Chapter 5: Breaking Point
The silence after Dr. Vance left was absolute, broken only by the distant rumble of the storm. John lay perfectly still, staring at the intricate pattern of rain on the window, trying to make his mind go blank. It didn’t work. The facts circled like vultures: pregnant, claimed, owned.
A different, more immediate sensation began to intrude. A low, acidic roiling deep in his gut. It started as discomfort, a sour note beneath the lingering ache. Then it sharpened, coiling hot and urgent. His mouth flooded with saliva.
He shoved the heavy blankets back, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The floor was cold under his feet. A wave of dizziness hit him, the room tilting. He stumbled toward where he remembered the bathroom was, a door of frosted glass set into the far wall.
He made it to the threshold before his body betrayed him completely.
He fell to his knees on the cool black marble just as the first violent heave tore through him. It was sour, mostly bile, burning his throat and nose. He gripped the base of the toilet, knuckles white, as his stomach clenched again, a punishing spasm that left him shaking and gasping.
Between retches, he heard the soft pad of bare feet. Derek appeared in the doorway, a dark silhouette. He didn’t speak. He just moved, a study in efficient grace. He knelt behind John, one hand sliding around his waist to hold him steady, the other gathering John’s messy hair back from his forehead.
“Don’t…” John tried to protest, but another heave cut him off, weak and dry.
“Shhh,” Derek murmured, his voice a low vibration against John’s spine. His hold was firm, immovable. “Let it out. It’s the hormones. The bond settling. Your body’s reacting to everything.”
The clinical explanation, delivered in that rough, close whisper, was too much. The spasms subsided, leaving him hollowed out and trembling. A sob cracked in his chest, then another, wrenching and ugly. He slumped back against Derek, too weak to resist the support.
“I can’t do this,” he choked out, tears and spit on his chin. “I can’t. I don’t want this. Any of it. I just want to go home and forget any of this ever happened.”
Derek’s arms tightened around him. His nose brushed the side of John’s neck, right over the claiming bite. A low hum seemed to pass from Derek’s skin into his. “You are home. This is where you belong now. With me.”
“You took everything,” John wept, the words spilling out in a broken stream. “You didn’t ask. You just… took. My body. My choices. My life. I’m just a thing to you. A thing that’s sick and confused and broken.”
“You’re not broken.” Derek’s hand splayed over John’s lower abdomen, the pressure warm and possessive. “You’re becoming. It’s messy. It’s violent. I know.” He turned his head, his lips brushing the shell of John’s ear. “But you are mine. And I take care of what’s mine.”
The words should have sparked fury. Instead, a pathetic wave of relief washed through John’s exhaustion. The solid wall of Derek’s chest behind him, the anchor of those arms—his traitorous body melted into it, seeking comfort from the very source of its terror.
“I hate you,” John whispered, but it lacked heat. It was a confession, not a weapon.
“I know.” Derek didn’t sound offended. He sounded… satisfied. As if the hatred was just another thread of the intense connection between them. He reached across with one hand, snagging a hand towel from a heated rail. He ran it under the cold tap, then gently wiped John’s mouth and face. The care in the gesture was disorienting.
John let him, his sobs quieting into ragged hiccups. He was spent. The fight was a dry well.
“The sickness will pass,” Derek said, his voice pragmatic now. “We’ll find what you can keep down. Ginger. Plain proteins. It’s manageable.”
“We,” John echoed, dully.
“Yes. We.” Derek shifted, getting his legs under him. In one smooth motion, he stood, lifting John with him as if he weighed nothing. John’s head lolled against Derek’s shoulder. He was carried from the bathroom, past the bed, and into the living area of the suite.
Derek didn’t put him down on another impersonal chair. He sank into the deep leather sofa by the windows, arranging John in his lap, curled against his chest like a child. A fleece throw was pulled from the back of the sofa and tucked around him.
Outside, the city lights were smeared watercolor blurs through the rain. The storm was passing, the thunder a distant grumble.
Derek’s hand stroked up and down John’s spine, a slow, rhythmic pressure. “Sleep. Just sleep. I’ve got you.”
The command was wrapped in a lure John was too battered to refuse. His eyelids were leaden. The heat of Derek’s body, the steady beat of his heart under John’s ear, the scent of cedar and alpha—it all conspired against his crumbling defiance.
As darkness crept in at the edges of his vision, his last coherent thought was a terrible realization. This felt like safety. And part of him, a deep, instinctual part newly awakened, was desperately, shamefully grateful for it.
His fingers, of their own volition, curled into the soft wool of Derek’s sweater. He held on as he fell.