Chapter 6: The Doctor's Orders
The paper covering the examination table hissed under Ethan’s palms. He gripped the edge, the sound too loud in the quiet. Dr. Thorne’s office was a study in benign precision—soft beige walls, a framed botanical print, the persistent, inaudible hum of the refrigerator holding vials of God-knew-what. It smelled like lemons and something underneath, sharp and metallic.
“Levels are looking excellent, Ethan,” Dr. Thorne said, peering at her tablet. She was maybe fifty, with kind eyes that never quite lost their clinical assessment. “The hCG injections are doing their job. Your body is responding just as we hoped.”
“Great,” Ethan said. The word felt thin.
She glanced up, smile professional. “How are you feeling? Physically. Any notable side effects?”
“Tired. Sore sometimes.” He didn’t mention the bruise on his hip, faded now to a yellowish-green, or the specific ache that followed the third session each week. The one that felt less like a side effect and more like a fingerprint.
“Normal. All normal.” She tapped the screen. “We’re entering a critical window for implantation. The next few weeks are key.” She set the tablet down and folded her hands. “I always give this talk. The protocol is science. The medication, the timing, the… marital frequency. That’s all mechanics. But the body isn’t a machine. Stress can be a barrier. Conversely, emotional bonding—oxytocin release, a sense of safety—can significantly improve outcomes.”
Ethan stared at a vein in the marble floor. Bonding. He almost laughed, a hollow sound stuck in his throat.
“I know it’s a contractual situation,” she continued, her voice gentler. “But even an approximation of connection can help. A reduction in outright hostility, let’s say. Does that make sense?”
“You’re saying I should try to be less stressed while my billionaire husband uses me as a breeding experiment. Sure. Makes perfect sense.” The bitterness slipped out before he could catch it.
Dr. Thorne didn’t flinch. She opened a drawer and pulled out a glossy pamphlet. Optimizing Your Conception Journey. “Just something to think about. The mind and body are linked. However you need to frame it for yourself.”
Ethan took the pamphlet. The happy, generic couple on the cover smiled up at him. He folded it in half, then in quarters, until it was a thick, small square he could hide in his fist.
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The penthouse felt different after the appointment. The vast spaces seemed to watch him. He stood in the living room, the city a dizzying tapestry of light below, and felt utterly weightless, untethered. A condition of his body. A chemical state.
He heard the soft click of the study door. Alex emerged, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a crystal tumbler of amber liquid in hand. He’d been working late.
“Report,” Alex said, leaning against the doorway. Not how was your day. Not how are you.
Ethan kept his gaze on the lights. “The doctor says everything is on track. My levels are good.”
“And?”
He unfurled his fist slightly, feeling the crisp edges of the pamphlet. “She said… that success rates improve with emotional bonding. Oxytocin. A sense of safety.” He recited it like a lab result, risking a glance at Alex.
Alex’s face was impassive. He took a slow sip of his drink, his throat working as he swallowed. The ice cubes clinked. For a full minute, he said nothing, just watched Ethan with those mercury eyes. The silence was a physical pressure.
“Safety,” Alex repeated, the word flat. He set the tumbler down on a side table with a precise finality. “Lie down.”
A familiar dread, cold and slick, coiled in Ethan’s stomach. Here it was. The correction. The punishment for the doctor’s foolish suggestion, for his own audacity in repeating it.
“On the floor. On your stomach.” Alex’s voice offered no room for interpretation.
Ethan’s limbs moved stiffly. He lowered himself onto the deep, wool area rug before the unlit fireplace. The fibers were soft against his cheek. He heard Alex move behind him, and he braced, muscles locking, waiting for the hard grip, the demanding touch.
Warm hands settled on his shoulders.
Not gripping. Pressing.
Ethan jerked in surprise.
“Be still.” The command was quiet. Then Alex’s thumbs dug into the tight knot of muscle at the base of Ethan’s neck. It was a firm, expert pressure. A real massage.
Ethan’s breath left him in a shaky rush. His body, trained for two months to expect one thing, didn’t know how to process this. The tension screamed, then began to reluctantly melt under the persistent, circling pressure. Alex’s hands worked down his spine, finding every locked vertebra, every cord of stress with infuriating, effortless accuracy.
It felt… good. Profoundly, treacherously good. A low groan escaped Ethan before he could bite it back.
“The doctor is correct in her assessment,” Alex said, his voice a low rumble above him. His palms smoothed over Ethan’s shoulder blades. “Physical stress inhibits the process. We need optimal conditions. This is a logical step.”
Logical. Of course. This was just another protocol. Ethan tried to hold onto that, to armour himself with the word. But his treacherous body was singing under the ministrations. The warmth of Alex’s hands seeped through his thin t-shirt, through his skin, into his very bones. It spread through his chest, a dangerous, relaxing tide that threatened to drown his resolve.
Alex’s hands slowed. They moved from therapeutic kneading to something else, something slower. One hand splayed wide between his shoulder blades, as if feeling the flutter of his heartbeat. The other traced the subtle dip of his spine, down to the waistband of his sweats, then back up in a long, lingering stroke.
It wasn’t clinical anymore. It was… exploration.
Ethan’s eyes stung. He squeezed them shut. This was worse. This careful, possessive touching in the dim light, under the guise of science, felt more intimate than any of the cold, efficient sessions in the sterile suite. This felt like being seen, and he didn’t know which of them it was meant to fool.
Alex’s hand finally stilled, resting heavy and warm on the small of Ethan’s back. His breath was even, close to Ethan’s ear.
“The conditions will be optimized,” Alex murmured, the words barely audible. It sounded like a vow, or a verdict. He stood up abruptly, the connection severed. The air felt shockingly cold where his hands had been.
“Your injection is in twenty minutes. Be ready.”
Ethan heard his footsteps retreat, the study door closing softly. He didn’t move. He lay on the rug, his body humming with a foreign and unwelcome peace, his mind scrabbling for purchase. He thought of the portrait, the one Alex had accused of being soft. He thought of the new drawings, the brutal truths in charcoal.
This—this careful, logical touching—was the most dangerous fiction of all. Because a part of him, the stupid, romantic heart he’d tried to bury, wanted to believe it. And that was a vulnerability he couldn’t afford. The pamphlet, still crumpled in his hand, felt like a lie. The real prescription was far simpler: survive. Don’t mistake the mechanism for the man.
He pushed himself up, his body loose and pliant from the massage, his heart a tight, hard knot of confusion. In twenty minutes, the needle would come. It would be clean, sharp, and honest in its intention. He found himself almost looking forward to it.