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Bertram thought of his father.
Of Sebastian, and Everard, and Reynard.
Their relationships were complicated. Messy. In some cases, he didn’t know where they stood. It felt, in some ways, hopeless. Who could untangle crossed wires like these? Who could hope to patch such great damage done?
But when he looked at Sorin, nothing felt so bleak.
They had been through messes far worse than these, yet still they persevered.
“I—” Bertram began, only to stop.
Sorin winced again, but this time he also hissed in pain.
“What’s wrong?” Bertram asked in alarm, scrambling into an upright position. He put a hand on Sorin’s thigh. “Is it your head? Are you in need of your medication?”
“No.” Sorin drew a long and rather labored breath, then let it slowly out and looked Bertram in the eyes. “My head is fine, but I need you to call Everard. I’m going into labor. The eggs are on their way.”
34
Sorin
There was no pain like active labor. It pulsed like a second heartbeat, clenching, throbbing, each new pang pumping suffering through Sorin until he was so full of it, it felt like he couldn’t breathe. Desperate for relief, he shifted his hips and even tried rolling onto his side, but the pain followed. It would not stop. And as he twisted miserably on the bed in a futile search for comfort, it began to feel like it never would.
Fifteen minutes passed, then half an hour. On the cusp of the forty-five-minute mark, Bertram—who had stepped out to call Everard—returned to the bedroom. His expression was withdrawn and didn’t suggest much, but Sorin knew him well enough to tell he was worried.
“Everard is not answering his phone,” Bertram revealed as he came to the bedside. “I left him a message and called around to see if anyone else might know his whereabouts, but no such luck. According to his secretary, he is often unreachable at this time—something about a weekly trip to the buffet. I tried to call Harrison, but his phone went straight to voicemail, so I left him a message as well. Surely they won’t be out much longer. Buffet or not, there is only so much one dragon can eat.”
At that moment, a contraction jolted through him that was so intense, he had to grit his teeth to keep from screaming. The eggs lurched, dropping lower.
They would not be made to wait for Everard.
They were ready to be laid.
“Sorin?” Bertram took his hand, squeezing gently to get Sorin’s attention. Sorin, bleary-eyed from pain and gasping for breath, looked up at him… and while he knew it was Bertram standing there, it wasn’t Bertram he saw.
It was Unwin Drake.
Another contraction.
Sorin couldn’t hold back his scream this time. He wanted badly to bear down—to push the eggs out—but how could he? How could he let them be born into a world where they would suffer? Where they would be taken from him. Where they would be made to scream.
“Sorin.” Bertram’s voice cut through the chatter in his head. His grip on Sorin’s hand tightened, and a golden radiance pierced the darkness that had Sorin in its grasp.
Love.
It flowed into him through their bond.
“I’m here,” Bertram told him as that feeling pooled in Sorin’s chest. He kissed the top of Sorin’s head, then climbed onto the bed and slotted himself between Sorin and the headboard, dragging Sorin up into his arms. “I have you. I will protect you, love. As long as I live, no harm will come to you. You needn’t be afraid. With or without Everard, I will make sure you get through this. I will keep you safe—you and the eggs both.”
Memories of times better off forgotten flitted through Sorin’s mind. The pain of labor. Loneliness. He had suffered so much—so much—and no one had cared. No one had ever held him. No one had shown him any kindness at all.
But here was Bertram, holding him.
Bertram, vowing he would make it right.
He was not in Unwin’s dank castle. He was not with any wretched dragon.
He was with his mate, and he was loved.
