Chapter 13 #2
It’s another woman I’ve only seen in glimpses before, older, with iron-gray hair coiled into a bun, lines at the corners of her eyes that look like they were carved there by years of frowning.
She carries a tablet and a small vial.
“Hello, Claire,” she says in a low, measured voice. “I’m Senior Tech Devereux. I oversee long-term protocol compliance.”
Long-term. My skin crawls. She checks the pump readings, nods once, then sets the tablet aside and looks at me properly.
“You are performing beyond projections,” she says. “Your fourth-week yield is more than four times your baseline upon arrival.”
I feel sick. “You’re… draining me.”
She lifts a shoulder in a faint shrug. “You’re producing, and we are collecting. That’s the agreement.”
“I never agreed!”
“You were selected,” she corrects mildly. “You should take pride in that. There are women who would give anything to be chosen for a program like this.”
I want to ask who. I want to ask why. I want to ask how broken someone has to be to think this is a privilege.
But my voice comes out as shaky as it has been for a few weeks now. “I want to go home.”
She regards me for a long moment, something like pity or annoyance crossing her face.
“Home is not medically optimal,” she says finally. “Here, you will fulfill your potential.”
The words are so absurd, and monstrous, I almost laugh. Instead, my eyes fill with tears.
She doesn’t look away. “Phase Two starts very soon,” she says. “The medications you’ve been receiving this week are preparing your endocrine system for implantation response.”
Implantation. The word lands like ice in my veins. “You mean… pregnancy,” I manage.
“Eventually,” she says. “After auction. After placement. Our job is to make you ready. Plump. Stable. Highly productive. A premium breeding candidate.”
The word hits harder this time. Breeding. I feel like the floor has dropped away, except there is no floor. Just straps and suction and the relentless pull of the pump.
“Why are you telling me this?” I whisper.
“Because you asked,” she says calmly. “And I believe in an informed process.”
Informed process. Not informed consent. She picks up the tablet again.
“For now,” she says, “continue to comply. Eat all your shakes. Finish your sedative bottles. Rest when told. The healthier you are, the higher your value, and the better your conditions will be post-auction.”
Post-auction. “Who buys people like this?” The words fall out before I can stop them. “What kind of monsters…?”
“The kind of people who see what you are and what you can do,” she replies softly. “They are not monsters.”
I think of Erik. I remember how he looked at me when the first drop of colostrum appeared. He gazed at me with reverence and awe, his hands not taking but asking. He saw what I could do and what I was becoming, and he loved me like I was his most precious gift, given to him.
These people see me as a commodity and desire to use me until they don’t need me anymore. Then what? I’ll be discarded?
Devereux glances at the clock. “Night rounds will be here soon,” she says. “I’ll update Dr. Rhys personally. He’ll be very pleased with your progress.”
“I hope he chokes on it,” I whisper.
She doesn’t even flinch. “Rest well, little cow,” she says instead. “Phase Two is very demanding. You’ll need your strength.”
She leaves without looking back. The door seals with a soft hiss. I stare at the ceiling until my eyes blur, the pump collecting a part of me with every heartbeat. By the time the nighttime bottle comes, I’m shaking with a fear so deep it feels like it’s rewiring my bones.
The nurse smiles, unaware of the conversation I had. Or perhaps she is aware and choosing not to care.
“Open, little cow,” she whispers. My lips part, and the bottle tips. The sedative flows in, sweet and thick.
As the darkness rises to claim me again, one thought claws its way through the fog, sharp and bright and desperate: I want Erik...
Time moves like thick syrup. Slow. Heavy. Sweet in all the wrong ways. Pump cycles. Bottle feedings. Diaper changes. Vitals. The hum of my pumping machine. The straps are always being adjusted.
The week begins for month two the same way the last one ended: my breasts aching from constant suction, my limbs too soft to fight, my mind sliding between fog and panic.
But there is something new this morning. The nurse with the rope braid stands at the foot of my bed with a folded set of clothes in her hands; again, not mine, but looser, softer, and pale peach in color.
“Good morning, little cow,” she says, her voice serene as always. “Today’s a special day.”
Nothing good starts with those words. I swallow tightly. “Why… is it special?”
“You reached a milestone overnight,” she says, glancing at my pump bottles. “Your output is now, at one point seven liters.”
My breath catches. “How… how is that possible?”
“Your body is responding beautifully to the priming regimen. You were always meant for this.”
Meant for this. I want to scream, but the sound stays lodged behind my teeth. She places the clothes beside me.
