Page 28 of Flight of the Omega

XII

JP didn’t understand.He’d laid eggs before, but he’d never been shapelocked. He’d been able to shapeshift freely, even in the week or two before he laid the eggs.

Why was it different this time? The only thing he could think of didn’t make sense. Maybe only birds withfertilizedeggs got shapelocked. JP had always laid eggs about a week or two after he’d been in heat, after he’d … engaged … with an alpha. They’d always been duds, unfertilized and underdeveloped. They knew that the second he laid them—it was too soon after for proper development. Most omegas, he was told, tended to lay after three or somonths. The eggs needed to be that strong and large to properly hold the weight of the parent bird incubating them, so it took longer for their shells to develop.

The incubation period itself was about ninety days, making for a six-month development period for hatchlings.

The only reason he could think of that he’d be shapelocked now was that he was …

Well, pregnant. These eggs, for whatever reason, had been successfully fertilized, whereas the others had not and that was why he had delivered them too quickly after heat.

The thought made him a little sick. He’d been told he was completely infertile, because he was a hybrid. But he’d been bred with full-blood Alerians before. Jack wasn’t—Jack was half, like JP was. Did that make some kind of difference? JP didn’t think it would. Or it shouldn’t.

Maybe he’d needed to pay more attention in biology class when he’d been in school.

A week, then two slipped by, and he started to sweat more when he realized he definitely didn’t feel like he had the times he’d laid eggs. Then, he’d felt crampy and irritated before the eggs had come.

This time, every morning he woke up, nothing. He didn’t feel crampy or irritable or anything.

Two weeks turned into three, and three turned into four, and JP could hardly think about anything other than the fact he hadn’t delivered any eggs yet. Four weeks was unheard of for him. And he was still shapelocked.

Which meant something different was happening this time.

He didn’t know what the hell to do about hatchlings. Maybe once he laid the eggs, he could … give them to one of the other birds. Abandon the nest. Something. Anything.

He didn’t know what he’d tell his father if he delivered eggs. He’d have to hide them. And what could he possibly tell Jack?

Nothing, it seemed. Jack wouldn’t even look at him these days. That made everything worse. So much worse. Not only was JP pregnant, he’d been abandoned by his alpha once again.

He tried to tell himself it didn’t matter. What had he been expecting anyway? He’d signed up for a one-heat stand, and that was what Jack had given him. He’d never wanted anything more. Neither of them had.

Still, JP felt hurt, bruised. Hadn’t Jack told him to trust him? Hadn’t Jack said he didn’t want to hurt him? And yet here he was, hurting JP, betraying his trust. Jack had lied to him.

JP didn’t know what to do, so he kept to himself, to his room. He gave himself over to instinct; he wanted to build a nest—a better nest—so he did. He gathered sticks in the yard when he went out. He raided linen closets around the house for blankets, and he used the flowers Teal brought on a daily basis to line the nest.

He’d gone broody, all right.

Five weeks in, he was weepy and ravenous, which was a weird combination, but he went with it. He spent more time in the mess, eating his feelings. Jack had hurt him. Jack had lied. He’d screwed up and now he was carrying around a bunch of eggs that were his and Jack’s, and Jack wouldn’t even talk to him.

Jack didn’t love him. Jack wouldn’t love their hatchlings. Jack wouldn’t help him with the eggs. Jack had left him, just like every other mate that had been forced on him.

Maybe there was something wrong with him. Something that made alphas want to hurt him. Made them hate him.

He didn’t know. All he knew was that it hurt that Jack wouldn’t talk to him. Made him feel helpless. He was scared, drowning in it, and he wanted to reach out, but it was like the fear was dragging him under, keeping him from saying anything at all.

His father came down to Midlothian to oversee the final preparations the week before the Rose Plate. It was getting to be brutally hot, and JP was on his way to get some water from the mess. JP didn’t even know that William J. Crane had arrived until they bumped into each other on the way up to the guest wing.

“Ah, right,” William said, frowning, “I’d forgotten I sent you down here. I wondered who in the hell was staying in the master suite.”

“Mm,” JP said, averting his gaze.

William lifted a brow. “Is that all you’ve got to say to me?” He sneered, then stepped closer to JP. He stunk of cigars and whiskey; no doubt he’d just been entertaining some of the guests who had shown up early—the investors, the bookmakers. “You could saythank you, you know. Thank you, Father, for letting a uselessbitchtry his hand at something else—and what’s this? I sent you down here to see if you could run, win that plate, not to see how many bloody plates you could fill your beak with.”

He grabbed JP by the chin and forced his head up. “You look like a Christmas goose,” he spat, “like a duck for foie gras—so fat you can hardly waddle around here, huh?”

JP gritted his teeth against tears. This was the last thing he needed. His heart started to hammer in his ears, resounding between them. He felt sick.

“Disgusting,” William sneered, finally releasing him, giving him a bit of a shove. “What’ve you been doing, huh? Not running, not ready for running that damn race, that’s for sure! Where’s Burr?”