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Even though I know this is completely natural based on my training, my sanity is out the window.
“Sit up, baby. Hold the railing.” I kiss her sweaty forehead, and I wait for her to acknowledge with a soft nod. Rounding the delivery table, I say to the nurse. “Move. I’m delivering this baby.”
She takes my place at Ana’s side.
“Okay, Ana, when I say push, you bear down.” I make eye contact with her, letting her know for sure she’s mine.
A few pushes and screams for Cormac’s head on a platter later, I’m holding a healthy baby boy. A son.
My son.
Exhausted, Ana slumps back. I cut the umbilical cord just as Dr. Federov and a delivery team finally arrive.
Federov takes over and finishes up while I bring the baby to Ana. I smile when she automatically reaches for him.
I lay him on Ana’s chest and kissing her again, I say, “He needs a name.”
She nods and cuddles her son, smiling and crying.
It’s such a beautiful sight. I can’t get close enough to them, but I pull back to take a picture for Lucy to show Sophie.
“What… What was your grandfather’s name?” she asks me, her voice hoarse and strained. “Your dad’s dad.”
I hadn’t thought about Grandpa O’Rourke in so long. He passed away years ago.
“His name was James Patrick.”
Ana sputters with laughter.
“I wonder if my father’s Bratva will kiss the ring of a pakhan named James Patrick O’Rourke.”
I don’t mention that I will never let that happen. I will never give my son to either my family or the Bratva.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Ana
With James Patrick’s birth a week ago came the sun in Seattle. That’s one way for the people of this city to accept us.
I finish his mid-morning feeding to the smell of freshly baked turkey wafting to every corner of this enormous, wonderful house.
It’s Thanksgiving Day, and I have so much to be thankful for.
Mostly, I’m thankful for the man standing in the doorway to the nursery looking at me.
Wearing a black T-shirt and gray sweatpants, Darragh’s bulging biceps and curved pecs take my breath away.
I have to wait several more weeks before we can be intimate, and I look forward to sex being just us in the act with no baby between us.
“Smells good,” I say.
“Sure does.”
“You can’t mean me.” I laugh. “I’m in your flannel shirt, sweats, and I haven’t showered in days.”
“You’re gorgeous, and I don’t care how you smell. You look amazing holding my son.”
I put Darragh’s name on the birth certificate as the father, sealing our bond with this baby, half Irish, half Russian.
