Page 55

" F or the Seven's sake, you great lummox, get out of the way," Gruha barked, her sturdy dwarven frame somehow filling the entire doorway as she shouldered past Uldrek.

She carried a stack of fresh linens, her expression a familiar blend of annoyance and efficiency.

"Pacing won't help her, and you're blocking the light. "

"I'm not—" Uldrek began, then stopped when another contraction gripped me. His eyes met mine across the room, and I watched his hands clench helplessly at his sides.

"Go," I managed once the wave passed. "Just for a while. Check on Ellie."

He hesitated, looking so utterly torn that I almost laughed despite the discomfort. My fierce warrior, undone by something as natural as birth.

"Leilan has her in the garden," Dora supplied from where she sat beside me, wringing out a cool cloth. The halfling's normally cheerful face was tense with concentration. "Making flower crowns for the baby. Though I suspect most of the flowers are going in her mouth."

"Go," I repeated, softer this time. "She needs you too."

After another moment of resistance, Uldrek nodded. "I'll be right outside," he said. "Right outside the door."

As he ducked through the doorway, I heard Gruha mutter something that sounded suspiciously like "men" before she turned her full attention to me.

"Now then," she said briskly, arranging the linens at the foot of the bed. "Let's see how you're progressing."

I shifted on the bed, grateful for the cool spring breeze that drifted in through the open window.

Our cottage had come alive in the past year—new curtains, a garden that Uldrek and Ellie tended together, shelves filled with books, and the small, ordinary treasures of a life being built.

The room we'd chosen for the birthing was our bedroom, sun-warmed and familiar, with its wide bed and the quilt Leilan had sewn for us as a "home-warming" gift.

Sunlight slanted across the floorboards, catching the steam that rose from the basin of water Hobbie was obsessively monitoring.

The brownie had been pacing between the basin, the bed, and the window for hours, muttering incantations and checking that the warming stones remained at precisely the right temperature.

She'd barely spoken to any of us since the labor began, focused entirely on her self-appointed task of ensuring everything was perfect.

"Hobbie," I called softly after Gruha had finished her examination. "Come here."

The brownie's head snapped up, her body going momentarily still. "Water's not ready," she said, almost defensively.

"The water's fine. You're wearing a path in my floor."

Her mouth twitched, the closest thing to a smile I'd seen from her in hours. She approached the bed with reluctance. "What?"

I reached out and caught her small, work-worn hand. "Thank you."

Her eyes widened, then narrowed, and I watched the complicated emotions play across her face—embarrassment, pride, worry. She squeezed my hand once, hard, before pulling away.

"Hmph," she muttered. "Don't thank me yet. Still work to do."

Another contraction built, stronger this time, forcing me to close my eyes and focus on my breath. I felt Dora's hand slip into mine, heard her quiet encouragement. When the pain receded, I opened my eyes to find Hobbie watching me with a mixture of anxiety and determination.

"Nearly there," Gruha announced. "Won't be long now."

Time seemed to stretch and compress, measured only by the rhythm of contractions and the shifting light across the floor.

Outside, I could hear the faint murmur of voices—Leilan with Ellie, Fira who had arrived sometime during the morning, and Uldrek's deeper tones, a constant presence just beyond the door.

During a brief respite between contractions, I heard a commotion—tiny running footsteps, Leilan's gentle warning, and then the unmistakable sound of Ellie's voice, high and insistent: "Mama! Baby!"

The door swung open, and there she stood—my firstborn, now a sturdy toddler with wild curls and determinedly sticky hands.

She wore what appeared to be an entire garden on her head, flowers woven into a lopsided crown with several dandelions stuck directly to her hair.

Her face was smudged with dirt and pollen, her eyes bright with excitement.

"I made for baby," she announced, proudly patting the flower crown.

Uldrek appeared behind her, his expression a mix of apology and helplessness. "She insisted," he said. "Wouldn't be distracted."

I smiled, feeling a wave of love so intense it momentarily eclipsed the discomfort. "Come here, little wolf."

