Chapter 50 Amos
Amos
The ultrasound room is smaller than the prep documents suggested, barely enough space for the examination table and three people who don't know what to do with their hands.
I've read four studies on eight-week ultrasound protocols in the past seventy-two hours.
I know the expected fetal measurements, the normal cardiac rate range, the statistical probability of detecting abnormalities at this gestational stage.
The spreadsheet cross-referencing Mattaniah's symptom progression against published Omega pregnancy timelines took me forty minutes.
The data is thorough and well-organized.
It's completely useless against the fear that's been sitting in my stomach since we parked the car.
Mattaniah is on the table with his shirt pushed up and the elastic waistband of his pants rolled below his hips. His stomach has softened into a curve below his navel that's visible when he's lying down. His bond marks have settled into silver on both sides of his throat.
Dominic stands on the right side with his hand on Mattaniah's stomach. His scent has been running hot since the waiting room, thickening into something territorial that I can taste in the small space.
I stand on the left side with my hand wrapped around Mattaniah's. My ribs have healed enough that standing doesn't require bracing, though the left side still pulls when I reach for things. My glasses are pushed up into my hair.
Dr. Vasquez applies the gel and Mattaniah hisses.
"Warn a person." He says it through his teeth.
"I said it would be cold." Vasquez positions the wand against his lower abdomen.
"You said 'slightly cool.' That was not slightly cool. That was arctic."
"I'll update my terminology." Vasquez moves the wand in slow sweeps. The screen fills with gray and black static that I'm already trying to read. "Just give me a moment to find the right angle."
Mattaniah's fingers tighten around mine. His eyes are fixed on the ceiling and his breathing has gone shallow and quick. Through the bond his anxiety is climbing. His scent has gone thin with fear.
I squeeze his hand. His knuckles are white around my fingers.
Vasquez stops the wand. She adjusts the angle by a fraction and the static on the screen resolves. A dark circle appears with a smaller shape inside it, curved and flickering.
"There it is." Vasquez taps the screen. "Strong heartbeat. One hundred and fifty-two beats per minute."
One fifty-two. The number registers in the clinical part of my brain first. Normal range for eight weeks is between 150 and 170 BPM.
One fifty-two is low-normal and healthy.
The measurement on screen reads consistent with eight weeks plus two days, which aligns with my calculated conception date from the heat.
The rest of me hears my baby’s heartbeat.
The sound fills the room when Vasquez adjusts the audio, a rapid wet pulse that no recording prepared me for. The persistent ache that's been the background of every waking moment for three weeks goes silent.
Mattaniah's eyes drop from the ceiling to the screen. His mouth opens and nothing comes out. Through the bond his anxiety gets swallowed by something larger. His eyes fill and the tears spill sideways across his temples into his hair.
"That's the heartbeat?" His voice comes out wrecked. "That fast sound?"
"One hundred and fifty-two beats per minute is normal for this stage." Vasquez keeps the wand steady. "The fetus is measuring consistent with eight weeks. Development is on track."
"Eight weeks." I say it and something has happened to my voice. "That's approximately the size of a kidney bean."
"Close." Vasquez moves the wand slightly. "Everything looks healthy. Good implantation, good cardiac activity, no abnormalities visible at this stage."
On the other side of the table, Dominic hasn't spoken. I look at him across Mattaniah's body. His hand is pressed flat against the Omega's stomach, his jaw locked, his eyes fixed on the screen, his scent thick enough to fill the room.
Mattaniah's free hand comes up and covers Dominic's on his stomach, the contact steadying the mild tremor in our Alpha’s hand.
"Hey, kidney bean." Mattaniah says it to the screen and his voice cracks on the second word. "We can hear you."
I try to turn the sound that escapes me into a cough, which fails spectacularly. Vasquez prints the ultrasound image and hands it to Mattaniah, our Omega cradling it in front of his face with both hands.
"That's our kid." He says it to the printout. "That tiny flickering thing is our actual kid."
"That tiny flickering thing has a heartbeat of one fifty-two and is on track developmentally.
" I take the printout from his hands and examine it.
The measurements are clean and the cardiac rhythm is regular.
I memorize every data point on the image because the alternative is crying until Vasquez asks us to leave.
"I'm going to need a copy of this for the file. "
"You have a file?"
"I have three files. Medical, legal, and developmental milestones." I hand the printout back. "This goes in medical."
"You started a developmental milestones file for a fetus the size of a kidney bean."
"The file is aspirational at this stage." My mouth curves despite the fact that my eyes are still wet. "The data will catch up."
The drive home is quiet. Mattaniah sits in the back seat with the ultrasound printout in his hands, his thumb tracing the edge of the image.
I drive because Dominic's hands haven't stopped shaking since the heartbeat filled the room. Neither of us mentions it. Dominic runs a company and stares down boardrooms. His hands are shaking because he heard his baby’s heartbeat.
The apartment is warm when we arrive, Mattaniah still holding the printout as he settles on the couch. I sit beside him and he tips sideways until his head rests on my shoulder. The printout balances on his thigh and we both stare at it.
Dominic stands in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room long enough for his composure to slip, his jaw loosening, his shoulders dropping.
"Are we going to be okay?" His voice is rough. "Really okay?"
Mattaniah lifts his head from my shoulder and looks at him across the room. The gaze holds steady.
"Yeah." He says it simply. "I think we are."
Dominic exhales as he crosses the room and fits himself against Mattaniah's other side. A moment later, Mattaniah presses the ultrasound printout against Dominic's chest.
"Your daughter." He says it, his mouth curving up a little.
"We don't know it's a daughter."
"You've called our baby 'she' a few times." Mattaniah's grin widens. "Are you backing down from that?"
"I'm not backing down from anything." Dominic takes the printout and looks at it.
"She's going to be impossible." He says it still looking at the image. "Between your stubbornness and Amos' need to be right about everything and my—"
"Your everything." Mattaniah finishes.
"My everything." Dominic presses his mouth against Mattaniah's temple. "She doesn't stand a chance."
"She stands every chance." I say it because it's the truest thing I've said all day. "She has three parents who will make sure of it."
Mattaniah settles deeper between Dominic and the couch cushion, his eyes closing as Dominic's hand rests on the curve of his stomach, his breathing slowing to match the Omega's within a minute.
I sit with them until Mattaniah's weight goes slack against my shoulder. Then I ease out from under him carefully, settling his head against the cushion, and cross to the desk where my laptop is still open from this morning's work.
The developmental milestones file opens to a blank first page.
The cursor blinks against the empty spreadsheet.
I created the file six weeks ago in a burst of optimism I didn't fully trust at the time, and the empty cells have been staring back at me every time I opened the folder, waiting for data I wasn't sure would come.
Week eight. Cardiac activity confirmed. 152 BPM. Fetal measurement consistent with gestational age. No abnormalities detected. Development on track.
I look at the entry. The clinical language is a reflex but it doesn't capture what happened in that room. I add a second line underneath.
First heartbeat heard by all three parents. The file is no longer aspirational.