Page 25

Nash’s scent changes with mine the moment that he realizes that the baby is coming. The change hits my nostrils and something deep in my body responds, a flutter of recognition that says safe, protected, alpha will handle this. I want to hate that my body reacts to him like this, but I don’t have the luxury of self-loathing.

Another wave crashes through my abdomen, stronger than anything I’ve felt before. My knees buckle and I grab Nash’s forearm, fingers digging into his sleeve as the contraction steals my breath.

“Fuck.”

The word tears out of me, raw and undignified.

“Oh fuck, that hurts.”

Nash catches me before I can crumple against the car door, his hands steady on my waist.

“Breathe through it. Just like we practiced.”

His voice carries absolute calm, the kind of authority that I used to despise in him. Now it’s an anchor in a storm.

I try to follow the breathing pattern from class, but this contraction feels like my daughter has decided to claw her way out through my spine. The pain peaks and I make a sound that’s half-moan, half-growl, my grip on Nash tightening until I’m probably leaving marks.

“That’s it,”

he murmurs, one hand moving to the small of my back, applying pressure exactly where I need it.

“You’re doing great.”

The contraction finally releases its grip and I slump against him, breathing hard. His chest is solid beneath my cheek, heartbeat steady despite the crisis pheromones I can smell rolling off him in waves. His body is reacting to mine but he’s steady and calm, ready to keep me safe.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen yet,”

I say.

“I don’t have my hospital bag, I haven’t finished the nursery, I haven’t—”

“Hey.”

His hands frame my face, forcing me to meet his eyes. Dark brown, steady, completely focused on me.

“None of that matters right now. What matters is getting you and our daughter to hospital.”

Our daughter. The possessive pronoun should irritate me but instead it settles something anxious in my chest. She’s not just mine to worry about, to protect, to figure out. She’s ours. He’s going to make sure she is okay.

Nash is already moving, opening the passenger door of his car with one hand while keeping the other steady on my back.

“Can you get in?”

I nod, then immediately regret the movement as another contraction starts building. This one feels different—deeper, more insistent, like my body has finally accepted what’s happening and decided to get serious about it.

“Wait,”

I gasp, gripping the door frame.

“I need to—”

The contraction hits like a sledgehammer to my lower back and I cry out, probably loud enough for half the parking lot to hear. My knees give out completely and Nash catches me, one arm around my waist, supporting my full weight without effort.

“I’ve got you.”

His voice is rough now, alpha protectiveness bleeding through the calm facade.

“Just breathe. Don’t fight it.”

I want to tell him I’m not fighting anything, that I’m just trying to survive each wave of pain, but speaking requires more coordination than I can manage. Instead I focus on his scent, on the solid warmth of his body against mine, on the steady rhythm of his breathing that my body wants to match.

When the contraction finally ebbs, I’m shaking.

“Something’s wrong,”

I whisper.

“It’s too early. What if something’s wrong with her?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

Nash helps me into the passenger seat.

“Babies come when they’re ready. Our daughter is just eager to meet us.”

He buckles my seatbelt like I’m made of glass, then closes the door and rounds to the driver’s side. The car starts immediately and he’s pulling out of the parking lot before I’ve fully processed that we’re leaving.

“My mother,”

I say suddenly.

“I need to call her.”

“I’ll call her from the hospital.”

Nash glances at me, then reaches across to squeeze my hand briefly.

“Your phone is buzzing.”

I look down to see missed calls from an unknown number, but another contraction is starting to build and I can’t focus on anything else. This one peaks faster, sharper, and I hear myself make a sound that’s pure animal distress.

Nash’s hand finds mine again, fingers intertwining.

“Squeeze as hard as you need to.”

I do, probably cutting off his circulation, but he doesn’t complain. Just keeps driving with one hand while letting me use the other as my personal stress ball. The steady pressure of his palm against mine is the only thing keeping me grounded as my body seems determined to turn itself inside out.

“How far apart are they now?”

he asks when I can breathe again.

I try to think, to time the intervals, but everything is blurring together.

“I don’t know. Close. Really close.”

“Okay.”

His voice stays maddeningly calm.

“We’re almost there.”

The hospital comes into view. Nash pulls up to the emergency entrance and is out of the car before I can process that we’ve stopped. He’s opening my door, helping me out, his arm around my waist as another contraction hits.

This one is the worst yet. I double over in the hospital driveway, gasping, and feel something warm and wet between my legs.

“Oh god.”

My voice cracks.

“Nash, I think my water just broke.”

His nostrils flare and I realize he can smell it—the amniotic fluid, the change in my scent that signals active labor.

“Let’s get you inside.”

A wheelchair appears and suddenly I’m being wheeled through automatic doors into the bright fluorescent world of the hospital. Nash is beside me, one hand on my shoulder, talking to someone in scrubs about contractions and water breaking and gestational age.

The questions come fast after that. Insurance information, emergency contacts, medical history. Nash answers most of them while I focus on breathing through increasingly intense contractions. He knows my birthday, my social security number, my mother’s phone numbers. When did I tell him all that? When did he memorize the details of my life?

