Page 50 of Evan and the Alpha

Ge-Ro frowns. “He has a point.”

“I don’t know,” Yafir says, “he smells pregnant to me.”

“And what does that smell like anyway?” I grumble, suddenly fed up with them.

“Like talc,” Sobek says, “and milk.” Then he drains his mug. He eyes me warily.

“Milk,” I mutter. “You guys don’t even have nipples, you—”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Ge-Ro sounds incredibly confused.

“Humans feed their infants milk from their own bodies,” Darwin murmurs, then drains his mug. He glares down into it when he’s done; his cheeks are rosy, like he’s embarrassed.

“What!” Ge-Ro and Yafir cry in unison.

“That’s weird,” Yafir says.

“Do your infants not have teeth?”

I shake my head. “Nope. Babies don’t have teeth—they can’t have solid food.”

“So strange,” Yafir says again. His eyes are still full of curiosity, wonder.

Darwin clears his throat. “Of course,” he says, “it’s unlikely Evan really is pregnant—”

Sobek growls at him, and he holds up his hands. “I mean, it’s just unlikely, given that Evan is more like an alpha than an omega.”

“Analpha,” Sobek mutters, then looks at me. I shrug.

“And,” Darwin continues, “our peoples seem very far apart in terms of reproduction, so it’s rather unlikely that viable offspring would be produced from the union anyway.”

I nod. “Like, basically, we’re too weird for each other.” I look at Sobek. “Sorry.”

He shakes his head. “You are my mate,” he says sternly. “You are an omega, and you are already pregnant.”

I shake my head. “Sorry, dude.”

He frowns, like he’s particularly annoyed bydude. Darwin sighs. “I guess there is one way to confirm it,” he says.

Sobek perks up. “How?” I ask, frowning.

Darwin sighs, then gives me a guilty look. “We have a couple of pregnancy tests in the kit.”

“What,” I spit. “Darwin, what the fuck? Why would you have that, we’re both dudes, so—”

He holds up a hand. “They’re standard issue,” he says, “for every mission that’s going to be on planet longer than a month. And two, they can detect prostate cancer.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling a little bewildered. Then I frown at him. “So, like, if I take it and it’s positive …”

Darwin looks apologetic. “You might have cancer. Or you might be pregnant.”

I stare at him for what feels like a very long time. Then I release a long, slow breath. “Okay. Let’s do this. Let’s get this thing fired up.” I look at Sobek. “It’s gonna be negative.”

He frowns, shakes his head, like he doesn’t understand.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m standing in our room, holding a positive pregnancy test in my hands. Nothing feels real, not the plastic of the test, not my hands holding it, not my feet on the ground.

We’ve narrowed down the possibilities with two little pink lines. I want to throw up.