Not the ache in my hips, not the constant pressure low in my belly, not even the sound of his humming somewhere in the sewing room. It's the weight — the impossible, foreign heaviness of my own body — that drags me up from sleep like a hand around my throat.
I stare at the ceiling, at the water stains spreading across the cracked plaster like maps to places I'll never see again. My hand drifts down, settles on the swollen curve beneath my ribs. I can feel movement now. Small flutters, like something trying to break free.
Like I've been trying to break free.
Footsteps cross the concrete floor, soft and deliberate, and I don't bother turning my head. The cot groans as he sits beside me, the familiar smell of him — old linen, machine oil, something metallic — filling the space between us.
His hand finds my belly before his eyes find mine. Palm flat, warm, possessive. He presses a kiss to my temple, and I feel the stubble along his jaw scrape against my skin.
"You were dreaming again," Eddie says, giving a statement instead of a question.
Stubbornly Waylon didn't answer.
As his hand strokes a slow circle over the fabric of the shirt I am wearing — Eddie's shirt, too big, hanging off my shoulders. He sewed it for me. Took three days, picking apart old uniforms and stitching them back together into something that fits around the swell of my stomach.
"You were crying in your sleep," he adds, softer now. Like it hurts him. Like my pain is something he feels too.
Waylon: "I want to go home."
The words come out rough, cracked from disuse. I haven't spoken in days. Maybe weeks. Time blurs in here, in this room full of mannequins and half-stitched dresses and the smell of old blood.
I wait for the anger. The cold shift in his voice, the way his fingers tighten on my skin. I've learned to read the warnings — the way his jaw tenses, the way his breathing changes, the way his eyes go dark and flat before the storm breaks.
he repeats, and there's something strange in his voice. Something I haven't heard before.
He's looking at me. Really looking. His eyes are pale in the dim light — not the wild, hungry black I've learned to fear, but something softer. Almost human.
Eddie: "This is our home, Darling."
He says it gently. Like he believes it. Like he's explaining something obvious to a child who doesn't understand.
Suddenly my throat tightens.
Waylon: "I mean my home. Before this place. Before you."
The cot creaks as he leans closer, and I feel his breath on my lips before I feel his hand on my chin, tilting my face up to meet his gaze.
Eddie: "There is never before me Darling," he says.
Eddie: "its always been me, I am your before and after. And now."
His thumb traces across my lower lip, feather-light, and I hate how my body responds — the way my breath catches, the way my skin warms under his touch. My body doesn't understand what my mind knows. My body thinks this is care.
Eddie: "Youve been always mine, darling."
He says it like a vow. Like a prayer.
"Our children is a key of our relationship. And never am I letting either of you leave me."
Something breaks inside me.
Not a snap — a slow crack, like ice giving way under pressure. I feel it spread through my chest, cold and hollow, as the last thread of hope I've been clinging to frays and snaps.
He laughs — a low, delighted sound — and presses his whole palm flat against the movement, eyes wide with wonder.
Eddie: "There he is. There's our little fighter."
I watch him. His joy is real. That's the worst part. He's not pretending. He loves this — loves me, loves the thing growing inside me, loves the life he's built in this crumbling asylum with stolen fabric and a broken omega who never wanted any of it.
Waylon: "You made a blanket,"
It's not what I meant to say. The words slip out before I can stop them, and I don't know why. Maybe because I need to understand. Maybe because the unraveling in my chest needs something to hold onto.
His smile softens. He reaches behind him and pulls it up — a small square of linen, edges rough but neatly stitched, the color of old cream. He holds it out to me like an offering.
My fingers press into the fabric, feeling each stitch. He did this by hand. Hours of work, sitting in this room while I slept, threading a needle through cloth, making something for a child that should never have been conceived.
And I mean it. That's the sickest part.
He watches me with that hungry, tender gaze, and for a moment — just a moment — I let myself pretend.
Pretend this is a normal room. Pretend the screaming I heard last night was just the wind. Pretend the blood under my fingernails is from a kitchen counter, not from the man I clawed at when he tried to drag me back from the window.
His hand finds mine, intertwining our fingers over the swell of my belly.