“We need to get you upstairs,”

the nurse says after checking my vitals.

The elevator ride is torture. Enclosed space, fluorescent lights, the lingering scent of disinfectant. Only Nash’s protective alpha pheromones stop it from smelling cold. Another contraction hits as we reach the maternity floor and I grab for his hand instinctively.

“I can’t do this,”

I whisper, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

“It’s too soon, I’m not ready, I don’t know how—”

“Yes, you can.”

Nash’s voice is fierce now.

“You’re the strongest person I know. You faced down the Bureau, you changed my mind, you’ve been growing our daughter for seven months. You can do this.”

The absolute certainty in his voice should piss me off. Instead it wraps around me like armor, strengthening something shaky inside my chest.

They get me into a hospital gown and onto a bed with monitors and wires and equipment I don’t want to think about. The contractions are coming every few minutes now, each one stronger than the last, and I’m starting to understand that this is really happening. Ready or not, my daughter is coming today.

“Mr. Torres?”

A doctor appears, young and competent-looking.

“ Let’s see how you’re progressing.”

The examination is uncomfortable and invasive but mercifully brief.

“You’re about eight centimeters dilated,”

she announces.

“This baby definitely wants to meet you today.”

Eight centimeters. Almost there. The number should be reassuring but instead it makes everything feel more real, more immediate. I’m going to be a parent at any moment. I’m going to be responsible for keeping another human being alive and safe and loved.

Another contraction builds and I reach for Nash without thinking. His hand closes around mine immediately, solid and warm and steady.

“You don’t have to stay,”

I tell him when I can speak again.

“I know this wasn’t part of the plan.”

His eyes flash with something that might be hurt or anger.

“Do you want me to leave?”

The question hangs between us, loaded with months of history and hurt and complicated feelings I haven’t sorted through yet. I look at him—really look—and see exhaustion and worry. He’s been patient with my walls. But right now, with our daughter trying to make her grand entrance so early, I don’t have the energy to maintain my defenses. I’m also not sure that I need them.

“No,”

I admit, the word barely audible.

“I don’t want you to leave.”

Relief transforms his features.

“Then I’m not going anywhere.”

A nurse bustles in with ice chips.

“How are we doing, Dad?”

she asks Nash, and he doesn’t correct the assumption.

Nash moves around the bed like he belongs here, adjusting pillows and checking monitors and somehow knowing exactly what will make me more comfortable.

Time passes in waves of pain. Nash never leaves my side. He feeds me ice chips when my mouth gets dry, rubs my back when the contractions peak, talks me through the breathing exercises we learned in class.

His scent surrounds me, steadying and familiar. If I was ever in doubt that he was my mate, I’m not now. Every instinct in my body confirms it.

“I called your mom,”

he tells me during a quiet moment between contractions.

“She’s on her way.”

“What did you tell them?”

Another contraction starts building and I brace for the familiar wave of pain. But this one feels different. It’s deeper, more purposeful, accompanied by an overwhelming urge to push.

“I think—”

I start to say, then gasp as the pressure intensifies.

“Oh god, I think she’s coming.”

Nash hits the call button immediately. The doctor appears shortly after with what seems like half the hospital staff.

“You’re ready to push,”

she announces.

“Let’s meet this baby.”

The next part is a blur. Nash stays right beside me, letting me grip his hand hard enough to leave bruises.

“I can see her head,”

the doctor says, and suddenly everything else falls away.

“One more push, . Bring your daughter into the world.”

I bear down with everything I have, Nash’s hand in mine, his voice in my ear telling me I’m amazing, I’m perfect, I’m about to meet our little girl.

The pressure builds and builds and then suddenly releases in a rush of relief so profound I nearly sob.

“She’s here,”

the doctor announces, and then there’s crying.

Not mine—though tears are streaming down my face—but tiny, indignant wails. It’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.

“She’s perfect,”

Nash breathes, wonder and awe thick in his voice.

“, she’s absolutely perfect.”

They place her on my chest, this tiny, wrinkled, absolutely miraculous person who’s been growing inside me for seven months. She’s tiny but clearly healthy, her lungs working overtime to announce her arrival to the world.

Dark hair, Nash’s nose, my stubborn chin already evident in her scrunched-up expression.

“Hi, baby girl,”

I whisper, touching her impossibly soft cheek.

“I’m your dad.”

Nash’s hand covers both of us, his thumb stroking gently over our daughter’s tiny fist.

“We’ve been waiting so long to meet you.”

She opens her eyes at the sound of his voice. She looks at him, really looks, and makes a soft sound that might be recognition.

“She knows you,”

I say, wonder coloring my words.

“She knows both of us.”

Nash leans down to press a gentle kiss to her forehead, then another to my temple.

“Thank you,”

he whispers against my skin.

“For her. For letting me be here. For giving me the greatest gift I could ever receive.”

I turn my face toward his, close enough to see the tears in his eyes, the overwhelming love and gratitude written across his features. This man who I once hated, who I fought and resisted and pushed away at every turn. Who just spent the hours proving that he’ll move heaven and earth to take care of me and our daughter.