Ellie darted to the bedside, scrambling up with Uldrek's help. She immediately placed her grubby hands on my swollen belly, her expression solemn.

"Baby coming now?"

"Soon," I assured her, brushing a sticky curl from her forehead. "Very soon."

She nodded as if this confirmed a suspicion she'd long held. "I help."

"Thank the Seven," Gruha said with a snort. "We were getting nowhere without your assistance."

Ellie beamed, completely missing the sarcasm. She patted my stomach once more before turning to Uldrek. "Papa stay too."

I watched Uldrek's face soften at the word 'papa'—a title he'd earned in a thousand small moments over the past year. Bedtime stories and scraped knees. Nightmares soothed and puddles jumped in. A hand always ready to steady, to lift, to guide.

Before anyone could answer, another contraction seized me, stronger than before. I gripped the sheets, breathing through the intensity of it. When I opened my eyes, I found Ellie watching me with curious concern and Uldrek with barely contained alarm.

"Time to take the little helper outside," Gruha announced, already moving toward Ellie. "Dora, bring more water. Hobbie, we'll need those clean cloths now." She cast a critical eye at Uldrek. "You. Stay or go, but make yourself useful."

Surprisingly, it was Hobbie who settled the matter. "He stays," she declared, shooting Uldrek a look that brooked no argument. "Hold her up. Give her something to squeeze." She thrust a stack of cloths into his arms. "Take these. Sit behind her. Support her back."

For a moment, everyone stared at the brownie in surprise. She glared back, hands on her hips. "Well? Move!"

It broke the tension. Dora laughed, Uldrek grinned despite his worry, and even Gruha looked impressed.

"Listen to the brownie," I said, summoning a smile through the building pressure. "She knows what she's doing."

As Leilan led Ellie from the room with promises of special cake waiting in the kitchen, Uldrek took his place behind me on the bed. His body was solid and warm against my back, his arms strong around me. I leaned into him, feeling the steady beat of his heart against my spine.

"I've got you," he murmured against my hair. "I've got you."

The next hour blurred into a landscape of sensation—pain building and receding like waves, the cool cloth on my forehead, Dora's steady encouragement, Gruha's calm instructions. Through it all, Uldrek remained my anchor, his body supporting mine, his voice a constant reassurance in my ear.

When the final push came, I bore down with everything I had, Uldrek's arms bracing me. There was a moment of searing pressure, and then—release. A tiny, indignant cry filled the room.

"A boy," Gruha announced, her voice uncharacteristically soft. "Strong lungs on this one."

She placed him on my chest, this small, wet, furious creature who had been part of me and was now his own being. His skin was a pale green, his face scrunched in protest, and a downy cap of dark hair covered his head. I counted his fingers and toes, marveling at their impossible perfection.

"Look at him," I whispered, hardly aware of the tears streaming down my face. "Uldrek, look."

I felt more than saw Uldrek peer over my shoulder, his breath catching. One large, green hand reached out tentatively to touch the baby's head, so gently it was barely a touch at all.

"He's... perfect," he said, his voice rough with emotion.

The baby's cries softened as I cradled him against me. His eyes, still unfocused, seemed to search for something. When they found my face, he grew quieter still, his tiny brow furrowed in concentration.

"Hello, little one," I murmured. "Welcome to the world. We've been waiting for you."

Time seemed to stand still as we studied each other, this new person and I.

Around us, I was dimly aware of Gruha directing the cleanup, of Dora exclaiming over the baby's miniature features, of Hobbie fussing with blankets and insisting the window be closed against drafts.

But the center of my universe had narrowed to the weight in my arms and the solid presence of Uldrek behind me.

After everything was cleaned and settled, after the excitement had died down and the helpers had retreated to give us privacy, I shifted to look at Uldrek properly for the first time since the birth.

His face was open, vulnerable in a way I rarely saw—a mixture of wonder, fear, and fierce protectiveness that made my heart squeeze.

He was watching our son with an expression I recognized from the first time he'd held Ellie—cautious reverence, as if he couldn't quite believe he was allowed this much joy.

"Do you want to hold him?" I asked.

