Page 62 of No Knight (My Kind of Hero #3)

Matt

“Get out of the fucking way!” I lean on the horn as I try to squeeze the Range Rover through a space more suited to a Mini .

“Wanker!” A courier whips his bicycle around the front of us, accompanying the insult with the matching universal hand signal. And I don’t mean the signal for turning left.

“We’re having a baby here!” I yell, hanging my head out the window.

Shit. I’ve become one of those people. The soft-arse We’re pregnant! idiots. I’m not having a baby; Ryan is. Soon, judging by the noises she keeps making.

“Please stop shouting,” she says.

I pull my head back inside, immediately regretful.

Shit scared and panicking. And very glad I’m not suffering through this, as another contraction hits and she makes that unearthly sound again.

Part alien, part ancient plea. I’ve heard men say they wish they could’ve shared their partner’s labor pains, but I call bullshit because it looks like some seriously heavy pain.

“I’m sorry, darlin’.” I reach out across the center console, taking her hand in mine. At least, when it looks safe to do so. “I’m sorry for yelling and for the stupid feckin’ rush hour traffic. But most of all, I’m sorry I can’t take away your pain.”

“You’re forgiven,” she says, her words barely a whisper, her forehead beaded with perspiration. “Tell me something?”

Why do her words sound so bittersweet?

“I love you. I can’t wait to meet our baby.”

“You’re gonna be such a good father. She’ll be so, so lucky.”

“She will. On both parental fronts, because you are amazing, my love.”

“Promise me you’ll choose her.”

“What?” Fear lances through me as a tear slides down her cheek. She doesn’t speak for a beat, her eyes closing as though in prayer.

“It’s too early,” she whispers. Her gaze doesn’t hold.

“I know,” I say, my eyes as wide as saucers as though full of reassurance. “But you heard what Dr. T. had to say on the phone. Thirty-five is the new forty.”

“Something isn’t right, Matt. I know it.”

“It’s just been a rough day.” I give her hand a tiny, reassuring squeeze. “Emotions running high and all that.”

“Promise me,” she demands, her grip suddenly piercing.

I lick my lips, not sure what I’m supposed to say. Do I lie? Play along? Keep repeating that it’s all gonna be okay?

“Matt.” Her voice cracks on my name, and now my eyes fill with tears.

“No.” I set my jaw, forcing the waterworks back . She’s scared. Of course she’s scared. I myself am fucking terrified. “I don’t promise.”

Her hand tightens this time, almost crushing my fingers.

“Please do this for me.” Her words ache, and my heart bleeds that she feels this way.

“Stop it.” Reassurance, not demand. “Everything is going to be fine .” Please, Lord. It has to be.

“I’ve been so happy,” she whispers. “But I can’t do this.”

“I don’t know how to break it to you,” I half mumble. “I hear there’s no way out of this situation but through.”

“I want you to take her, Matt. Love her enough for the both of us.”

“No. I’ll love her enough for one. No more, no less. You’ll have to pick up the rest. Don’t be a lazy fecker, now.”

My version of tough love, but Jesus God, does she know something I don’t? Is this some kind of intuition I can’t tune in to? “Fucking move!” I yell, pushing my palm on the horn again.

In my side mirror, blue lights begin to flash. And as the police car pulls alongside me, I want to weep with joy. I have never been so pleased to see one of London’s finest. I’ll make the biggest donation they’ve ever seen if they only help us get to the fuckin’ hospital.

And they do, God bless those boys in blue.

At the hospital, I abandon the car, leaving the keys inside it. Let someone steal it. I don’t give a flying fuck.

“Excuse me,” a voice calls as I carry my darling over the threshold. “Excuse me!” the voice calls again, a little more strident the second time.

I swing around, and Ryan’s slipper shoots off the end of her foot. Her arm around my neck, she presses her worried face into my shirt.

“Yes?” I answer tersely, piercing the security guard with a look. What the fuck do you want? Can’t you see we’re a bit busy here? He’s gonna tell me I can’t park there, I know it. And I’m gonna reply: Congratulations, you just won a 150 grand’s worth of car!

“That’s against health and safety regulations,” the fella says.

Just what we need. A fucking jobsworth. “Do I look like I give a fuck?” I demand. “Show me the way to the birthing suite!”

“Matt,” Ryan whispers. “Please,” I add in a mutter.

“You have to get checked in first,” the security guard says. “And look.” Like a game show hostess, he indicates the wheelchair by his side.

“Fine,” I say, crossing to it. That minor setback put to rights, we’re on our way again.

I dip my head to Ryan’s ear, pushing the wheelchair like I drove my car. Like a man on the edge. “How far are the contractions apart now, my love?”

“Three minutes,” she whispers, gripping my phone tighter as that wave of pain hits again. “It hurts,” she admits a few moments later, her hand smoothing over her taut bump.

“I’m sorry. Would it make you feel any better if I let you punch me in the face?”

“Choose the balls,” a comedian, or nurse, says as we reach the check-in desk.

Once we’ve registered, all systems are go.

The wheelchair driving is taken out of my hands, leaving me trotting alongside as Ryan is rolled into a birthing suite.

And it isn’t long before Dr. Travers enters the room like the lead actor striding onto a stage.

Honestly, it’s the first time I’ve set eyes on him and been relieved to see the fella.

That air of hubris is very fucking welcome right now.

“How’re we doing?”

“Fine,” I say.

He shoots me an unimpressed look.

“But Ryan is in a lot of pain,” I add, wincing as she squeezes my hand, riding out another contraction.

“So it’s game on.” He sounds completely unconcerned as he watches the nurse hook Ryan up to a monitor. “We’ll have a wee look, then, shall we?” he says, turning to the sink.

“Please.” Ryan grabs for the back of the doctor’s scrubs. “Please, don’t risk my baby.”

“I have no intentions of that, hen.” He gives a reassuring pat to the back of her hand.

“I mean it. You have to put her first.”

“I know this is overwhelming for you right now, but you’re in safe hands.” He holds them out as though ready to catch a ball. Catching wasn’t mentioned in the baby bible, was it?

“If there has to be a choice,” she says, raising her voice for all to hear. “The baby comes first. Those are my wishes.”

“Now, Ryan,” the doc begins again.

“The baby,” she reiterates, louder. And more Ryan-like. “That’s all that matters. She comes first or he’ll sue your ass. Tell them,” she demands. “Promise me, Matt.”

“Ryan, please.”

She puts her hand to her stomach one last time, her gaze finding mine. “I love you,” she whispers. And then, right before my eyes, she just ... fades.

“She’s bradying.” A nurse—midwife—takes Ryan’s wrist in her fingers.

“She’s hemorrhaging,” says someone else.

Everything seems to speed up, actions and reactions seeming to happen in fragments. The top of the bed is lowered, equipment appearing from nowhere as something akin to controlled pandemonium hits the room.

“You have to leave.” The wrist-holding nurse, I think, begins to push me bodily toward the door.

“No. Tell me she’s okay,” I demand. “What’s going on? What’s happening, please?”

“Someone will be with you shortly to explain. But right now, we need to get Ryan into surgery.”

The bed and medics whip by me in a blur, the woman at the center of my world small, unresponsive, and unreachable in the eye of that storm.