Page 50 of Rage

Daniel’s Rage

By: Mae K. Knight

Chapter One

Safe

Sarah

“My raven,” Zaiden croons in my ear as I remain hunched over the toilet seat, dots filling my vision. Closing my eyes and inhaling deeply, I remind myself that I wanted this, to experience every high and low of pregnancy.

Sariel.

My forehead presses into the forearm balanced on the lip of the seat.

Three IVFs. Two failures and one early miscarriage. Tears sting my closed eyes. I wanted to name her Sariel as soon as I’d heard the heartbeat on the monitor at seven weeks.

Cramping woke me up three weeks later, blood coating my thighs.

I sniffle and strong hands pry me off the toilet. Zaiden turns me around and pulls me onto his lap, chin resting on top of my head. He hums, rocking me a little.

I didn’t used to be a big crier. Pregnancy made a mockery of that little badge of honor. I worked NICU for a little while andheld my tears in when receiving orders to cease care. Now, I cry at watching those pet commercials urging people to adopt.

“How can I make it better?” my fiancé asks, voice coming out rough, like my pain is infecting him, too.

“It’ll pass. It’s just nausea,” I lie. Vomiting doesn’t explain my red nose and watery eyes.

This baby iseverythingand each moment, I’m reminded of how precarious my life and it is.

It.Am I a coward for refusing to think of them as a her or him until they’re in my arms?

At seven months, we definitely should know the gender, but I’d urged Dr. Morigan to keep it a secret. Ever the supportive partner, Zaiden agreed to wait as well.

When I’m not puking, groaning from back aches or complaining about my swelling feet, we have fun bouncing around names.

Zade remains his first pick, and it’s growing on me.

A dark brow climbs his forehead, and his disbelieving expression speaks volumes. I flush. I would’ve bet money I know him better than he knows me, but maybe my arrogance is a little premature.

“Let’s get you into bed, then. Maybe lying down will help. I’ll heat up some soup—” I laugh, shaking my head at him.

“That’s not necessary. And women go to work while pregnant all the time. I need to get dressed, not lie down. Help me?” I ask, blinking coquettishly up at him.

Full lips turn down in a frown, pulling at the corners of his scars.

We arenothaving this argument again. Yes, I have vacation days saved up, but I’m not using them to go on maternity leave early.

Besides, as an expecting mother myself, who better to relate to my patients?

“Zaiden—”

“Fine,” he growls, rising suddenly, strong arms securing me to his chest and the precious cargo I’m carrying.

“But the minute you feel unwell, you’ll come home,” he states. It’s a demand, not a question. I sigh, letting my head rest against his bare chest and inhaling his woodsy scent. Nearly gone is the frightfully insecure male I brought home all those months ago.

He’s settled into his new skin like the reptiles he’s fond of, balancing firmness and gentleness, as if he’s always been this way. My lips fight a smile, already envisioning the amazing parent he’ll be to our child.

“Yes, sir,” I mock grumble, letting the smile spread across my face. He snorts, but his lips twitch as well.

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