Page 41 of Rogue If You Want To
I’d scrubbed the stone walls and coated the floor with waterproof fabric and covered that with a carpet remnant we’d picked up in town and then thrown blankets and quilts over the top. Lazlo had helped me string up some lights because I was my mate’s birthing coach, and even with my shifter sight, it was dark in the cellar.
“How’s it going in there?” Creven didn’t come in. Now that the den was complete, no one other than Otto and I were allowed here, but Alpha peered in from the entrance.
Some of the pack had been intrigued about having a baby in a dusty old root cellar, but many of the shifters delivered their young in dens, and they explained to the wolves that the omega needed a warm, safe space to give birth.
“Almost there.” I crossed my fingers, hoping my mate didn’t need more towels, cushions, water, or blankets.
I’d lugged a spare mattress that Creven and Larkin no longer wanted into the root cellar, while in a corner was a pile of pillows and cushions in case my mate wanted to give birth there.
Tiny onesies, diapers, and other baby paraphernalia were in a waterproof box, and I had water and snacks in another. Otto didn’t know if he’d want to spend days in the den after the birth or if he’d leave as soon as our little one arrived.
Auden had moved his old trailer that he no longer used close to the cellar entrance, and I’d hooked up a cord for the heating pad.
“I think we’re ready,” Otto announced, but his smile was replaced by a furrow between his brows. “What if I can’t do this?”
I kneeled at his feet. “First, you have overcome more in a few months than most people do in a lifetime. And second, your body will know what to do. Instinct will guide you. And if not, I’m here to coach you.”
I hoped I sounded more confident than I felt. Many late nights had been spent in the library poring over baby books we’d picked up in a sale. They were intended for humans giving birth at home or in hospital, not by an otter shifter in a converted root cellar.
“You’re ready.” He made a face as I spoke. “I know you are.” He grunted and leaned forward. “Are we practicing our breathing?” We’d sat up nights, breathing in unison, so Otto could deal with the contractions.
He shook his head and scrunched his eyes closed.
“Braxton Hicks?” I asked hopefully.
His lips were pressed together so hard, they were drained of color. But his body went limp, and he put his head on my shoulder.
“Otto? Was that what I think it was?”
He didn’t answer, but a gush of liquid and a puddle at his feet confirmed my suspicion. He was in labor.
“Our little one is ready too.”
Great. Now I had to get in line.
I helped my mate out of his clothes and gave him a quick sponge bath. The contractions were far apart, but they speeded up faster than those books suggested. When this was over, I’d march into the library and write in the margins, “That’s a big fib.”
Otto asked for ice chips, and I opened the cooler, pleased I’d brought a bag of ice in here this morning, though I’d assumed it’d melt long before the baby arrived.
Labor was named correctly. My mate labored for hours. He walked and we squatted, he bent over and panted, grunted, and cried. But he’d been right about the root cellar. I’d closed the door when his water broke, and it felt as if we were in a time capsule. Just him, me, and the baby.
“Torin, it hurts.” My mate pressed his face against my chest as he swayed his hips. I wished I could take his place or could share the pain. I’d read some shifters had that ability, but not me.
“Remember what Larkin told us. It’s pain with a purpose. The closer the contractions, the sooner we’ll see the baby.”
Otto gripped my shirt, ripping a hole in it as his body cramped. He whined that it was never going to end, but in the next breath, he wanted to push. He staggered to the pile of cushions but changed his mind and stood on the mattress. He wanted me in front, holding his hands as he squatted.
I hunkered down with him as the contractions wracked his body and he pushed.
“No baby?” He peered between his legs.
The books make it seem as though after a few pushes the baby would appear. Or maybe that was how we’d interpreted it.
“Soon, my darling. Picture our little one wanting to meet us.”
He snarled, sounding more like my wolf than my mate, and gritted his teeth as he pushed again. Time seemed to stand still as Otto pushed, and I offered encouragement as we crouched over the old mattress.
He bore down, and his nails dug into my palms.
