Page 59 of Rescued By the Alien Bull Rider

He opened his mouth, then closed it, as if searching for the right words.

“Fucking hell, Zohro,what is it?”

“Forgive me,” he growled. “I have never been praised for my bedside manner. I will be blunt. Baby Girl is upside down. Her head is here.” He grabbed my hand, the one not connected to the arm with the IV line, and pushed it against the spot below my ribs. Panting hard, I tried to relax enough to make sense of what I was feeling.

Something hard. Something round. Like a little baby head.

“Is she alright?” I demanded before falling into another catastrophic contraction. Zohro waited until it was through, perhaps intuiting that I wouldn’t be able to make sense of what he told me in the midst of it.

“I will continue to be blunt for efficiency’s sake,” he said brusquely. “I don’t like what her heartrate is doing and I do not believe a vaginal birth will be possible. I want to get her out. Now.”

“Do it,” I said, a ferocious, animal sound. I needed this pain to end.

And even more than that?

I needed my daughter safe.

Zohro got to work immediately, covering his hair and clothing with surgical garb, scrubbing and disinfecting his hands again, and assembling sterile equipment. Through flickering eyelids, I saw him lift a needle that was so fucking big I was sure it was meant for bracku or shuldu. Not little ol’ me.

But Jesus Christ, itwasmeant for me.

“What… the fuck… is that?” I panted raggedly as he brought the needle behind me.

“It is for the epidural.” His tone was very controlled. Business-like, even. Like one of the scholarly narrators in the videos he’d been watching. “I will insert a direct line of medication into your spine. You may feel a pinch.”

“A pinch?!”

That needle looked like a hell of a lot more than a pinch!

But shockingly, he was right. Maybe it was just that my pain load had been so high with the contractions that this big-ass needle now only felt like a sharp, scratchy little poke in comparison.

Or maybe it was some kind of placebo effect. Because Zohro had said it with such confidence, with such a convincing sense of knowledge on the matter, that my brain and body had no choice but to believe him.

“That… That wasn’t so bad,” I breathed.

“That was local anaesthetic,” he told me. “The epidural comes next.”

Oh, Jesus Christ.

But it must have worked, because the big epidural needle was even less painful than the local anaesthetic.

“Remain very still, Jolene,” he said tightly, the first indication of any sort of strain on him. “This must be placedexactlycorrectly.”

On my next contraction, I bit my lip until I tasted blood, forcing myself not to tense up, not to move, not to breathe. It seemed to take Zohro forever to do whatever he needed to do back there, but eventually, he came striding around the other side of the bed.

“It will take a few moments for relief. I have tried to account for your red hair, but you must keep me apprised of your pain and numbness levels in case I must further increase the dosage.”

I’d completely forgotten about the fact that redheads needed more pain medication.

But Zohro hadn’t.

“Thank you,” I said, sucking back tears. I’d made it this far into the labour without crying – or puking – and I didn’t want to start now if I could help it.

If he heard my words of thanks, he ignored them, setting about preparing for the surgery.

I was too exhausted to be afraid of getting cut open. At least, not yet.

Or maybe that was just the relief of the epidural kicking in and helping me relax. Because a few contractions later, I realized they didn’t feel quite so bone-breaking.

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