Rose, next to the photographer, casts a scathing glare at Lo. “I’m the genius that wanted the real skyline in the photos and not a Photoshopped one.”
“Your real goal is to freeze our balls off,” Lo rebuts, teeth chattering.
“Secondary goal, and only for you, Loren.”
Lo glares at the sky. “I’m officially in hell.”
Rose places her hands on her hips, ignoring him and inspecting the rooftop scene. Her elegant shearling coat keeps her and her bun-in-the-oven toasty. Lily and I are hugging onto one another beneath a thin hotel blanket.
“I can’t watch this for long,” Lily whispers and shivers against me. Her pained eyes reflect Lo’s trouble withstanding the elements. She starts typing on her phone.
How can you tell if someone has hypothermia?
She’s really concerned.
“Hey, just think, Lil, if it comes to that you can use your body heat to warm him and have epic I’m-keeping-you-alive sex.” I don’t mention how I modeled dresses during winter nights colder than this. Sometimes in unheated pools.
Lily contemplates this and tugs her Wampa cap down with one hand. “I can’t have I’m-keeping-you-alive sex if he’s dead.”
“Look alive, Loren,” Rose snaps.
Lily’s eyes widen like he’s near death.
“He’s totally alive.” I point at Lo. “That’s a classic Loren Hale glare, with a classic Loren Hale haircut, and a classic Loren Hale jawline.”
He flashes a half-smile in our direction.
“Classic,” I say.
Lily relaxes against my side, and I’m tall enough that I can rest my chin on her head. I might be twenty-three to her twenty-seven, but I think she’ll always look younger than me.
Lo blows on his hands.
“Relax, Loren.” That’s the photographer.
Lo shoots him a really nasty look that could cut up fingers and toes. Maybe because the photographer wears a warm trench coat, winter beanie, and woolen scarf.
“Ryke, hands off,” the photographer chastises.
Ryke is “adjusting” himself. “You put me in thirty-degree fucking weather in underwear only, and things are gonna fucking move.”
“Shrinkage is a real thing?” I ask aloud.
Connor begins, “Scientifically speaking—”
“Here we fucking go,” Ryke grumbles.
“—the penis and testicles move closer to the body to seek warmth when cold, all to protect sperm, which is healthiest in a set temperature range.”
“The more you know,” Lo says and shivers. He finds some heat just to glare at Rose again. “Think of our goddamn sperm.”
“I’d rather drink acid.”
Lo retorts, “That can be fucking arranged.”
Rose leans over to the photographer. “Are there any photos where Loren doesn’t look like he’s going to butcher everyone’s family?”
“Just yours!” Lo shouts.
“Her family is my family,” Connor reminds him.
Lo sighs and then shivers again. “Jesus Christ, I’m too young to die.”
Lily can’t stand here any longer. As she bolts towards Lo, I give her the blanket. She’s wrapped up in it, and his whole demeanor just relaxes at the sight of his wife. When I reached the roof, she already told Rose her pregnancy news, and I saw the tiniest tear-track on Rose’s cheek.
A tiny one for Rose is the equivalent of a sob.
Lily wraps her arms and blanket around Lo. The photographer keeps taking pictures and tells Rose to join her husband and for me to join mine.
I hesitate because I made a promise to myself not to model anymore.
Is this the same?
Rose is already sharing the lounge chair, drilling a glare through her husband. He only grins back.
Ryke is about to leave the photo shoot, but I go to him, making up my mind. He shakes his head at me like Daisy, don’t be fucking forced into this.
I’m not.
“This is my decision,” I tell him. I don’t feel strange about it or numb. It feels right because I’m not alone here. I’m with my sisters. I’m with him.
Ryke isn’t controlling, as much as the tabloids like to paint him as the “older possessive man” in my life. He’s overprotective where it matters, and he always listens to what I want. So he backs down immediately, nodding.
Then he suddenly lifts me up on his shoulders, my legs draped over his chest.
I smile down at him.
