Page 48 of The Alien Minotaur's Bride

"You were beautiful then." He crossed the room, his hooves quiet on the floor. His hand found my hip, steadying me on the stepping block. "You are more beautiful now."

"I'm the size of a small shuttle."

"You are carrying my child." His other hand came up to cup my belly, warm and reverent. "You could be the size of the dwelling itself and I would still find you beautiful."

"That's because you're biased."

"That's because I have excellent taste."

I laughed despite myself. His hand moved from my belly to my breast, testing the weight, and the familiar ache flared – the pressure that had been building since I woke, earlier than usual, my production increasing alongside everything else.

"Already?" he murmured.

"Already."

"Then we should tend to you."

He lifted me off the stepping block with one arm, easy as breathing, and carried me back to the main room.

The milking had become something I looked forward to.

I'd stopped pretending otherwise weeks ago. The relief was too profound, the pleasure too deep, the intimacy too necessary. Every few hours now, my breasts filled to discomfort, and every few hours, he tended to me – his hands working the pressure loose, his mouth drawing out the milk in steady, reverent pulls.

I lay back against the pile of furs he'd arranged for exactly this purpose, my swollen belly curved towards the ceiling, and let him work.

His fingers were impossibly gentle for their size. They found the ache in my tissue and eased it, pressing and releasing, coaxing the milk to flow. When he lowered his mouth to my nipple, the sensation rolled through me in waves – pleasure and relief tangled together, better than anything I could have managed alone.

"More?" he asked, lifting his head.

"Don't stop."

He smiled against my skin and went back to work.

My hands found his shoulders, fingers sinking into the dense fur there. It was warm under my palms, soft and thick, and I could feel the muscle moving beneath as he adjusted his position. His tail moved behind him in the loose, contented sweep I'd learned to read as happiness.

The milk flowed easily now. My body had stopped fighting the process – had stopped fighting any of it, really. Whatever the serum had begun, the pregnancy had completed. I was fully, irrevocably changed.

I watched him drink from me and felt nothing but satisfaction.

I noticed the all-fours thing by accident.

Three weeks into the rapid progression of the pregnancy, my belly had grown large enough that moving through the nest required thought. The soft walls I'd built caught on my sides when I tried to manoeuvre. The furs shifted unpredictably beneath my weight. Standing up and sitting down had become exercises in careful balance.

And one morning, navigating from one side of the nest to the other, I simply dropped to my hands and knees.

It was easier. The weight distributed differently – my belly suspended rather than pulling forward, my spine aligned rather than curved. I crawled across the soft surface and settled into the corner I'd been aiming for, and it wasn't until I'd been there for several minutes that I realised what I'd done.

I'd moved like an animal. Like –

Like an omega, some part of my brain supplied. Like what you are.

I waited for the embarrassment to arrive. The indignation. The part of me that should have been horrified at the regression, at moving through space on all fours like I'd given up on being human entirely.

It didn't come.

The second time it happened, I didn't even notice until afterwards. I'd crawled from the nest to the modified chair and back again, following Keth's voice, and only realised I'd done the whole journey on hands and knees when I was already settled back into the furs.

By the third time, I stopped keeping track.