The suffocating silence of the midnight hours hung over the master bedroom of the mansion, broken only by the synchronized ticking of a distant clock. Outside the grand windows, the grounds were pitched in darkness, but inside the bed, Malcolm was experiencing a crisis.
He shifted his weight to the left. Then to the right. Then flat onto his back. Every single position felt utterly intolerable. It was like his S-tier Alpha anatomy was actively waging war against itself, the shifting internal metrics of the two-week-old pregnancy making his stomach feel tight, bloated, and uncomfortable. The toxic mountain of pickled herring puree, sardine curds, and sugary mustard tripe pudding he had spitefully devoured at the restaurant hours ago was now taking its ultimate biological revenge.
Malcolm let out a low, miserable groan, his knuckles gripping the sheets as a wave of heat rolled through his abdomen. He cut his eyes sideways through the dark.