“You’ve outgrown your current garments,” she explains. “Your body is preparing for Phase Two. We need to accommodate your development.”
Development. “What does that mean?” I beg.
“You’re fuller,” she says gently. “Softer. Your hips are widening as expected. Your thighs are filling out even more. All normal and all very beneficial.”
Beneficial. For whom? She doesn’t actually answer my questions, yet her eyes say everything.
The breeding program. My stomach twists so violently I almost gag.
She unclips the breast pump harness, and the sudden release makes my breasts feel unbearably heavy. My shirt strains visibly, the seams whispering their protest. The blush-colored top she replaces it with fits better as it flows all around me and yet seems to cut off right at my belly button.
They expect more growth with how flowy the top is. She helps me sit up. The room tilts slightly. A full month of sedatives and enforced stillness has made my muscles weak.
The burly man assigned today steps forward. I know them all by their builds now: Broad Shoulder Guy, Tattoo Man, Cold Eyes Dude, and Shaved Head Man. Today’s is Deep Voice Man, the one who barely speaks, but watches everything.
He lifts me easily and carries me to the bathroom for my shower. Everything is the same as before: warm water over limp limbs, slow shampooing, and the inevitable moment on the toilet where I can’t even close the door, but something is different.
My body. It’s even curvier. My hands hover over my soft belly and rounder hips, stunned by the increased softness there.
The nurse notices. “Lovely,” she murmurs. “You’re almost at the optimal threshold.”
Optimal?! This is not for me, and it is certainly not okay with me.
The shower ends. I’m dried, hair brushed, face washed, teeth cleaned, and diapered. Then carried back and strapped in again. The new top flows, accentuating every curve, and the new-sized shorts stop mid-thigh because my thighs fill them differently now.
She lifts my chin with a single finger.
“I know this is difficult,” she says softly. “But you’re doing extraordinarily well.”
“I don’t want this,” I croak, tears dripping down my face.
“But your body does,” she answers, serene. “And your body never lies.”
I flinch. She adjusts the straps and attaches the pumps again. The new bottles, larger still, click into place with a sound that feels like doom.
A fresh IV mixture with a different color hue is hung overhead. I stare at it. “What’s that?” She smiles gently, as if proud of me for asking.
“Hormone stabilizers. All used in advanced maternal care. Nothing harmful.”
The hormones of pregnancy. My pulse skitters wildly. “But I’m not…” I can’t finish the sentence, as my breaths are heavier pants now.
“Not yet,” she says softly, rubbing my slightly protruding lower tummy with one of her palms. “But you will be ready. Phase Two requires a receptive system. Your endocrine profile is nearly perfect.”
Nearly. She injects the clear medication into the IV line. A cool sensation spreads through my arm, then my ribs, then my throat.
“Relax,” she murmurs. “Your body knows what to do.” I swallow hard.
Deep Voice Man steps closer to check the restraints. His fingers brush my wrist, not touching, just verifying. The belt around my hips is tugged once.
The pump restarts. I gasp at the first pull. The nurse pauses, studying my face.
“Still so sensitive,” she murmurs. “That will change soon. You’ll adapt.”
Adapt. To be drained. To be fed. To being bound. To be primed. I need to be prepared for something I can’t even process without falling apart.
By Wednesday, or so they tell me, I finally stop resisting the shakes.
It feels like giving up. But fighting takes more energy than I have. And every time I try to refuse, a sedative bottle is held to my lips until I go limp.
So now I swallow the shakes. Let them settle. Feel the herbs and hormones working. The nurse praises me. The security men nod approvingly. The pump fills faster. Every few hours, a woman checks the IV line.
“Beautiful absorption.”
“Excellent hydration.”
“Perfect tissue response.”
Perfect. I’m losing pieces of myself in every compliment, and I’m beginning to believe…
that Erik is never coming to get me. This is my life now, and I’ll never see him, or Grace, or the rest of the Halvorsen brothers ever again.
Tears stream hot and wet down my cheeks.
I’ve lost count of how often I cry anymore.
This is my life now. I’m just a breeding cow for the pleasure of my soon-to-be new owner.
Towards the end of the third week of month two, the senior tech, Devereux, returns. She carries a tray with sterile syringes, a small cooler of vials, and a handheld scanner.
She looks me over with a clinical assessment.
“You’re ready,” she says. “Your hormone markers are aligning with the late-partum metrics.”
My stomach drops. “What does that mean?”
“That your body is transitioning beautifully into the receptivity window.”