Page 21

"You can. You are." Her calloused hands wipe my brow with a cool cloth. "Women have been doing this since the dawn of time. Your body knows what to do, Ronnie."
"What does my body know about birthing a—" I bite back the words as another contraction builds. Xaphan baby. Half-xaphan baby. Araton's baby. The image of golden eyes flashes unbidden through my mind, and I want to scream at myself for thinking of him now.
The pain crests again, and this time I don't hold back. My cry echoes through the small cottage I've been staying in, raw and primal.
"That's it," Harmony encourages, moving to check between my legs. "The baby's close. I can see the head. On the next one, you push with everything you've got."
Terror twists inside me, sharper than even the physical agony. What if the baby looks just like him? What if it has full wings, not just the tiny ones of mixed children? What if it has his smile, his laugh, his infuriating confidence?
What if I can't love it?
"Ronnie!" Harmony's voice snaps me back. "Focus. Push now!"
My body takes over. I bear down, gritting my teeth against the searing pressure. Something inside me tears and stretches beyond what I thought possible. The pain becomes my entire world—concentrated, impossible.
"Again!" Harmony commands.
I push, a guttural sound wrenching from somewhere deep in my chest. Through the haze, I glimpse Harmony's steady hands positioned to receive my child.
"Head's out. One more big push for the shoulders."
My strength wavers. I shake my head, tears mingling with sweat. "I can't."
Harmony's eyes flash. "You didn't cross half the continent, fight through this pregnancy alone, just to give up now. This baby needs you to finish what you started. Push!"
The rebuke lands like a slap. With the last of my reserves, I bear down once more.
The release is sudden—a slippery, sliding sensation followed by an absence of pressure so profound I nearly sob with relief. For one breath-stopping moment, silence fills the room.
Then—a cry. High and indignant, declaring its arrival to the world.
"A girl," Harmony announces, her voice thick with emotion. "You have a daughter, Ronnie."
My heart stutters. A daughter. Not an it. Not a reminder. A daughter.
Harmony works quickly, wiping the baby clean before placing the tiny, squirming bundle on my chest. I look down, afraid of what I'll see, afraid of what I'll feel.
Wide golden eyes—Araton's eyes—stare up at me from a round face. Her skin is several shades lighter than mine, with a warm, buttery glow that seems to come from within. Thick black curls, still damp, spiral wildly from her head.
And from her shoulder blades protrude two tiny, downy nubs—the beginnings of wings.
"They're just starting to form," Harmony murmurs, noticing my fixed stare. "They'll grow slowly. Half-xaphan children usually develop their wings over years, not months like full-blooded ones."
My fingers hover over the tiny protrusions, trembling. I expected to feel revulsion or fear. Instead, something fierce and protective surges through me.
"She's perfect," I whisper, surprising myself with the truth of it.
The baby's face scrunches, and she lets out another indignant cry. Without thinking, I shift her to my breast. She latches immediately, her tiny fingers splaying across my skin.
"What will you call her?" Harmony asks, watching us with a soft smile as she cleans up.
Names dance through my mind—my mother's, my grandmother's, names from stories I'd heard as a child. But looking at this fierce little creature, only one fits.
"Camille Wynn," I say. "Millie."
As if approving, Millie's grip tightens on my finger. In that moment, the world narrows to just us two—her tiny, perfect form and my battered body cradling her. The months of fear and running, the constant dread of being found, the uncertaintyof what I'd feel when I finally saw her—it all fades against this single truth: she is mine.
And gods help anyone who tries to take her from me.