Running Away with Alpha's Baby Bump
A surge.
Since then, the episodes have grown worse.
Now, standing in the quiet of my kitchen with the late-afternoon sun pouring across the tile, I gripped the edge of the counter until the Formica groaned under my fingers. A thin crack spread like a spiderweb beneath my palm.
“No,” I whispered, jerking my hand back. The skin was unmarked, but the counter… the counter told another story.
My stomach twisted, not with nausea this time but with dread. I pressed a hand to my swollen belly, five months rounded and firm beneath my shirt. “What are you doing to me, little one?” I murmured.