Chapter 9: The Waiting Room Tension
The two pink lines didn’t feel real until the truck hit a pothole on the county road, jolting Cole’s spine and sending a fresh wave of nausea into his throat. He swallowed hard, the taste of bile and plastic lingering from the test stick Aric had discarded.
Bastian drove, one thick wrist draped over the steering wheel, his gaze fixed on the unspooling asphalt. He hadn’t been told. Not yet. Aric had decreed it would happen at the clinic, after it was official. “No use getting hopes up on a dollar-store test,” he’d said, his voice leaving no room for argument. So they were going, a silent, purposeful caravan in Nash’s old Ford. Cole sat squeezed between Aric and the passenger window, the heat of their bodies pressing in on him from both sides. Nash was in the back, humming something tuneless.
The clinic waiting room was a study in faded beige. The fluorescent lights buzzed, a sound that drilled into Cole’s temples. The air smelled like lemon-scented bleach over something sour, like old bandages and despair. He slumped into a hard plastic chair, the exhaustion from the trip alone already sapping what little strength he had. His head lolled sideways, coming to rest against Aric’s solid shoulder. Aric didn’t shift away. He just sat, a still, warm pillar, one arm coming up to brace Cole from sliding onto the floor.
Bastian didn’t sit. He stood by the smudged window, his broad back to the room, staring out at the dusty parking lot. His shoulders were hunched, tension radiating from him in almost visible waves. Every few seconds, he’d flex his hands, the knuckles cracking softly.
Nash picked up a magazine from a littered table, some two-year-old issue about fishing. He flipped the pages without looking at them. “Probably just a bug,” he muttered, not for the first time since they’d left the house. “Or bad pork. Your system’s always been sensitive, boy.”
Cole didn’t have the energy to answer. He watched a fly batter itself against the light fixture overhead.
“Cole Raines?”
The nurse’s voice was too bright for the room. Cole flinched. Aric’s arm tightened, then he stood, pulling Cole up with him. Cole’s legs immediately liquefied, buckling at the knees. Aric simply turned and hooked an arm under Cole’s thighs, lifting him like a child. The nurse’s professionally pleasant smile didn’t falter.
Bastian turned from the window. His eyes, dark and blazing, locked onto Cole in Aric’s arms. He fell into step behind them, his boots heavy on the linoleum. Nash brought up the rear, the discarded magazine slapping back onto the table.
The exam room was colder, the smell of antiseptic sharper. The paper covering the crinkle on the table was icy against the backs of Cole’s thighs. Aric set him down, then stepped back to lean against the wall by the door, a silent sentry. Bastian took up a position at the foot of the table, arms crossed, a statue of impatience. Nash lingered near the counter, examining a model of a human ear.
The doctor was a harried-looking woman with kind eyes behind wire-framed glasses. She asked questions, her fingers clicking on a keyboard. Dates. Symptoms. She nodded, her expression neutral. “We’ll do a quick ultrasound to confirm. Just a transducer on the abdomen. Given your presentation, it’s very likely.”
Cole just stared at the ceiling tiles, a water stain shaped like a rabbit. He felt the cold gel, the firm pressure of the wand. The machine hissed static. No one spoke.
Then, a swift, rhythmic whooshing sound filled the quiet room. A fast, galloping heartbeat.
The doctor’s face broke into a genuine, warm smile as she turned the monitor. “There we are. See that flicker? That’s your baby’s heartbeat. You’re pregnant, Cole. Congratulations.”
The words landed.
For a second, there was perfect, suspended silence.
Then Bastian moved. It wasn’t a step. It was an explosion of pent-up force. His fist shot out and slammed into the drywall beside the doorframe. The impact was a sickening crunch of plaster and lath, a sound like a bone breaking. Dust sifted down. Aric didn’t even blink.
“Mine!” Bastian roared, the word tearing from his throat, raw and primal. His chest heaved, his eyes wild, fixed on the fuzzy gray image on the screen. It wasn’t joy. It was conquest. It was vindication. It was ownership screamed into the sterile air.
