.
The leg cramp struck without warning. Pain ripped away all composure, leaving me curled on the floor, helpless. She rushed in, panicked, kneeling before me. With hands once used only to sign contracts or push me away, she pressed firmly, skillfully, massaging my calf. For a moment, I faltered.
Her touch was commanding yet effective. Warm palms, steady presence—like a current forcing its way through my ice, easing the pain, bringing… a comfort I fought yet could not deny.
When she offered warm ginger water, her eyes still tight with worry, my cold refusal caught in my throat. I took the cup. Not forgiveness. Not surrender. Perhaps only because, in that extreme vulnerability, even warmth from an enemy was irresistible.
The realization terrified me.
Child, what should I do?—I asked silently, stroking my still-flat belly in the quiet of night.
Hatred remained my armor. It protected me, imprisoned me. Yet Emma's subtle, persistent changes—her restraint, her adjustments—were drops of water on ice. Slow, but impossible to ignore.
She no longer provoked with infidelity. She tempered her pheromones. She altered the household quietly. Was it for the child? Or some belated, laughable sense of responsibility?
I did not know. I only knew that cracks had appeared in my ice. Hatred remained, cold and hard. But beneath it, something stirred.
Was it a faint expectation of what "biological father" might mean? Or a terrifying, uncertain possibility in this bond born of hatred?
I shut my eyes, forcing the chaos down. Whatever else, protecting you is my only, final decision, child.
As for her… I will not let her close. Not yet.
Let me endure this trial of ice and fire alone a while longer. Until I am strong enough. Until I can discern whether the currents beneath the ice are melting into hope—or concealing a deeper trap.