Page 2 of Sinful Bride

“Whatever! It’s fine!” I groan through gritted teeth as another contraction rips through my body. “Just get this baby out of me!”

Jameson breathes a sigh of relief and relinquishes his post to her. But before he leaves, he blindly searches for my hand with his and gives me a squeeze. “You got this. We’re right here for you.”

I squeeze his hand back. I’m glad he’s my sister’s husband; I’m even more glad he’s my brother through her. “Thanks. Really, Jameson. Thank you.”

Another squeeze. Then he leaves, doing his best not to actually run out of the room.

Asya’s hands feel warm on my leg. I didn’t know how much I needed her here until right now, but now, the tears are choking up inside my chest. She leans over me and brushes the hair back from my face. “We’re here, milaya devushka. You’re doing wonderful.”

I’m glad they’re here. But Pasha… He swore he’d be here. His whole point for keeping me so close all the time was to be here. He promised me every first. “Where’s Pasha? Why isn’t he here?”

I feel the hot tears roll down my cheeks.

Asya glances at Sofiya, who shakes her head with a sigh. “Listen, Daph, he’s?—”

A cry sears through my body the same time a more powerful contraction does. Holy hell, they did not prepare me for this in those stupid birthing classes.

“I’m sure we’d all love to know what excuse this baby’s so-called father has,” Melanie growls next to me. “But right now, we’ve got bigger things to focus on.”

Sofi shoots her a glare. But when she takes my hand in hers, she’s gentle and reassuring. “She’s right. You’re doing good, Daphne. Just breathe with me. In… out…”

I nod. I cry. I scream. I beg God to just rip the bottom half of my body away from me so I don’t have to feel this pain anymore.

On either side of me, Sofi and Mel squeeze my hands and brace my arms. And then, at the flip of some invisible switch, the world around us falls away. It’s only me. My sisters. My mother—my true mother. Heads bowed together, breaths synced together between whispers of encouragement and promises of loyalty.

Another contraction.

Another scream.

Another round of synchronized breaths and murmured encouragement.

Over.

And over.

And over again.

Until something down there, at the apex of my entire being, spreads and tears open, giving way to the unbearable pressure. It’s like a release valve is opened and suddenly, too suddenly, all that weight slides out of me in a rush.

The doctors and nurses flood toward me. My support team swiftly steps out of the way, but none of them let go of my hands.

I wait for what I so badly need to hear. And then?—

There.

The next cry in this room is much smaller, higher. And music to my ears.

I dissolve into a puddle of sobs and sighs of relief. It’s over. It’s finally over.

She’s here.

She’s alive.

She’s beautiful.

The relief begins to give way to something I don’t want to creep up on me. It does anyway, because I’m not allowed to have happiness for too long at any given point.

Our daughter is here. But Pasha is not.

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