The doctor jerked back, her smile frozen into a rictus of shock. “Sir—you can’t—”
Nash held up a hand, cutting her off. He hadn’t moved from the counter. His eyes were on the ultrasound screen, on that rhythmic, blinking light. His weathered face was a mask, but his eyes… they calculated. They assessed. They approved. A slow, deep breath expanded his chest. He gave a single, solemn nod, as if signing a contract only he could see.
Cole felt nothing. Or, he felt everything, all at once, packed into a weightless, silent ball in the center of his chest. He looked from Bastian’s shattered wall to Nash’s satisfied stare to the frantic little heartbeat on the monitor. His heartbeat. His.
Aric was the only one looking at him. His dark eyes were unreadable, but they were on Cole’s face, watching.
The doctor, visibly shaken, tried to regain control of the room. “Okay… okay. Well. Let’s get some measurements. Everything looks good, Cole. Strong heartbeat. We’ll get you started on prenatal vitamins, talk about nutrition…”
Her voice faded into a distant hum. The galloping sound filled Cole’s head. His body, which had been a site of pain, of exhaustion, of use, was now something else. It was confirmed. It was a fact. It was a territory that had been successfully claimed.
The examination ended. Gel was wiped away. The lights were turned up.
As the doctor finished typing, handing Cole a slip of paper for the vitamins, she asked, “Any other questions? Concerns?”
Cole looked down at his own hands, resting on his still-flat stomach. He thought of the relentless pace, the deep, sore aches, the way his body had begun to feel foreign and stubborn. He thought of the practicalities. The exhausting mechanics of it all.
He looked up, meeting the doctor’s concerned gaze with an eerie calm. His voice, when it came, was quiet but clear, cutting through the last of the tension.
“Yes,” he said. “The vitamins. I’ll need those. And maybe… a stool softener? The last month has been really hard on my system.”
The doctor’s professional composure finally shattered completely. Her eyes widened behind her glasses, darting from Cole’s blandly earnest face to the fist-shaped crater in her wall. “I… yes. Stool softeners. We can… discuss that.”
Nash pushed off from the counter, the movement drawing every eye in the room. He stepped closer to the ultrasound screen, which still displayed the frozen image. His gaze, sharp and analytical, traced the shadows and shapes. “Hold on, Doc,” he said, his voice a low rumble that demanded silence. “You’re movin’ a mite fast. It’s too early for all the congratulations, ain’t it? We’re just findin’ out. This only happens a month in.”
He turned his head, pinning Bastian with a look that was both accusation and gruff approval. “Which means when his last heat came, Bastian, you impregnated Cole. You spent the next month regularly mating him every night.” His eyes flicked back to Cole, who shrunk under the clinical dissection. “That made the pregnancy signs hidden. Smells don’t become an issue ‘til month two.” He addressed the doctor again, a man used to setting the terms. “Since our kind are only pregnant for three months total, we need to get stuff. Now. So, what are we really looking at here?”
The doctor, visibly recalibrating, gave a stiff nod. “You’re correct on the timeline. Let me get a clearer count.” She moved the wand again, the gel cold as she pressed firmly. The grainy image shifted, scrolling. She paused, her brow furrowed. Multiple flickering pulses appeared in different sacs, a constellation of rapid heartbeats.
Silence thickened, heavy and waiting.
Bastian leaned in, his breath hot near Cole’s temple. His earlier rage had condensed into a feverish focus. “Doc,” he grunted. “Count how many there are. If possible.”
Nash squinted. “I’m countin’ three. Possible four.”
Bastian’s finger, calloused and blunt, stabbed toward the screen. “I missed one. I see four.”
From his post by the door, Aric spoke, his voice quiet but absolute, cutting through the muttered counts. “Six.”
The doctor let out a slow, controlled breath, her professional mask snapping back into place, albeit strained at the edges. “All of you are correct,” she said, her tone oddly formal. “There are six. All viable. All healthy heartbeats.” She moved the wand with definitive finality, clicking a button to capture the image. Aric had been right. Six. “I am starting him on prenatal vitamins right now. High-dose. He’ll need them.”
