by Callie Hart
“Can’t you give her some more pain relief?” I demand.
The nurse standing on the other side of the bed, monitoring the read outs on the silenced heart monitor connected to Sloane’s chest and stomach, shakes her head. “She refused any pain relief.”
It takes a beat for that to process. “What…the…fuck? She’s hasn’t had anything?”
“A lot of women prefer not to,” she continues. “The pain meds available to us are relatively safe for the unborn child, but there are always risks. They can suppress the baby’s ability to breathe properly once they’re out of the womb.”
My head spins. I didn’t even ask Sloane whether she was going to take the meds available to her. I just assumed…
“Quit talking about me…like I’m not…here,” Sloane pants, wincing in between words. “We’re doing this naturally. We have to. It’s too…late for any of that bullshit now anyway.”
I look around, wildly scanning the room, searching for a cabinet or some kind of drawer that’s clearly marked, ‘the good drugs,’ so I can end this madness now and dose her up myself. Sloane gives my hand a light squeeze. “Hey. It’s okay. I got this. I just…need…” She stops talking as another contraction rolls through her.
There aren’t many gaps for talking after that. The waves of pain come one after the other, bleeding into one another. Sloane seems to enter this doped state, her eyes unfocused, roving around the room as she strains and grinds her teeth together again and again.
Half an hour.
An hour.
I can’t take much more of this. Sloane falls asleep, her body giving out on her when the contractions cease, only to wake up screaming thirty or sixty seconds later.
“Do something,” I snarl at Ramesh. “This is fucking torture. She’s not going to make it if she has to do this much longer.”
The doctor ignores the threatening tone in my voice, his focus entirely trained on what’s happening between Sloane’s legs. “She’s not dying, Mr. Mayfair. She’s fighting. Give her a chance. Let her fight. Help her fight.”
And so I do. I do it the only way I know how. I provoke her.
“You’re making this way harder than it needs to be,” I whisper into her ear. “You’re letting our unborn baby kick your ass.” Her eyes widen, refocusing a little as she gives me a sideways glance.
“I’d like to see you…do this.” She sounds exhausted, but there’s a spike of defiance in her tone.
“I’d have gotten the job done hours ago. We’d already be home by now.”
“Fuck…you.”
“Seriously. I’m surprised I’m even having to say this, but I didn’t think you were this weak.” I hate the words coming out of my mouth. I hate the arrogant smile I’m sliding into place, and the bored expression I adopt after it.
“Fuck you,” Sloane hisses again. She suddenly seems more awake. “You can leave if you’re going to be an asshole.”
“I’m staying,” I tell her. “You can’t make me leave. Not unless you get on with it and have this baby. That’s when I’ll leave.”
She screams as another contraction hits; she pushes harder than she was a moment ago, her teeth bared, eyes screwed shut tight. She puts her whole body into it this time.
“What the hell was that? You didn’t even try.”
If looks could kill, I would be eviscerated by the hateful glare Sloane fixes on me. “Go, Zeth. Seriously. Leave.”
Slowly shaking my head, I look to the nurse standing by the heart rate monitor. “She’s trying to call this in, isn’t she? Has she never delivered a baby before? I thought she had. Must have been wrong, though. She doesn’t seem to know how this thing works.” The nurse looks horrified, like she wants to wrap her own hands around my throat and strangle me herself. She doesn’t agree with me, but she doesn’t need to. My carefully designed barbs have the desired effect. Sloane roars with effort the next time a contraction hits her. She screams, and she fights, refusing to allow her exhaustion to claim her. She keeps on pushing, keeps on railing against the pain.
“Pathetic,” I say.
“GET THE FUCK OUT!,” Sloane hollers, but her hand holds onto me like her life depends on it, her nails breaking the skin, drawing blood.
“There she is. There’s my angry girl,” I whisper. I kiss the back of her hand again, my jaw locked, my pulse thumping at my temples. I can see what this is costing her, and my heart feels like it’s swelling in my chest. She’s doing this for us. She’s doing this for our child. This is the reason I called her my angry girl in the first place. I was teasing her back then, but the truth of the matter is that she impressed me. She blew me away with her strength of character and her fire. She’s not just angry. She’s fierce. She’s determined. She’s strong. She’s brave as fuck. She is everything she needs to be in order to withstand being in love with a man like me, and I am eternally fucking grateful for that fact.
