Chapter 3 Forced Confinement
# Chapter 3: Forced Confinement
The journey to Harley's estate passed in tense silence. Austin sat in the backseat of the luxury SUV, separated from Harley by her security detail. He had surrendered his tranquilizer gun in exchange for certain guarantees—medical equipment, privacy, and the promise that after the birth, he would be free to leave. Whether Harley intended to honor those promises remained to be seen.
The mansion appeared on the horizon like a modern fortress—glass and steel rising from manicured grounds, surveillance cameras disguised as architectural elements. Austin noted each security measure, each potential exit, storing the information for later use.
"Your prison awaits, Doctor," Harley said, breaking the silence as they pulled into a private underground garage.
"I prefer to think of it as a temporary medical facility," Austin replied, his hand absently stroking his growing abdomen.
Once inside, Austin was escorted to a suite in the east wing—luxuriously appointed but unmistakably secure. The windows, while offering spectacular views of the grounds, were reinforced and electronically locked. The door required biometric authentication from approved personnel only.
Harley watched as he inspected the room, noting his clinical assessment. "Everything you requested is here," she said, gesturing to the medical monitoring equipment in an adjoining room. "The kitchen is stocked according to your dietary specifications. Your clothing is in the closet."
Austin raised an eyebrow at this last detail. "You seem to have anticipated my eventual capture."
"I prefer to think of it as your inevitable return," she countered, stepping closer. "After all, you carry something that belongs to me."
"Belongs?" Austin's voice remained calm, but his scent—cedar with undertones of something sharper now—betrayed his anger. "This child is not property, Ms. Bourn."
"Perhaps not," she conceded. "But neither is it a bargaining chip to be used against me."
Their eyes locked in silent combat until Harley finally turned to leave. At the doorway, she paused. "You'll have everything you need here. Once the child is born healthy, you're free to go, as agreed."
The door closed behind her with a soft click followed by the unmistakable sound of an electronic lock engaging.
Austin immediately began exploring his gilded cage, checking for surveillance devices and testing the limits of his confinement. The suite was extensive—bedroom, bathroom, living area, small kitchen, and a fully-equipped medical monitoring room. Everything a pregnant Omega might need, nothing a prisoner might use to escape.
On the nightstand beside the bed, he found something unexpected—a delicate silver chain with a small vial attached. Inside the vial, a viscous amber liquid caught the light. A note accompanied it: "For your comfort during the pregnancy. My personal pheromones."
Austin scoffed, placing the necklace back on the nightstand. Alpha arrogance, assuming he would want her scent close for comfort. What she didn't understand was that he didn't need the vial—her scent was already part of him, embedded in his cells through the marking, amplified by the child he carried.
That night, as he lay in the too-soft bed, Austin reached into the hidden pocket he'd sewn into his waistband and extracted a small syringe filled with clear fluid. He had prepared it before Harley found him—insurance against the very situation in which he now found himself.
---
Harley was reviewing security footage when the first wave hit her—a sudden, inexplicable feeling of wrongness that started in her chest and spread outward. Her vision blurred, her thoughts scattered, and a cold sweat broke out across her skin.
"Ms. Bourn?" Her security chief's voice sounded distant. "Should I call a doctor?"
"No," she managed, struggling to her feet. "I need to check on him. Now."
She staggered to the elevator, punching the button for the east wing with trembling fingers. By the time she reached Austin's suite, the symptoms had intensified—racing heart, difficulty breathing, a sense of impending doom that defied rational thought.
The biometric lock recognized her despite her deteriorated state. She pushed through the door to find Austin sitting calmly in an armchair, reading a medical journal as if nothing was amiss.
"What did you do to me?" she demanded, her voice hoarse.
Austin looked up with clinical interest. "Pheromone disruption syndrome," he diagnosed. "Quite severe. You should sit before you fall."
"You drugged me?" She grabbed the doorframe for support.
"I balanced the equation," he corrected. "You've imprisoned me and my child. I've simply ensured you have a vested interest in our continued well-being."
Harley slumped into the nearest chair, her normally commanding presence diminished by whatever was raging through her system. "Explain."
"I've introduced a synthetic compound that targets Alpha pheromone production," Austin said, setting aside his journal. "It creates temporary dependency on the marked Omega's stabilizing hormones. In simple terms, Ms. Bourn, your body now believes it needs mine to function properly."
"That's impossible," she growled, though the evidence was currently coursing through her veins.
Austin smiled thinly. "As impossible as my pregnancy? The medical community has underestimated Omega biochemistry for generations. A mistake I've used to my advantage."
"What do you want?" Harley asked, her breathing gradually steadying as proximity to Austin seemed to ease her symptoms.
"Originally? Your gland tissue for research," he admitted. "Now? A guarantee that neither I nor this child will become subjects in whatever experiment your family is conducting."
Harley's eyes narrowed despite her discomfort. "What experiment?"
"Don't insult my intelligence," Austin said coldly. "The Bourn Pharmaceutical Division has been researching ABO genetic manipulation for decades. This child's unexpected genetic markers aren't coincidental."
Before Harley could respond, Austin suddenly winced, pressing a hand to his abdomen. At the exact same moment, Harley felt a corresponding twinge in her own body—a ghost sensation that made no biological sense.