The number hung in the air. Six.
It wasn’t a heartbeat anymore. It was a cacophony.
Bastian made a sound deep in his chest, a visceral, grinding noise of pure triumph. His hand came down on Cole’s bare shoulder, possessive and heavy, a brand.
Nash’s calculating eyes glinted. “Six,” he repeated, the word tasting of sheer logistical scale. He looked at Cole’s slim frame on the table, then at the hard-eyed men around him. A slow, planning smile touched his mouth. “Well. That certainly changes the shopping list.”
Cole felt the world warp. The crinkling paper beneath him, the chill of the gel, the weight of the hands and the eyes—it all compressed into a single, suffocating point. Six. The soreness, the exhaustion that felt like dying, the sense of being stretched thin… it made a terrible, retroactive sense. His body hadn’t been failing. It had been silently building a city.
He stared at the ceiling tile rabbit. It seemed to blur.
“Cole?” The doctor’s voice was careful. “This is a lot to process. We need to talk about immediate care, nutrition. Your calorie intake will need to nearly double. Quickly.”
Aric pushed off the wall. He didn’t look at the screen. He looked at Cole’s face, at the hollow shock settling in his hazel eyes. He stepped forward, intercepting the packet of vitamin samples and prescriptions the doctor held out. “We’ll handle it,” he said, his tone leaving no room for further discussion. His other hand went to Cole’s ankle, a brief, solid point of contact that wasn’t quite comfort, but was an acknowledgment. You are still here. This is still your body.
“Up you get,” Nash said, his voice shifting into a practical, commanding gear. The sentiment was over. The work began. “We’re stopping at Henderson’s Feed & Supply. They’ve got the good protein powder. And a furniture store. That old kitchen table of yours won’t be fit for purpose much longer.”
Bastian finally lifted his crushing hand from Cole’s shoulder to reach for the printed ultrasound image the doctor offered. He took it, staring at the grainy proof with something akin to reverence. “Mine,” he murmured again, but the roar was gone. It was a low, satisfied growl, a fact cemented in film.
Aric helped Cole sit up, handing him a wad of coarse paper towels to wipe the gel from his stomach. The mundane act felt grotesque. He dressed slowly, each movement awkward, as if his limbs already understood the profound redistribution of resources now required.
They moved back into the hallway, a grim procession. The nurse at the station eyed the dust on Bastian’s knuckles and quickly looked away. The buzz of the fluorescents was the same. The smell of antiseptic was the same. But nothing was.
Cole walked on legs that felt like vapor, led by the firm pressure of Aric’s hand at the small of his back. Bastian stalked ahead, the ultrasound image clutched in his damaged fist. Nash was already on his phone, voice low, asking about bulk discounts on cribs.
The sun outside was violently bright. Cole shivered, the prescriptions and vitamin bottles a tangible, rattling weight in the paper bag Acarried.
Six.
The word echoed with every step, with every heartbeat—his own, and the six frantic, galloping rhythms now nested inside him, dictating every tomorrow.
The doctor cleared her throat, the sound scraping the stunned silence from the corners of the room. “Before anyone goes shopping,” she said, her voice forcibly steady as her eyes tracked from Nash’s phone to Bastian’s bleeding knuckles. “We need to establish some baseline care. Cole, your body is under immense stress. We need to manage symptoms to keep nutrients down.”
She focused on Cole, who was fumbling with his shirt buttons. “The nausea. Tell me what triggers it. Specific smells, lately.”
Cole’s fingers stilled. He looked past her, to the cracked wall. Thinking was like wading through cold syrup. “Um. Coffee,” he said softly. “Grandpa’s morning coffee. It used to be nice. Now it… it makes my stomach turn inside out just thinking about it.”
Aric, still by the door, gave a slight nod. He’d watched Cole silently push his mug away for a week.
“What else?” the doctor prompted, typing.
