Claimed by My Mafia Alpha King

Irina’s POV

The pain started during afternoon rounds.

I was at the front desk. Patricia was in the back office filing insurance forms. A woman had just checked in for her appointment, and I’d handed her the clipboard with the intake form when something twisted low in my abdomen.

Not the usual ache. Something sharper.

I pressed my hand flat against my stomach and waited for it to pass.

It didn’t pass.

It got worse.

A slow, tightening pressure that started deep and spread outward, wrapping around my lower back like a hand squeezing. I gripped the edge of the desk. Breathed through my nose. Told myself it was fine, just a cramp, just the baby shifting position, just—

The pressure released.

I exhaled.

"You okay?" The woman at the desk was looking at me with a slight frown.

"Fine." My voice came out steady. I smiled. "Sorry. Let me know if you need help with any of the forms."

She went back to writing.

I sat down in Patricia’s chair and pressed both hands against my stomach.

*It’s fine. You’re fine.*

The baby had been quiet all morning. That happened sometimes — whole stretches where I couldn’t feel movement, where I’d press my hand flat and wait and get nothing back. Dr. Vasquez had told me that was normal. Babies slept. They had quiet days.

This was just a quiet day.

I picked up the patient files that needed updating and started working through them, one by one, forcing myself to focus on the task. Name. Date of birth. Insurance information. Everything in the right order.

Ten minutes passed.

The pain came back.

Harder this time. A deep, grinding pressure that made my breath catch and my vision blur at the edges. I set the pen down very carefully and gripped the arms of the chair.

*Breathe. Just breathe.*

It built and built and built until I couldn’t sit still anymore, until my whole body had gone rigid against it, and then — just when I thought I couldn’t take another second — it crested and slowly, grudgingly, began to ease.

I was shaking.

My hands were shaking. A cold sweat had broken out across my forehead and the back of my neck. I pressed my palm against my mouth and tried to breathe normally.

Something was wrong.

Something was very wrong.

"Irina?"

Dr. Vasquez was standing in the doorway. I hadn’t heard her come in. She was looking at me with that expression she got when she was reading a patient — sharp, focused, already running through possibilities.

"I’m fine," I said automatically.

"You’re white as a sheet." She crossed the room in three steps and pressed two fingers against my wrist, checking my pulse. Her other hand went to my forehead. "When did it start?"

"Just now. It’s nothing. Just a cramp."

"How far apart?"

I stared at her.

"The contractions," she said. Her voice had gone very calm. Very even. The kind of calm that meant something serious was happening and she was already handling it. "How far apart are they?"

"I—" My throat closed. "I don’t know. Ten minutes? Maybe less?"

"Can you stand?"

I nodded.

She helped me up. My legs were unsteady but they held. She guided me toward the hallway, one hand firm on my elbow, and I went because I didn’t know what else to do, because my brain had stopped processing anything beyond the animal understanding that something was happening to my body and I couldn’t stop it.

"Patricia!" Dr. Vasquez’s voice cut through the quiet clinic like a blade. "Clear room two. Now."

Footsteps. Fast. Patricia appeared in the hallway, took one look at me, and disappeared back the way she’d come.

Dr. Vasquez walked me into the exam room and helped me onto the table. The paper crinkled under me. My hands were still shaking. I pressed them flat against my thighs and tried to hold still.

"Lie back," she said.

I lay back.

She lifted my shirt, pressed her hands against my abdomen — gentle, systematic, checking. Her face gave nothing away.

"How many weeks are you?" she asked.

"Thirty-two." My voice sounded far away. "Maybe thirty-three. I don’t know exactly."

"Any bleeding?"

"No."

"Water break?"

"I don’t think so."

Her hands moved lower, pressing carefully. I flinched when she found a spot that hurt.

"Sorry," she murmured. Then, louder: "Patricia, I need the fetal monitor."

Another contraction hit.

This one was worse. So much worse. A vicious, tearing pressure that felt like something inside me was trying to rip its way out. I couldn’t breathe through it. Couldn’t think through it. My hands grabbed the edges of the exam table and held on while my whole body locked up against the pain.

It lasted forever.

When it finally eased, I was gasping. Tears had started without my permission, hot and fast down the sides of my face.

Dr. Vasquez was attaching something to my stomach. Cold gel. Straps. A monitor that beeped once, twice, then settled into a steady rhythm.

The baby’s heartbeat.

Fast. Too fast.

"Irina." Her voice cut through the fog. "Look at me."

I looked at her.

"You’re in preterm labor," she said. "The baby’s coming early."

I heard myself make a sound — low and animal and nothing like my own voice. My back arched off the table. The pain was enormous, all-consuming, a living thing with teeth that had sunk into me and wouldn’t let go.

I collapsed back against the table. My whole body was trembling. The tears wouldn’t stop. I pressed the back of my wrist against my eyes and tried to breathe and couldn’t quite get there.

"I’m scared," I said. The words came out broken. "I’m really scared."

"I know." Dr. Vasquez’s hand found mine. Squeezed once. "But you’re not alone. I’m right here. We’re going to get you through this."

The monitor beeped steadily in the background.

Too fast. Still too fast.

They loaded me onto a stretcher. Dr. Vasquez still held my hand, still talking in that steady voice that was the only anchor I had.

Everything outside became a blur of movement and sound. Inside was just pain. Relentless. Rhythmic. Getting closer together with every minute that passed.

The paramedic was talking. Numbers and medical terms I couldn’t follow. Dr. Vasquez was responding, equally calm, equally professional, and I hated both of them for a moment — hated how steady they were while I was coming apart.

The pain crested.

Released.

I gasped for air.

"Almost there," Dr. Vasquez said. "You’re doing so well, Irina. Just hold on a little longer."

I wasn’t doing well. I was barely holding together. But I nodded anyway because I didn’t have the breath to argue.

"Something’s wrong." My voice came out high and tight. "Something’s—"

"She’s crowning," the paramedic said. His voice had gone sharp.

Dr. Vasquez’s face stayed perfectly calm. "Then we deliver here. Irina, listen to me. The baby’s coming now. Right now. I need you to push when I tell you. Can you do that?"

I couldn’t do that.

I couldn’t do any of this.

But my body was already doing it anyway.

"Push," she said.

I pushed.

The pain was biblical. That was the only word for it — enormous and holy and completely beyond anything I’d ever imagined. It felt like being split in half. Like being torn open from the inside. I screamed and didn’t care who heard it.

"Good. That’s good. Again."

Again.

And again.

And again.

Time collapsed into a single endless moment of pain and pressure and the animal need to get this thing out of me, to be done, to survive whatever was happening to my body.

"One more," Dr. Vasquez said. "One more big push."

I didn’t have one more.

I pushed anyway.

And then — sudden, shocking, absolute — the pressure released.

A thin, sharp cry filled the ambulance.

My baby.

That was my baby crying.

I tried to lift my head. Couldn’t. Everything was spinning. The edges of my vision had gone dark and fuzzy, and there was a sound in my ears like rushing water, and Dr. Vasquez was saying something but I couldn’t hear her over the roaring.

"—too much blood—"

"—pressure dropping—"

"—stay with me, Irina—"

I tried to stay.

I really did.

But the darkness was rising fast, and I was so tired, and the last thing I heard before it swallowed me completely was that cry.