Page 115 of Claimed By the Bikers
But walking proves more challenging than expected. The babies have dropped so low that each step sends pressure through my pelvis, and another contraction halfway down the stairs forces me to grip the railing until it passes.
“Maybe I should carry you,” Garrett suggests.
“Maybe you should let me walk at my own pace.”
Silas has the truck running, hospital bag and medical supplies loaded in the back. He’s also brought pillows, blankets, snacks, and enough bottled water for a week-long camping trip.
“Did you pack everything we own?” I ask.
“Just the essentials.”
“Silas, we’re going five miles to Doc Morrison’s clinic, not emigrating to another country.”
“Better prepared than sorry.”
The drive takes forever despite the short distance. Every bump in the road sends shock waves through my body, and two more contractions hit before we reach the clinic’s parking lot.
Doc Morrison meets us at the entrance, wheeling a chair despite my protests that I can walk perfectly fine. “How far apart are the contractions?”
“Ten minutes, lasting about forty-five seconds each.”
“Good. Textbook early labor. Let’s get you inside and see how far you’ve progressed.”
The examination room is small but well equipped, designed for the kind of personal care that larger hospitals can’t provide. Doc Morrison has delivered half the babies in Wolf Pike over the past thirty years, including several sets of twins.
“Four centimeters dilated,” he announces after checking my progress. “Still have a ways to go, but things are moving along nicely.”
“What can we do?”
“Walk if you’re comfortable. Change positions frequently. Stay hydrated. And try to relax—stress can slow down labor.”
“Relax while getting ready to push two humans out of my body?”
“I know it sounds impossible, but tension makes everything harder.”
The next six hours pass in a blur of contractions, walking the clinic’s hallways, and breathing exercises that seem useless when the pain peaks. Atlas times each contraction. Garrett massages my lower back during the worst moments. Silas speaks soft French words that somehow make everything bearable.
“Eight centimeters,” Doc Morrison reports during his latest examination. “Getting close now.”
“How close?”
“Close enough that I need to start preparing for delivery. These boys are eager to meet their family.”
The transition phase hits like a freight train—contractions every two minutes, lasting ninety seconds each, with pain that makes everything I’ve experienced so far seem mild by comparison. I can’t walk anymore, and I can barely think between contractions.
“Almost time,” Doc Morrison says, checking again. “Ten centimeters, fully effaced. Ready to start pushing.”
“I don’t think I can do this.”
“You can,” Atlas says firmly, gripping my hand. “You’re the strongest person I know.”
“We’re all here,” Garrett adds, stroking my hair. “You’re not doing this alone.”
“Courage, ma belle,” Silas whispers. “Connor and Caleb are waiting to meet you.”
The pushing phase feels endless. Every contraction demands effort that leaves me exhausted, but somehow I find strength for the next push, and the next, and the next.
“I can see the first head,” Doc Morrison announces. “Dark hair, just like his fathers.”