“The… the greasy smell from the stove after Nash fries sausages.” Cole’s voice gained a thin, ashamed thread. “And the leather cleaner for the sofa. I had to go outside.”
Nash stopped talking on his phone. He listened, his head cocked like a hunter assessing game.
“Good, that’s specific. Textures? Foods you’re avoiding?” she asked.
Cole shrugged, a small, defeated motion. “Anything that contains eggs or milk, for the most part. The thought of scrambled eggs… no.” He glanced at Nash, a quick, habitual check for disapproval. “Doesn’t mean I won’t eat it or drink it if it’s made. I just… know what happens after.”
Nash ended his call and slid the phone into his pocket. The movement drew everyone’s attention. He fixed Cole with a look that was stone, no longer planning but enforcing. “No,” he stated, the word flat and final. “You should be able to eat and drink without having to run to the restroom just to throw it up. That’s not going to help you or the pups. It’s wasted food. We’ll get alternatives.”
The doctor seized on the opening, nodding briskly. “That’s exactly right. We’ll focus on high-protein, bland options he can tolerate. Plant-based milks, protein shakes. I’m adding a prescription anti-nausea. It’s safe. Use it.” She handed the slip to Aric, not Nash, a small clinical rebellion.
Aric took it, his eyes scanning the text.
“Now, the vitamins,” the doctor continued, turning back to her screen. “Given the multiples and the apparent dietary gaps, we’re looking at a significant deficiency risk. I’m prescribing a prenatal with extra iron and B12. The nausea suggests his B levels are already dipping. That shakes the exhaustion.”
Bastian finally looked away from the ultrasound image, his focus sharpening on Cole’s pale face. “So he needs to eat,” he grunted, translating the medical talk into a simple, actionable command. “What foods? Name them.”
The next few minutes were a rapid-fire list. Lean meats, lentils, leafy greens, fortified cereals. Foods Cole had never actively craved. Nash committed them to memory, repeating brands. His practicality was a wall, holding back the sheer, sprawling reality of six.
Finally, they were leaving. The paper bag crinkled in Aric’s grip. The walk back through the waiting room felt like moving through a different, thinner atmosphere. The other patients averted their eyes from their little constellation of shock and violence.
The sunlight in the parking lot was a physical blow. Cole raised a hand to shield his eyes, swaying. Bastian moved in, not with tenderness, but with a blunt efficiency. He opened the passenger door of the truck. “In.”
Cole climbed in, the cracked vinyl seat hot against the backs of his thighs. The door slammed shut, locking him in the muted, dusty cabin. He watched through the windshield as the three men stood in a loose circle by the hood.
Nash was speaking, low and intent, pointing back toward the clinic, then gesturing down the road toward town. Planning. Distributing tasks. Bastian nodded, flexing his injured hand. Aric simply listened, the bag of prescriptions hanging from his fingers.
Inside the truck, the silence was immense. Cole placed a hand low on his abdomen. Nothing felt different. It was still just his body, tired and sore. The evidence was a grainy black-and-white photograph, now tucked into Bastian’s jeans pocket. He leaned his head against the window. The glass vibrated with the idle of the engine.
The driver’s side door opened with a metallic shriek. Nash heaved himself in, filling the cab with his scent of old wool and determined intent. He didn’t look at Cole. He turned the key, the engine growling to life. “Henderson’s first,” he announced to the others now climbing into the back seat. “Then the supermarket for those specific items. Furniture can wait ‘til tomorrow.”
He reversed the truck with a jarring lurch. Cole’s stomach rolled, a fresh, acidic wave cresting at the base of his throat. He pressed his lips together, swallowing hard.
Bastian leaned forward from the back, his voice a rough murmur near Cole’s ear. “You’ll eat what we get you.” It wasn’t a question. It was a decree, wired through with a possessiveness that had now been medically validated.
Cole watched the clinic shrink in the side mirror, a little box of peeled paint and staggering news. The road ahead baked in the noon heat, wavering. He closed his eyes. The six galloping rhythms seemed to sync with the rumble of the truck tires over asphalt, a relentless, inward drumming counting down the days.
