Chapter 2 The Missing Pregnant Man
# Chapter 2: The Missing Pregnant Man
Harley Bourn's office overlooked the entire city skyline, a visual reminder of her family's reach and influence. Today, however, she wasn't admiring the view. Her attention was fixed on the screens surrounding her desk, each displaying different surveillance footage from around the city.
"Nothing at the train stations. Nothing at the airports. It's like he vanished," reported her head of security, a former intelligence officer who had never failed her until now.
"People don't vanish," Harley said, her voice tight with barely controlled rage. "Especially not marked Omegas."
Six weeks had passed since that night at the clinic. eight weeks of escalating anxiety, of phantom pains in her marking glands, of dreams so vivid they left her gasping awake. The biological bond was asserting itself, demanding proximity to her marked Omega.
"Dr. Armstrong cleared out his apartment, closed his practice, transferred all his patients to colleagues," the security chief continued. "Very thorough. Very methodical."
"And very suspicious," Harley added, pinching the bridge of her nose. The headaches were getting worse. "He's running from something specific. From me."
Her assistant knocked and entered without waiting for permission—a liberty granted only in emergencies.
"This just arrived by courier," she said, placing a small refrigerated container on Harley's desk. "Biohazard protocols observed. It's addressed to you personally."
Harley dismissed her staff with a gesture. When alone, she examined the container. No return address, but the sender was obvious. Only one person would send her something requiring refrigeration. With gloved hands, she opened it to find a sealed vial containing what appeared to be tissue samples preserved in solution. A handwritten note accompanied it:
"Problem solved. Bond dissolved. Tissue samples enclosed for verification. Consider us even. -A.A."
Her hands trembled as understanding dawned. He had undergone marking removal surgery—a dangerous, experimental procedure that physically excised the bonded gland tissue. The very thought made her throat close up in primal distress.
Within the hour, Harley was in her private laboratory, demanding immediate DNA analysis of the samples. The chief scientist worked quickly, aware of her volatile mood.
"Results are clear, Ms. Bourn," he finally reported. "The tissue contains marking bond hormones consistent with your specific pheromone signature."
"And the DNA? Is it his?"
The scientist hesitated. "It appears to be Dr. Armstrong's, but—"
"But what?" she snapped.
"There are inconsistencies. Minor ones. The kind we might see in cloned tissue or synthesized biological material."
Harley's anger erupted. She swept the lab equipment from the counter, sending glass shattering across the sterile floor. "He faked it. He's still marked." A strange mixture of fury and relief flooded her system.
"That's... possible," the scientist admitted, keeping his distance from her rage. "The samples could be cultured from his original cells, modified to appear as though—"
"Find him," she ordered, already striding toward the door. "Use every resource we have. I want him found yesterday."
---
In a small cottage on the outskirts of a coastal town three hundred miles away, Austin Armstrong pressed a cold cloth to his forehead. The morning sickness was supposed to subside after the first trimester, but at twelve weeks, it showed no signs of abating. If anything, it was getting worse, striking at unpredictable hours.
"It's not just morning sickness," he murmured to his rounded abdomen as he sat on the porch swing of his rental cottage. "It's her. She's searching for us."
The pregnancy was progressing faster than normal—another anomaly to add to the growing list. His medical training told him to seek help, but his instincts warned him to stay hidden. The child he carried wasn't just rare; if his suspicions were correct, it was unprecedented.
He reached for the sour oranges he'd picked that morning from the cottage's small orchard. The acid helped with the nausea, a remedy passed down through generations of pregnant Omegas. As he bit into one, juice running down his chin, he felt a flutter in his abdomen—too early for a kick, but a definite presence making itself known.
"I know," he whispered. "I feel her too."
Miles away, in her penthouse suite, Harley collapsed to her knees, clutching her chest. The sudden pain was unlike anything she'd experienced—not a heart attack, but something deeper, as though a cord attached to her soul was being violently tugged.
Her heat had arrived weeks early, the second time this had happened since that night. This wasn't coincidence. This was the bond, strengthening despite distance, despite Austin's attempts to sever it.
Through gritted teeth, she ordered her driver to prepare the car. She didn't know where she was going, but her body did. Like a compass needle finding north, every cell in her being oriented toward a distant point—toward him.
---
The small coastal town was quiet in the off-season. Austin had chosen it carefully—remote enough to avoid recognition, but close enough to medical facilities should complications arise. He'd established a new identity, kept to himself, and carefully monitored his health with portable equipment smuggled from his former clinic.
Today, something felt different. The air seemed charged, his marking scar throbbing with renewed intensity. He knew what it meant even before he consciously acknowledged it.
She was coming.
He'd prepared for this possibility. The cottage had emergency exits, a packed go-bag, a car with fake plates. But as he moved to enact his escape plan, a wave of exhaustion hit him so forcefully he had to grasp the doorframe to remain standing.
The pregnancy was taking its toll, depleting his energy reserves faster than he could replenish them. Running now might endanger the child, and despite everything, Austin had already formed an attachment to the life growing inside him—a life that defied medical probability.
Instead of fleeing, he donned a loose sweater to disguise his growing bump and headed to the orchard. If confrontation was inevitable, he would meet it on his terms, with dignity and a contingency plan.
He was reaching for a particularly sour orange when the crunch of tires on gravel announced her arrival.
Harley stepped out of her luxury SUV, her usual polished appearance at odds with the wild look in her eyes. She wore no scent blockers today; her Alpha pheromones rolled across the garden like storm clouds, making the hair on Austin's arms stand on end.
"You're a difficult man to find, Doctor," she said, her voice deceptively calm.
"That was the intention," he replied, continuing to select oranges as though her presence was merely an inconvenience rather than a threat.
"You sent me fake samples."
"I sent you closure."
She stepped closer, inhaling deeply. "You're still marked. I can smell it on you."
Austin finally turned to face her fully, one hand resting protectively on his abdomen—a gesture that didn't escape Harley's notice. Her eyes widened, fixing on the slight but unmistakable swell beneath his sweater.
"Impossible," she whispered, all color draining from her face.
"Improbable," he corrected, reaching into his pocket. "Not impossible."
The small tranquilizer gun had been a medical tool in his former practice, used for administering sedatives to patients experiencing severe hormone-induced episodes. Now, he pointed it steadily at Harley.
"Ms. Bourn," he said, his voice clinical despite the situation. "I believe we have two options here. You can leave and forget you ever found me, or we can discuss the implications of what you're seeing."
Harley's gaze remained fixed on his abdomen, emotions warring across her normally controlled features. "That's... mine?"
"Biologically speaking, yes. In every other sense—" He left the sentence unfinished.
A notification sound broke the tension. Harley's phone displayed an incoming secure message. With one eye still on Austin, she opened it to find an anonymous email containing only an attachment.
The subject line read: "Fetal Genetic Analysis: Bourn-Armstrong Conception."
Austin's expression betrayed nothing, but his grip on the tranquilizer gun tightened. "You have resources. I have foresight. Did you really think I wouldn't prepare for this moment?"
Harley opened the attachment. The report detailed a 99.9% genetic match confirming her parentage of Austin's child, but the final section was highlighted in red: "Anomalous genetic markers detected; unknown mutation present in chromosomal structure."
When she looked up from the screen, her eyes had changed—the wild desperation replaced by something more dangerous: calculation.
"What have you done, Doctor?" she asked quietly.
Austin's free hand remained protectively over his abdomen. "The question isn't what I've done," he replied. "It's what you're going to do now, Ms. Bourn. Is it the glands you want to extract from me... or your offspring?"