“Come on, Sloane. You’re doing it. You’re doing it. Two more big pushes,” Ramesh says. Sloane gives him what he wants. It doesn’t even take two more pushes, though; she manages it in one.
A look of shock travels over her face, and then a thin, reedy cry splits the air in two. A vice tightens around my chest, preventing me from breathing. That sound…
“Nice, healthy lungs,” Ramesh says, as he works between Sloane’s legs, and then…
And then…
God.
Sloane’s hand is shaking in mine. A frightened sob comes out of her as she looks from the bloodied, tiny little form Ramesh is holding up in his hands to me. So small. So fucking small. “Is he…?” she asks.
“He’s fine. Good color. No fluid on the lungs. His eyes are already open.”
I bolt of adrenalin fires through me, sending me reeling. His eyes are already open. His eyes… He’s real. He’s here. And we were fucking right: he’s a boy. The sound of my son’s urgent, terrified crying sounds out again, and I feel like I’m going to slide off my stool and sink to the fucking ground. Ramesh cuts the cord that still connects the baby to Sloane, and then he hands him to the nurse.
“Please,” Sloane whispers, holding out her arms. “I need to see him.”
The nurse doesn’t waste a second in handing him over. She places him on Sloane, gently tugging her gown down so that he’s lying on her bare chest, and the two of us just stare down at the tiny form we created together, neither of us knowing what to say. We’re both silent, awed and fucking terrified as we take him in.
Two eyes.
The tinniest, slightly upturned nose.
A perfect cupid’s bow, and full, flushed lips.
Dark, almost black wisps of hair marking the crown of his head.
His tiny hands flex, fingers clawing reflexively against Sloane’s skin.
He stops crying, his face suddenly serene, as if, after all of the panic and trauma and strain of being born, he finally realizes he is here and he is safe. With us. He is safe with us.
His eyes open, barely cracked against the bright lights, and a moment follows where I’m looking into my son’s eyes for the very first time.
I break down, and I fucking cry.
Sloane cups her hand against the back of his head, a deep and unfathomable love transforming her face, washing away her exhaustion as she looks into his eyes, too.
“Oh my god,” she whispers. “Oh my god, he’s perfect.” A tear slides down her face. “Thank god he looks like me,” she says.
I huff a single laugh, my voice cracking.
“Here.” She scoops him into her arms, and she lifts him. His arms jerk in the air, his little body trembling as Sloane holds him out to me.
“I can’t. I—” I’ve never felt fear like this before. It digs its claws in deep, raking them across my very soul.
“It’s okay,” Sloane says softly. “You’re not going to hurt him. You’re never going to hurt him. You’re his daddy.” She’s saying so much more with those words. She’s telling me that I’m worthy of the role. She’s readi
ng my mind and seeing the paralysing doubt inside—the doubt that I’m good enough for this. The doubt that I’ll be a good influence in this little boy’s life.
“You’re his lion,” she whispers. “You’re his protector. His best friend. His father. You’re going to be his everything, just like you’re my everything. Take your son, Zeth.”
The doubt doesn’t vanish. It doesn’t disappear, but it does fade. I trust this woman more than I trust myself. If she has faith in me to be good, to do good, then I know I will. I’ll make damn sure of it. The only other option would be to let her down, and I swore a long fucking time ago I would never do that.
Now, I take the little boy into my arms, and I make him the same silent promise.
I will love you.
I will cherish you.
I will protect you.
Always.
“Do you have a name?” a nurse asks.
Sloane laughs lightly, her fingertips stroking down the side of my face. I look up at her, managing to tear my gaze away from the tiny boy before me, and the love and pure joy in her eyes is breathtaking. “Yes, we do,” she tells the nurse, still laughing. “His name is Colt.”
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Callie Hart is a USA Today bestselling author of dark romance novels. She is an obsessive romantic who loves throwing a dark twist into her stories. Her characters are imperfect, flawed individuals who dictate when she eats, sleeps and breathes. She loves to travel, and often pens her books when she's on the road, drawing inspiration from her unique and wild surroundings.
If she's not writing, you'll undoubtedly find her with her nose buried deep in a book, or rewatching the Battle of the Bastards episode from Game of Thrones and screaming like a lunatic.
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