The six galloping rhythms seemed to sync with the rumble of the truck tires over asphalt, a relentless, inward drumming counting down the days.
That drumming became the soundtrack to everything.
The next two months were a blurred parade of fluorescent-lit rooms and the cool smear of ultrasound gel. Doctor Singh’s voice, calm and measured, dictated a new language of fetal weights and amniotic fluid levels. Cole’s world shrank to the dimensions of the worn living room sofa and the path to the bathroom.
The food issue, at least, got resolved.
Nash had taken the doctor’s list as a mandate. The kitchen now held industrial-sized tubs of protein powder and a fridge stocked with fortified shakes that tasted like chalk and almonds. “Drink,” Aric would say, placing a chilled bottle beside him, and Cole would obey, the liquid sitting heavy and necessary in his gut.
The nausea retreated, replaced by a hollow, perpetual hunger that felt like it originated in his bones.
At night, the pups moved. It wasn’t gentle fluttering. It was a visceral, internal rearranging that felt like being kneaded from the inside. Cole would lie rigid, eyes wide in the dark, as distinct pressure points rolled and shoved against the confines of his skin. “They’re fighting again,” he’d whisper into the stillness.
“They’re strong,” Bastian would rumble from the floor beside the bed, a note of pure pride in his sleep-thick voice. He’d place a broad hand on the heaving mound of Cole’s stomach, as if to feel the conflict. “That’s good.”
Cole’s body transformed at a brutal pace.
He blew up like a balloon, his once-slim frame distending into a taut, enormous curve. Standing required a rocking motion he hadn’t needed before. His waddle became his biggest challenge, a slow, wide-legged teeter that made every trip across the room a calculated expedition.
The simple act of getting off the sofa was a humiliating production of grunts and failed momentum, often requiring a pull from Aric’s steadfast arm.
His feet swelled, shiny and tight, even with the tiniest bit of movement. His shoes were abandoned by the door, a forgotten relic. He lived in a pair of Nash’s stretched-out wool socks, the heels slipping off with every shuffling step. The skin over his belly stretched so tight it shone, a map of angry red lines.
“Stretch marks,” Nash said one morning, tracing one with a work-calloused finger as Cole stood immobilized before the bathroom mirror. “Sign of good growth. Don’t you fret about ‘em.”
Cole didn’t fret. He just stared, a stranger in his own skin.
The only respite was the bath. Aric had started drawing them, the water deep and lukewarm, to ease the ache in his back and the alarming swelling in his ankles. Cole would lower himself into the tub with a gasped exhale, the water displacing in a great wave over the sides. The weightlessness was a fleeting miracle.
He was sitting there one afternoon, adrift in the tepid water, his hands floating on the surface over the stark landscape of his stomach. The pups were quiet for once.
The bathroom door opened without a knock. Bastian walked in, a fresh towel over his shoulder. He looked at Cole, not with desire, but with a focused, practical assessment. “Nash says you’re due for a check in two days. Doctor wants another scan.”
Cole just nodded, a droplet of water falling from his chin. “Okay.”
Bastian crouched by the tub, his elbows on the porcelain rim. His eyes were on the visible, hard jut of a knee or an elbow pressing against Cole’s underside. “You can feel them all the time now, can’t you?”
“All the time,” Cole whispered.
Bastian nodded, satisfied. He placed his hand, warm and dry, right over the protruding limb. He held it there, as if communicating through the fluid and flesh. “Good,” he said again, that single word holding volumes of expectation. He stood, leaving the towel on the rack. “Don’t prune up. Aric’s making more of that shake.”
The door clicked shut. Cole sank deeper, letting the water lap at his chin. He closed his eyes. Inside, a slow, rolling somersault began, a lazy dispute for space. He counted the separate shifts. One, two, three… four…
His own two feet, pale and distorted at the other end of the tub, seemed like they belonged to someone else entirely.