Page 16 of Nursing the Alpha
The sound was sharp and awkward in the pristine hallway.
“Ah. Well. You won’t be… chest-feeding directly.”
I blinked.
“I won’t?”
“No.” She smoothed her hands down her skirt. “They’ve asked that you express milk only. There’s a dedicated room set up for you.”
“Oh.” I tried to hide my confusion, but it came out in my voice anyway. “That’s… unusual. Most parents ask me to feed in person, at least for the first week. Skin-to-skin helps the babies latch, and there’s usually a body-bonding period. Even if I’m just here to pump, they usually want some in-arms time, you know? For the oxytocin.”
She looked mildly horrified. Or maybe just uncomfortable.
“They were very clear,” she said. “No direct nursing.”
My pecs ached in protest, like they’d heard the news and decided to panic. I nodded slowly, biting the inside of my cheek.
“Okay. Sure.”
It wasn’t my place to ask questions. Not with this much money involved.
Faith gave a short nod and gestured for me to follow. We walked down a wide hallway lined with tall windows that let in hazy morning light. Everything in this house felt expensive but… still. No signs of life. No framed art made by little hands, no stray pacifier underfoot, no soft hum of a baby monitor from a nearby room. Just polished silence.
She stopped at a door near the end of the hall and opened it for me.
“This is your space.”
The room was honestly beautiful.
Soft neutral tones, sage-green walls, and warm amber lighting that made everything feel calm and spa-like. A plush rug covered most of the hardwood floor. A pull-out sofa, already folded down into a twin-sized bed, sat against the far wall with a neatly folded blanket on top and a side table holding a clock, a water carafe, and a noise machine.
One entire wall—directly across from the sofa—was made of glass.
Not a window. No view of the outside. Just a smooth, reflective surface that caught the light strangely, like it absorbed more than it gave back. A decorative design, maybe? Modern architecture loved those strange flourishes.
I tilted my head and stepped closer, raising my hand to touch it. The glass was cool beneath my fingers, seamless with the frame. No light behind it. No hint of what was on the other side. Just my distorted reflection staring back at me, chest rising and falling under the weight of too much milk.
I found it… curious. But not worth questioning. This whole place was already fancy enough to justify weird design choices.
I turned away and continued taking everything in.
A dedicated wash-up station held a deep basin sink, mini soap dispensers, and a hand towel rack. Built-in shelving lined one side of the room, already stocked with labeled milk storage bottles in neat rows, their blue caps gleaming under soft lights. Next to them lay a few warming bottles too, still wrapped in plastic.
A full-size mini-fridge hummed quietly beside a small prep counter. And beside it sat a compact cart on wheels with everything you’d need for a proper session—lanolin cream, nipple shields, sterilizing wipes.
Then I saw the equipment.
A sleek, top-of-the-line hand pump, all curved edges and silicone-soft parts, set out beside a modern electric double pump with a digital display. Both sparkling clean. Untouched.
My body practically sighed. I already felt the milk nudging at my ducts, preparing to let down at the mere sight of the gear. “You can use whichever setup you prefer.” Faith gestured toward the pumps. “Although the family does prefer… hand expression, if possible.”
I blinked. “Hand?”
“Yes.”
I tried not to frown. “That’s a little unusual.”
“It’s what they requested,” she said lightly, but something flickered in her eyes. She knew it was strange too. “You’re welcome to use the pump if it’s easier or more efficient. But if you’re willing to express at least part of your sessions by hand, it would be appreciated.”