He looks up at me.
I howl like I found my mate, and he clasps the side of my face, the one with the long, old scar. And my wolf—he kisses me.
[ 14 ]
May 2019
Manhattan Medical Hospital
New York City
ROSE COBALT
“He or she is coming out before midnight,” I proclaim like it’s ancient fact written in stone slabs. “We’ve made an agreement.” I readjust my hospital gown, no longer suffocating at the neck. Then I hold my round stomach. Nine-months with this little monster and I’m ready for him or her to skedaddle right on out of my vagina.
It’s time for you to meet the world.
Though I know, like I did with Jane and Beckett and Charlie, that I’ll miss these moments where it’s just me and them. Where even in the quietest closet I can whisper little nothings and little somethings and they’d kick in reply.
Connor is all logic. He’d say the fetus is just reacting to noise. I’d like to think they knew exactly what I said, and they kicked until their mother heard their voice loud and clear.
I hear you, little gremlins.
“Rose,” Connor says from the chair nearest my hospital bed, “you can’t make agreements with an unborn child.”
I raise my hand at his grin. “I can and I did, Richard.” I fix my ponytail again. Twelve hours in labor and I’m already begging for the experience to end. It has nothing to do with pain, which is mild so far. The doctor hasn’t even recommended an epidural yet.
It has everything to do with being confined to a bed, in a hospital gown, with all my children out of my care and in Lily, Poppy, and Daisy’s for the night. They stopped by earlier with Jane, Beckett, and Charlie, but they all left when they realized how mind-numbingly long this would be.
I’ve already reapplied my mascara and lipstick to fill the wait. I also feel more put-together and comfortable when I pamper myself. So that’s why I fix my hair for the umpteenth time.
Connor and I have exhausted most of our games, including seventeen crossword puzzles. I’ve even tried sending him away so we can communicate by text, but he refuses to leave the hospital in case I go into labor.
It’s admirable. I’d even give him a gold star for his loyalty, but Connor is the kind of soldier that would rip the sword out of the king’s hand and knight himself. He doesn’t need me to present him with any honors.
Connor leans back, his fingers to his jaw, and my gaze grows hot at his calmness. I scoot further up, sitting taller and straighter to match his poise. Fuck slouching. I ignore the throb in my lower back.
He holds my sweltering gaze. “You verbally communicating with our unborn child is as nonsensical as you thinking that you can end your labor anytime you like.” Connor knows full well that I’d never force the baby out and jeopardize his or her health.
“Jane asked me…in so many words to make this a May baby.” I point at my belly. “And I am not losing to the fucking universe.” When midnight strikes, it’ll be June 1st.
Connor arches a brow.
“You look ridiculous when you do that,” I snap. He actually looks incredibly self-assured. Like he can defeat any foe. It’s attractive. I glare at the wall.
My mind is a pool of betrayal.
“Bypassing your erroneous assessment, I need to remind you that Jane simply said and I quote, ‘Mommy, do May babies look like June babies?’ She’s just curious because she was born in June.”
“Read between the lines, Richard. She said Mommy, I don’t want
this motherfucking baby born on my birthday month.”
Connor presses his fingers to his ugly grin before dropping his hand, his smile blinding. “There’s no space between her lines. She hasn’t learned subtext yet. Whatever you’re reading is your own motivations placed on her.”
I snap my hair tie, ponytail tight and secured. “Maybe so,” I admit. Jane is my first born, and I don’t want her to feel like I’ve forgotten her with each new baby. “It doesn’t change what I’m hoping for, and if fate is on my side, everything will be perfect.”
I smooth out the wrinkles on the hospital sheet. He’s rarely this quiet after I bring up a word he loathes.
“You’re not going to tell me to leave fate out of this?” I question.
He stares at me intently and his lips inch up again. “Tu es absolument magnifique.” You’re absolutely beautiful.
I see how much he means every word, his love shown through his eyes. I open my mouth to respond, but the contractions escalate swiftly and sharply. I swing my head away from Connor and grimace. Then I wince, shutting my eyes tight.
