Page 26 of Rescued by the Alien Bull Rider (Cowboy Colony Mail-Order Brides #6)

JOLENE

I was only a couple of hours in, and labour was kicking my fucking ass.

I’d always assumed that I’d hold out for a long time, maybe last the whole thing, without needing some pain relief.

No clue why. Some fucked up need to be strong, I guess.

To not be a burden. To need as little from Zohro as possible.

I stayed in the tub at first, hissing through clenched teeth every time a contraction tried to turn my insides into mush. But before long, that hissing was swearing. Then, the swearing was garbled, animal moaning.

The pain was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. Like someone was crushing my pelvis inside a vise. It made panic swell inside me and stole my breath, no matter how many times Zohro kept reminding me to inhale and exhale.

Thankfully, only one of us was freaking out right now. I’d always had the impression that husbands during labour were mostly useless. Too stressed out to do anything but try not to pass out beside their screaming wife.

But Zohro? He was the complete fucking opposite of that.

I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen him so calm, so in control.

He moved with a smooth, swift competence.

Apart from the blazing white of his eyes that indicated some strong emotion, he showed absolutely no signs of stress at all.

Even when I begged him to end my pain because I thought I might die if he didn’t, he merely took gentle but firm hold of me and lifted me out of the tub as easily as he might lift a child, taking me to a medical table type thing, telling me that he would start administering fluids so that he could place the epidural as soon as possible.

He placed me on my left side and got to work, preparing IV solutions and hooking the line of it into my arm.

I barely felt it, barely noticed what he was doing at all, too preoccupied with my agony.

I had to trust Zohro wholly and completely now.

My body was giving in to processes I had no control over, and I was barely able to keep breathing let alone pay attention to what he was doing.

Between contractions, I did dazedly become aware of him placing sticky circles on my belly.

“What… What are those?”

“I will use these to monitor the fetal heartrate,” he told me. He placed a final circle near the top of my belly, near my ribcage, and suddenly frowned.

Uh oh.

Another contraction wracked me then, so I couldn’t ask him what that look had been about. Was something wrong with Baby Girl’s heart rate? It was so much harder to feel her moving with the contractions. God, no.

“What?” I cried, dragging the word out of a moan as the contraction subsided. “What’s wrong?”

Zohro was pressing his fingers all over my abdomen, his frown deepening.

He opened his mouth, then closed it, as if searching for the right words.

“Fucking hell, Zohro, what is it ?”

“Forgive me,” he growled. “I have never been praised for my bedside manner. I will be blunt. Baby Girl is upside down. Her head is here.” He grabbed my hand, the one not connected to the arm with the IV line, and pushed it against the spot below my ribs.

Panting hard, I tried to relax enough to make sense of what I was feeling.

Something hard. Something round. Like a little baby head.

“Is she alright?” I demanded before falling into another catastrophic contraction. Zohro waited until it was through, perhaps intuiting that I wouldn’t be able to make sense of what he told me in the midst of it.

“I will continue to be blunt for efficiency’s sake,” he said brusquely. “I don’t like what her heartrate is doing and I do not believe a vaginal birth will be possible. I want to get her out. Now.”

“Do it,” I said, a ferocious, animal sound. I needed this pain to end.

And even more than that?

I needed my daughter safe.

Zohro got to work immediately, covering his hair and clothing with surgical garb, scrubbing and disinfecting his hands again, and assembling sterile equipment.

Through flickering eyelids, I saw him lift a needle that was so fucking big I was sure it was meant for bracku or shuldu. Not little ol’ me.

But Jesus Christ, it was meant for me.

“What… the fuck… is that?” I panted raggedly as he brought the needle behind me.

“It is for the epidural.” His tone was very controlled. Business-like, even. Like one of the scholarly narrators in the videos he’d been watching. “I will insert a direct line of medication into your spine. You may feel a pinch.”

“A pinch?!”

That needle looked like a hell of a lot more than a pinch!

But shockingly, he was right. Maybe it was just that my pain load had been so high with the contractions that this big-ass needle now only felt like a sharp, scratchy little poke in comparison.

Or maybe it was some kind of placebo effect. Because Zohro had said it with such confidence, with such a convincing sense of knowledge on the matter, that my brain and body had no choice but to believe him.

“That… That wasn’t so bad,” I breathed.

“That was local anaesthetic,” he told me. “The epidural comes next.”

Oh, Jesus Christ.

But it must have worked, because the big epidural needle was even less painful than the local anaesthetic.

“Remain very still, Jolene,” he said tightly, the first indication of any sort of strain on him. “This must be placed exactly correctly.”

On my next contraction, I bit my lip until I tasted blood, forcing myself not to tense up, not to move, not to breathe. It seemed to take Zohro forever to do whatever he needed to do back there, but eventually, he came striding around the other side of the bed.

“It will take a few moments for relief. I have tried to account for your red hair, but you must keep me apprised of your pain and numbness levels in case I must further increase the dosage.”

I’d completely forgotten about the fact that redheads needed more pain medication.

But Zohro hadn’t.

“Thank you,” I said, sucking back tears. I’d made it this far into the labour without crying – or puking – and I didn’t want to start now if I could help it.

If he heard my words of thanks, he ignored them, setting about preparing for the surgery.

I was too exhausted to be afraid of getting cut open. At least, not yet.

Or maybe that was just the relief of the epidural kicking in and helping me relax. Because a few contractions later, I realized they didn’t feel quite so bone-breaking.

“I think it’s working,” I breathed. “I can’t feel…”

Hold on. I did feel something… Not a contraction, but...

“Zohro!” I screamed. Something hot gushed, followed by something small and solid pushing downwards. Oh, God help me. I was bleeding.

Just like my mother had.

Zohro was at my side in an instant. He rolled me onto my back, wordlessly spreading my legs.

“It is amniotic fluid,” he told me. “And… Blast .”

I couldn’t feel the pressure of his hand as he touched me between my thighs.

“And her foot.”

No!

With rapid but precise movements, Zohro sprayed my bare belly down with some kind of surgical disinfectant. “Are you feeling this?” he asked.

“No. Nothing!” I couldn’t even feel Baby Girl trying to step her way out into the world, out of me.

“Good,” he growled. He lifted a scalpel. “Because it’s time to get her out.”

It all came crashing down on me then. The reality of the scene. The gravity of it. The fear I hadn’t felt about the surgery came pouring into me like poison.

“Don’t let me die, Zohro,” I begged, the tears finally spilling free. “I don’t want her to grow up without her mom. I don’t want her to be like me!”

Zohro’s eyes grew so white that they were all I could see, brighter even than the surgical bulbs above us. For the first time since my contractions had begun, dark emotion sawed at his face, marring the sculpted mask of professional control.

“I am the greatest living surgeon both in this world and the one I left behind,” he snarled. “I have never, never had a patient die upon my table, and I do not plan to start now with my own wife!”

My own wife.

It was the first time I’d ever heard him call me that.

“I will get you through this, Jolene. Both of you. I vow it on my life, and the name of my own father.” He brought his scalpel closer. As he placed it against my skin, he vehemently added, “And you should want her to be like you. Because that would rank her among the strongest women that I know.”

Good God, I hoped so. Hoped that I was strong.

Prayed for it as Zohro pressed the scalpel down.