Page 10 of Unexpected Delivery

That wasn’t my finest moment.

This entire night has been a disaster.

Another contraction hits out of nowhere, and I sob. “Oh, that’sbad.”

“They’re right on top of each other,” Morris says calmly. “Get us back home safely, and we’ll go from there. Babies are born without hospitals every day.”

“I wanted an epidural,” I hiss, my legs spasming from the pain. “It’s the only part of my birthing plan that was set in stone.”

Hael continues updating the 911 dispatcher as my entire body throbs.

The truck makes a sharp turn, and I wail. There’s no other word to describe the sounds that escape my lips.

“You’re okay,” Morris coos against the side of my head.

I shoot him a dubious glare, but I do appreciate the effort. Or I will once I’m no longer in agony.

These poor guys had no idea what a disaster they stumbled upon when they stopped.

Their driveway is long and dark, but the log cabin Hayes pulls up to is beautiful. There’s a spacious wraparound porch and trees around the exterior of a well-maintained lawn.

That’s all I get to take in as Morris hoists me from the truck and crunches through the snow with purpose.

The twins beat him up the porch steps, and Hayes is quick about getting the door open.

“Shit, we forgot your bags. I’ll go back for them,” Hael says, jogging away.

They’re braver than I am.

Sneaky ice is everywhere here, and I’ve had more than one instance of not being able to tell where it’s safe to step. Then again, my center of gravity has been off since getting to Maine.

A violent wave of fire radiates through my lower half, and I groan, burying my face in Morris’s shoulder. “It’s so bad. Oh my god, this can’t be a normal amount of pain!”

“I’ve got you,” the giant alpha says, walking down the entryway hall.

Hayes slides past us and takes off at a brisk pace.

My legs jerk as the throbbing discomfort turns to intense pressure. “I’m starting to feel like I need to push.” My hand flies around my stomach and to my leggings as something slick slides down my leg. “I think my water might have just broken.”

“That’s okay. It’s all part of the process.” Morris smiles tightly, and we make it into a spacious living room.

Hael follows us in, dropping my hospital bags. “Someone tell me what to do.”

“Brand-new blanket and a new shower curtain liner.” Hayes tosses him one of those zipped plastic containers that new bedding comes in, followed quickly by the other package. “Stretch out the liner on the sectional, then put the comforter down over it. Towels come after, and focus on where you think her lower half will go. I bumped up the heat. I’m about to change into clean clothes and scrub my hands.” He drops a pile of towels on the other side of the couch and looks at me, giving a tight smile. “I was fully trained in delivery and postpartum care as a medic in the military. It was part of our national disaster response training. I need to check you and maybe see if I can tell if your amniotic fluid is clear. If it’s not—” His head shakes. “Get settled and don’t stress. It’s not good for you or the baby.”

I am, in fact, very stressed, but I don’t get to focus on that for long as another contraction starts to build.

My nails dig into Morris’s neck, and I try to choke out an apology, but it mostly just ends up a moan.

“There were five pairs of gloves in the first aid kit,” Hayes says, squatting down in front of the end of the sectional. “I need to get your bottoms off to see if I can determine how dilated you are.”

Morris is immediately behind me, with my back to his chest. Just being able to feel his warmth and strength was a nice distraction for a few seconds, but reality catches up all too quickly.

“No, I’m fine. We need to wait for the ambulance.” I nod, wrapping my arms around the sheet Hael tossed over me. “Thank you for offering, but I’m sure they’ll be here soon.”

“I don’t think we can wait.” Hayes’s forehead wrinkles as he studies my face and pats my calf placatingly. “Your contractions are right on top of each other. Even if the ambulance arrives, they won’t move you until they determine how dilated you are. I’ll keep the sheet up; you won’t have to see anything.”

I almost snort.

---