Page 118 of Duke of Iron
“A boy,” said Dorothy, voice bright and proud. “May, darling, you have a son.”
The midwife wiped her hands and nodded, businesslike. “A fine, fat child. No trouble at all.”
May was sobbing, though she was not sure why. Relief, maybe. Or joy. Or just the fact that she could feel her hands again.
“Let him see,” she said, or thought she said, but her mouth was barely working. Dorothy brought the baby to her and set him in her arms.
He was tiny, but also monumental; he squirmed and wailed and then, when May stroked his cheek with one tentative finger, blinked at her with eyes so dark and steady they seemed almost ancient.
She laughed, giddy and exhausted. “He looks exactly like Logan,” she said. “He is already judging me.”
Dorothy kissed her forehead. “He will adore you. All babies do, eventually.”
There was a commotion in the hallway, and then Logan burst into the room, shirt untucked, hair standing on end. He took one look at the bed, at May and the child and Dorothy, and for a moment, he seemed incapable of speech.
He crossed the floor in three strides, fell to his knees beside the bed, and stared.
“Is it—” he choked “is he?—”
“Perfectly healthy,” May said, holding the baby out with trembling arms. “Logan, meet your son.”
He did not take the child, not at first. Instead, he knelt there, silent, and May watched as his face crumpled, and his eyes went bright and wet, and his whole body shook with a grief so raw and beautiful it made her own eyes sting.
“He is alive,” Logan whispered. “He is alive and you—May, you are?—”
“I am not dead,” she said, “though for a moment I wished to be.”
He laughed, a broken, incredulous sound, and then gathered her and the child both into his arms. He kissed her, hard and desperate, and then pulled back to look at the baby again, as if still unable to believe any of it was real.
“You did it,” he said. “You made a whole new person.”
“He helped,” May said, with a sidelong glance at her mother, who was now bustling about the room, straightening linens and clearing away signs of disaster.
“He did not help,” Logan said. “He only caused trouble. He will be grounded until he is twenty.”
The baby, unimpressed, let out a shriek.
“He is hungry,” said Dorothy, smiling. “He will be a strong one, I think.”
May clutched the child to her chest, her arms suddenly, fiercely strong. “He will not be alone,” she said. “Never, for as long as he lives.”
Logan watched her, wonder and awe still stamped on every line of his face. “Nor will you,” he promised. “Not ever.”
He brushed her hair from her forehead and kissed her again, softer this time. Then he whispered, “You are the bravest woman in the world.”
May closed her eyes, let herself rest against the pillows, the weight of the baby anchoring her to the world in a way she had never known before.
She drifted, half-dreaming, as the room filled with the soft, sleepy sounds of new life. Dorothy hummed a lullaby, the baby snuffled and nursed, and Logan sat at her side, never once letting go of her hand.
At some point, May woke to find the room empty except for Logan, who was sprawled in the armchair, the child asleep on his chest.
He looked up and smiled, the lines of exhaustion etched deep around his eyes. “He is a tyrant,” he said, “but a handsome one.”
May pushed herself up on her elbows, feeling stronger already. “Will you bring him here?”
He did, cradling the infant as if he were a sacred thing.
May held the child, kissed his soft hair, and looked at Logan.