Eddie:"I know you're scared,"
he murmurs.
Eddie: "your just too naive and innocent to just don't understand yet of our precious relationship together darling.
Eddie: But I will fix you, darling. I'm going to make you understand our love."
I look down at our hands. His fingers are stained with ink and old thread. There's a needle mark on his thumb from where he pricked himself last night, sewing in the dark.
Eddie: "You're trembling."
His voice is soft, concerned, and he cups my face in both hands, forcing me to meet his eyes.
Eddie: "Don't be scared darling… I'll take care of you by my deepest promise. I'll take care of you and our bundle… You and our children never be hurt again…"
Every word. Every promise. Every gentle touch and murmured endearment. He believes he's saving me. He believes this is love.
The crack in my chest splinters wider.
Waylon:"Eddie,"
I say, and my voice sounds strange — too quiet, too thin, like it's coming from somewhere far away.
Eddie:"Please what, Darling?"
My fingers tighten on his shirt. I can feel the heat of his body through the fabric, can feel the steady rhythm of his heart under my palm.
Waylon:"Please let me go."
As I say it for the second time but suddenly blood flows coldly through my veins as i stare at him in his eyes trembling..
Something flickers in his eyes. Not anger — not yet — but a deep, wounded confusion, like I've said something he can't comprehend.
He tilts his head, thumb stroking across my cheekbone.
Eddie:"But you're my omega. My bride. My everything."
Waylon:"I'm not your anything!"
The words come out harder than I meant them to. Sharper. I feel him stiffen, feel the air between us turn cold and brittle.
His hand stills on my cheek.
Eddie:"Repeat that again…,"
he whispers, and his voice has gone quiet — that soft, dangerous quiet that makes the hair on my arms stand up.
"Can you repeat it again…Darling."
I should stop. I know I should stop. But the crack in my chest is splitting open, and everything I've held in for four months is spilling out.
Waylon: "I'm not your omega. I'm not your bride. I'm a person you stole, and I'm carrying a child I never wanted, and I want to go home."
The silence that follows is the loudest thing I've ever heard.
He doesn't move. Doesn't blink. Just stares at me with those pale eyes that don't look human anymore, and I watch the tenderness drain out of them like water through cracks in a stone.
When he speaks, his voice is barely a whisper.
Eddie:"You don't mean that."
His hand slides from my face to my throat. Not squeezing — just resting there, thumb pressed against my pulse point, feeling my heart race under his fingers.
Eddie: "You're confused,darling."
he says, and now there's something dark creeping into his voice, something I recognize. "The hormones. The stress. You don't know what you're saying."
Waylon: "I am not confused! I know exactly what I'm saying i want be free!"
His grip tightens. Just slightly. Just enough to make my breath catch.
Eddie: "I've given you everything,"
His voice cracks on the word.
Eddie: "Everything. I've fed you, clothed you, kept you warm. I've made you a home. I've given you a child."
Waylon:"I didn't ask for any of it."
The words are out before I can stop them, and I watch something break in his face.
He looks at me like I've stabbed him, like I've reached inside his chest and pulled out his heart and crushed it in front of him.
I open my mouth to answer, but the words won't come. Because there's something in his eyes — something raw and broken and desperately human — that makes the lie die on my tongue.
I should say it. I should lie. I should tell him what he wants to hear, buy myself more time, wait for another chance to run.
But I'm so tired.
So tired of pretending. So tired of fighting. So tired of waking up every morning in a body that doesn't feel like mine, carrying a life that shouldn't exist, loved by a man whose love is a cage.
Waylon:"I just want to go home…"
The words come out a whisper. A prayer. A confession.
When he opens them, the grief is gone.
In its place is that familiar hunger — that wild, burning certainty that terrifies me more than his anger ever could.
He pulls me forward, pressing his forehead against mine, breathing the same air I'm breathing.
Eddie:"Then I'll build you a new one,"
Eddie:"Far away. A home so perfect you'll forget this never ever existed."
His lips brush mine.
The blanket slips from my fingers, pooling on the floor between us, and I feel the last thread of hope inside me finally snap.
