“Yes.” She managed to get the word out between contractions. “Is it supposed to be this fast?”
“Every labor is different.” The midwife—a kind-faced Dorani female—was examining her with gentle hands. “But yes, this is moving quickly. You’re already at seven centimeters.”
Seven. That meant?—
Another contraction hit, stronger than before, and she couldn’t hold back the cry.
“Where’s Selik?” she gasped when it passed.
“On his way,” Wendy said, gripping her hand. “He’ll be here.”
“He needs to be here. I need—” The contraction cut off her words, and she squeezed Wendy’s hand hard enough to hurt.
Wendy didn’t complain, just breathed with her, coaching her through it.
“That’s good. You’re doing great. Just breathe.”
“I can’t do this without him.”
“You can. You’re strong. But he’ll be here soon.”
She wanted to believe her, but the contractions were coming faster now, each one more intense than the last, and she couldn’t think past the sensations.
Time became meaningless. She was aware of Wendy’s voice, the midwife’s calm instructions, and the feeling that her body was out of her control.
And then?—
“Corinne.”
Selik’s voice, rough and urgent. His hand found hers, large and warm and solid. She opened her eyes, found him beside her, his face tight with barely controlled panic.
“I am here, s’kara,” he said. “I am not leaving.”
Relief flooded through her, stronger than the contractions. “You came.”
“Of course I came.” He pressed his forehead to hers, his tail wrapping around her shoulders in a protective coil. “I am here. You are not alone.”
She could feel him trembling and sense the fear rolling off him in waves. This was his nightmare—his mate in pain, in danger, and nothing he could do to stop it.
“I need you to be calm,” she managed between contractions. “I need you to not panic.”
“I am not panicking.”
“You’re vibrating.”
He took a breath, visibly pulling himself together. When he spoke again, his voice was steadier. “Tell me what you need.”
“Just… stay. Don’t leave.”
“Never.” He kissed her forehead, her cheek, her lips. “I am right here.”
Another contraction hit, and she gripped his hand hard enough that she felt something crack. He didn’t flinch, just held her through it, his other hand stroking her hair.
“You’re doing well,” the midwife said. “Almost ready to push.”
Almost. That meant soon. That meant?—
“I can’t do this,” she gasped. “It’s too fast, I’m not ready, I don’t?—”