"What was that?" she asked, momentarily distracted from their confrontation.
Austin's expression shifted to one of genuine surprise. "The fetus just moved. You shouldn't have been able to feel that."
For several seconds, they stared at each other in mutual confusion. Then, as if responding to their awareness, the sensation repeated—Austin feeling the movement within his body, Harley experiencing it as a sympathetic echo.
"That's not possible," Harley whispered.
"And yet," Austin replied, his scientific curiosity temporarily overriding his hostility, "it appears our pheromonal bond has created some form of shared physiological response."
The realization shifted something fundamental between them. This was no longer simply captor and captive, Alpha and Omega. They were connected in ways neither medicine nor science had documented.
Over the following weeks, their bizarre symbiosis became increasingly apparent. When Harley entered her heat cycle, Austin suffered crippling nausea that no medication could touch. When the baby grew particularly active, Harley experienced phantom movements and inexplicable emotional surges.
They developed a reluctant routine around these shared experiences. Harley would visit the suite daily, ostensibly to check on her "investment" but increasingly to experience the strange connection to the life growing inside Austin. For his part, Austin began to document their symptoms with scientific precision, turning his confinement into a research opportunity.
The balance of power between them remained precarious. Austin's mobility was restricted, but Harley's biological autonomy was compromised. Neither fully trusted the other, yet both recognized their temporary interdependence.
One evening, as Austin was conducting his usual self-examination in front of the medical monitors, Harley entered without announcement. She had grown accustomed to the keyless access her biometrics provided, forgetting that in any other context, such intrusions would be considered a violation.
"Don't you knock?" Austin asked irritably, lowering his shirt to cover the monitoring pads attached to his swollen abdomen.
"Not in my own house," she replied, then paused, noticing something unusual on one of the screens. "Is that normal?"
Austin followed her gaze to the fetal heartbeat monitor, where the pattern showed subtle but distinct irregularities. "It's been happening occasionally. Nothing concerning yet."
"Yet?" The edge in her voice betrayed her concern.
Before Austin could respond, the security alarm blared throughout the mansion. Harley's phone buzzed with an emergency alert.
"Stay here," she ordered, already moving toward the door. "Security lockdown protocol. The suite will seal automatically."
Once alone, Austin moved quickly. From beneath the mattress, he retrieved a small device he'd assembled from components smuggled in with his medical equipment. One press of a button, and the security camera in his suite began playing a pre-recorded loop of him reading in bed.
With practiced efficiency, he removed a surgical blade from his medical kit and made a small, calculated incision on his forearm. Blood welled immediately, dripping onto the pristine white carpet in a deliberate pattern.
Then he positioned himself beneath the camera, clearly visible, and pressed the blade against his marked neck—directly over his bond gland.
It took exactly four minutes for the security system to alert Harley to the blood detection in Austin's suite. By the time she burst through the door, wild-eyed and radiating distress, he had positioned the blade with surgical precision.
"Stop!" she commanded, her Alpha voice reverberating with such force that several items on nearby shelves rattled.
Austin met her gaze steadily, the blade unwavering. "I think it's time we renegotiated the terms of my stay, don't you?"
The standoff lasted seconds that felt like hours. Then Harley did something Austin hadn't anticipated. She dropped to her knees, a position of vulnerability no Alpha would willingly assume.
"Please," she said, her voice stripped of command. "Don't harm yourself. Don't harm our child."
The word "our" hung between them, unexpected and transformative. Before Austin could process what it meant, a sudden, sharp pain lanced through his abdomen. He gasped, the blade falling from his fingers as he doubled over.
Harley was at his side instantly, her arms supporting him with surprising gentleness. As the pain intensified, Austin felt her pheromones shift—no longer threatening but protective, soothing. Without conscious decision, she was releasing calming hormones, her body responding instinctively to his distress.
And then, as Austin's pain reached its peak, Harley did what neither of them had anticipated. She pressed her face to his neck and bit down on his marking gland, reinforcing the bond between them.
The effect was immediate and profound. The pain subsided, replaced by a wave of warmth that spread through Austin's body. The fetal monitor, still attached to his abdomen, showed the baby's heartbeat stabilizing.
But most remarkable was the sudden flood of hormones that seemed to emanate from the child itself—a biochemical response that felt distinctly like an Alpha's soothing pheromones, yet originated from within Austin's womb.
As awareness returned, they found themselves entangled on the floor, Harley still holding Austin protectively, her teeth marks fresh on his neck.
"What just happened?" she whispered against his skin.
Austin's scientific mind was already analyzing, connecting the impossible dots. "I think," he said slowly, "our child just intervened."
Later that night, after Austin had been examined by Harley's private physician, the doctor pulled her aside with a troubled expression.
"Ms. Bourn," he said quietly, ensuring they were out of Austin's earshot. "I've reviewed the genetic profiles and fetal development patterns."
"And?" Harley prompted, sensing his hesitation.
The doctor's hands trembled slightly as he handed her a tablet displaying complex genetic sequencing. "This child's genetic structure... it shows signs of deliberate engineering. The kind of precision that can only come from laboratory intervention."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying," the doctor replied, lowering his voice further, "that Dr. Armstrong's pregnancy wasn't a million-to-one accident. This child was designed."