Holy fuck.
“Rose.” Connor has risen from his chair, his hand on my shoulder. His other finds mine, our fingers lacing together. “Talk to me.”
I hang my head towards my lap, my face scrunched as I barrel through another contraction. “Shit…” I curse. I’m not going to pretend to be verbally wholesome, not in everyday life and not when I’m pushing out a human being through my vagina.
He kisses my temple and then steps to the side like he plans to find the doctor.
I clutch his hand tight, imprisoning him next to me. “Wait,” I say through clenched teeth. “I’m fine.” I blow a hot breath out and then hold the bridge of my nose with pinched fingers. Goddddd that pain is unreasonable.
He leans his head down, until his lips graze my ear. “Tu souffres.” You’re in pain. “We’ve talked about this.”
I don’t have to put on a show of strength and fortitude in the face of my very own misery. I’m not exactly trying to—okay maybe I am.
I may be trying to appear like this isn’t excessive pain when it’s truly incredibly excessive.
You can be vulnerable in front of your husband, Rose.
I have been, many times, but there is a stubborn side of me that drags until the last second. Right now, I feel like I could ignite a thousand houses with a single blowtorch. All the while comfortably sitting in this bed. Because I literally can’t move.
“Rose.” His objection to my stubbornness is welcome. The force in his usually even-toned voice is too. I’m reminded that he’ll unleash his own arsenal if the situation calls for it. I’ve already made up my mind, even as he says, “I’m going to help you.”
I let go of his hand. “Fine.” I watch him urgently make his way across the room, wasting no time at all. I sit up straighter. “Technically it will be the medication helping me, not you!” I call out to Connor before he leaves. “So don’t let that inflate your ego…” I mutter the last line.
He’s already out the door.
* * *
Alone in the hospital room, I blow out measured breaths to combat the mounting pain. I place my palm on my lower abdomen. I swear the baby moves up as though laughing mischievously, you think I’m coming out now? Who do you think I am?
A Cobalt boy.
I whisper, “I know you’d like, very much, to stay right here for as long as possible—since the alternative is being in the presence of your annoyingly narcissistic father. But I’d very much like if you could do me one favor and come on out.” My voice softens, and I rub my stomach. I can’t put all the blame on Connor. Even in jest. Since I’m not the easiest to get along with. “I promise we’re not that bad. Connor and I will love you with every drop of blood. We’ll fight for you. Die for you. And so you know, your father doesn’t love just anyone. You’re already very, very special.”
I squeeze my eyes closed with a new contraction.
Then I blow out a shaky breath. “The pain is making me say crazy things.”
Connor slips through the doorway with Dr. Amora, a six-foot exceptionally intelligent woman. I relax a little at the sight of these two people.
As she checks between my legs, Connor returns to my side. My phone out of reach on the bedside table, I press my fingers to my closed eyeballs and ask, “Time check?”
“Three hours to midnight.” Connor begins massaging my shoulders, kneading all the intolerable kinks.
“He’s doing this on purpose,” I mutter. “Babies always have ulterior motives.”
“He?” Connor rubs the base of my neck. “Do you know something I don’t?” His question sounds rhetorical. He knows I didn’t cheat and discover the gender. We’ve been careful to use both pronouns, but maybe my slip-up has revealed my true wants.
I want a boy so we can have another child.
“He’s refusing to come out. Therefore, he’s a Cobalt boy,” I explain my rationale.
Dr. Amora is busy checking my vitals, and I watch her out of the corner of my eye, her lips pressed in a thin line. Is everything okay?
Connor picks up his coffee with his free hand, taking a sip. He even checks his watch, and worry lines begin to crease his forehead. Whether he’s worried about my mental health or physical or the baby, I’m unsure. Maybe a bit of everything.
His gaze shares time between Dr. Amora and me. “Out of the two of us, you’re far more stubborn. Process of deduction, he inherited it from you.”