Uldrek nodded, carefully sliding out from behind me and moving to sit beside us on the bed. I placed the swaddled bundle in his arms, watching him adjust his hold with exquisite care. His large hands, capable of such force in battle, cradled our son as if he were made of the most delicate glass.

"We should name him," I said softly.

We'd discussed names during the pregnancy but hadn't settled on one, wanting to meet him first. Now, looking at his small face, I thought I knew.

"Torrin," I whispered. It was an old name from northern Alderwilde, meaning "thunder." Strong but not harsh. A name with presence.

Uldrek tried it out, his voice a low rumble. "Torrin." He nodded, a slow smile spreading across his face. "It suits him."

There was a soft tap at the door, and Leilan peeked in, Ellie's eager face visible just below her waist. "Someone is very anxious to meet her brother," she said apologetically. "We tried to wait, but..."

"Bring her in," I said, smiling. "It's time for introductions."

Ellie approached the bed with unusual caution, her eyes wide as she spotted the bundle in Uldrek's arms. Leilan lifted her onto the bed, and she crawled toward us slowly, her flower crown now significantly more crooked.

"Baby?" she whispered.

"Yes," Uldrek said, shifting so she could see better. "This is your brother, Torrin."

Ellie studied him solemnly. "He's small."

"He'll grow," Uldrek assured her. "Just like you did."

She nodded, accepting this wisdom. Then, with great seriousness, she reached out and touched Torrin's tiny fist with one finger. "My brother."

"That's right," I said, my throat tight with emotion. "And you're his big sister."

This designation clearly pleased her. She sat up straighter, her expression becoming protective. "I teach him things."

"I'm sure you will," I agreed, exchanging an amused glance with Uldrek over her head.

Leilan stayed for a few minutes, offering quiet congratulations before discreetly withdrawing. I heard her soft voice in the other room, presumably updating the others on the new arrival.

As the afternoon eased into evening, a peaceful quiet settled over the cottage.

Ellie eventually dozed off at the foot of the bed, curled like a small cat with her flower crown listing to one side.

Torrin slept in my arms, his tiny chest rising and falling with each breath.

Uldrek sat beside us, one hand on my shoulder, his thumb absently tracing the skin where my collarbone met my neck—right over the claiming mark.

I felt it then—a warm, gentle pulse beneath my skin. Not the sharp flare of magic it had once been, but something deeper, more settled. Like the steady beat of an old love song, familiar but never taken for granted.

Uldrek's eyes met mine, and I knew he'd felt it, too. The bond between us, quieter now but no less powerful, humming with life and connection.

"Thank you," he said.

I raised an eyebrow. "For what?"

"For this." His gesture encompassed the room, the sleeping children, and the life we'd built. "For still choosing me."

The words carried the weight of our history—all the times we might have walked away, all the fears we'd faced down, all the choices that had led us here. To this moment. To this peace.

I leaned forward and kissed him, soft and sure. "Thank you for giving me something worth choosing."

Outside the window, the last rays of the sun painted the room in gold.

From the kitchen came the soft murmur of conversation and the occasional clink of dishes as our friends—our family—prepared a celebration meal.

The scent of fresh bread and spiced tea drifted in, mingling with the clean smell of the baby and the wildflowers in Ellie's crown.

I settled back against the pillows, cradling Torrin close, watching Ellie's peaceful sleep, feeling Uldrek's solid presence beside me. The claiming mark pulsed once more, a quiet affirmation.

Over a year ago, I had run from a man who tried to own me. I had fled in fear, with nothing but my daughter and my determination to keep her safe. I had hidden and protected and survived.

Now, holding my son while my daughter dreamed at my feet and my mate kept watch beside me, I understood the difference. I had known what fear felt like—how it narrowed the world to a knife's edge of survival.

This? This was something else entirely.

This was choosing. This was building. This was the steady certainty of being exactly where I belonged, with the people who belonged to me—not through ownership or control, but through the daily decision to stay, to see, to love.

This was the power I'd always had within me. The joy I'd finally dared to keep.