I wave him off like he’s spoken falsehoods. My energy wanes and my back aches too strongly. I sink further on the bed, Connor’s hands jettisoning from my shoulder blades.
Then the doctor faces us. “You’re not far enough along for an epidural yet. We’ll keep waiting.”
Dear God.
I glare at my stomach. “You’re going to be a little thorn, aren’t you?”
* * *
“Time check.”
“Thirty minutes until midnight.” Connor pockets his phone.
I’ve already been administered an epidural, finally blissful relief. I dab a towel at my damp forehead, perspiring from the now consistent contractions.
Connor remains standing, one of his hands interlaced with mine, the other busy soothing my tense shoulders and neck. Dr. Amora is here. She’s been telling me to push and I’ve been complying like an honor student (Connor’s words).
I only take a break when she instructs me to and adds, “Everything is going well.”
My husband whispers, “Comment tu te sens?” How do you feel?
“Like I could rip out your perfectly functioning lungs and stomp on them,” I say with pinpointed eyes. I squeeze his hand tight, energy seeping out of me. I don’t do athletics, but my raging determination keeps me from utter exhaustion.
A smile edges his lips. “I didn’t ask for a tale, darling.”
“It’s not a tale,” I proclaim. “It’s a prophecy of what will happen if you keep smiling like you’re made of a billion dollars.”
“I am made of a billion dollars.”
Ugh.
I glower at his widened, self-righteous grin. For as much as the look boils my blood, I’d miss the day where he stopped looking at me with those lips lifted high. Those blindingly white teeth and the glimmer of love in his blue eyes. All walls lowered.
All emotions unfolded before me.
How long it took to reach this place together.
“Time check,” I whisper. I’m bed-bound, legs numb from the drugs, and the nurse already scolded me for attempting to walk—but Connor had left again and I yearned to follow.
“Let’s start pushing again.” Dr. Amora smiles my way. “Ready, Rose?”
I look up at Connor.
“Five minutes,” he tells me.
Five fucking minutes.
That’s all I have?
I nod to my doctor. “I’m ready.” Shoulders pulled back, eyes focused. You’re coming out in five minutes, little monster. This one is
already playing games with us.
I begin pushing to my highest ability. Sweat gathers across my forehead, and Connor speaks a few encouragements in French. I only tune him out with my effort and extreme focus.
Dr. Amora is concentrated between my legs, nurses flanking her. “A few more, Rose.”
I don’t stop. Through gritted teeth and another push, I say, “Time check.” The goal partly distracts me from the unknown. More than anything, I want my baby to be healthy, to take a great big breath as soon as he meets the world, and this goal offers me control in a situation where I have very, very little.
On the ride to hospital, Connor even said aloud, “Not all things can be altered from desire, passion, and wisdom. Some things just happen. Like love and death and life. Some things just are.”
Some things just are.
He’s accepted the things we can’t control, and even as I try to, I can’t pretend that I’m not scared. Because I am scared. I’m terrified at the thought of bringing death into the world instead of life.
“One minute,” Connor answers me.
One minute.
“Take a big breath for me, Rose,” Dr. Amora says, our eyes locked.
I inhale until my lungs are full, and I exhale just as well. She doesn’t have to tell me to push. I sense that I have to—right now. With maximum effort, I push. Tears crest my eyes, gnarled cries breaching my throat. I cut off circulation in Connor’s hand, gripping so damn hard that my fingers whiten.
I scream, expecting to hear a baby.
Nothing happens.
No noises but my own and the whispers of nurses.
“Is he okay?” I ask.
Connor has his arm around my shoulders, and I have the strangest urge to turn into his chest and just shield my watery, reddened gaze. I’m fine. I take a staggered breath.
“Let’s try to push again,” Dr. Amora encourages.
Connor dips his head towards mine. “If you keep predicting the worst, the worst will come—isn’t that what your fate is all about?”
Some Kind of Perfect (Calloway Sisters #4.5) Page 17