Page 104 of Masked Seduction
Another contraction claws through her. She squeezes my wrist, teeth sinking into her bottom lip, but the sound that escapes is controlled. Counted breathing from the class we took, every exhale a practiced hiss. I wait until the tremor leaves her shoulders then gun the car down the ramp.
The Strip glitters in the rearview, every red light magically turning green as we approach. My foot hovers on the edge of illegality, but Jenna keeps steadying me with small facts from the birthing class. “Average first-stage labor lasts eight hours; airway flexes under adrenaline; my dilation at the appointment Tuesday was barely two centimeters.”
She’s being brave for both of us.
“Average isn’t you,” I say. “You’re an overachiever.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere.” She touches the dashboard timer. “Three minutes, forty-five seconds now. See? We’re textbook.”
“Textbooks don’t factor in Vegas traffic if a tour bus breaks down in the middle of the road.”
She snorts. “You own half this town; if a bus flipped, someone would clear your lane.”
That earns a reluctant smile. I weave past a delivery truck, pulling under the porte-cochere of Centennial Women’s Medical Center in record time. A nurse is already rolling a wheelchair toward us.
“Forty-three weeks,” I bark, scooping Jenna out before she can object.
She swats my shoulder. “I can walk.”
“I can’t breathe,” I counter. “Humor me.”
Triage whips us through vitals and paperwork, but Jenna’s text had apparently set off its own alarm—Claire barrels into the waiting area in mismatched sweats.
“You couldn’t hold it until the weekend?” she teases. “Abram, how are you?”
“I’m fine,” I deadpan. “Focus on the mother.”
“Focused.” Claire grips Jenna’s free hand as the nurse scans her wristband. “Do you need ice chips? Memes? Sarcastic commentary?”
“Breathing,” Jenna pants through a new contraction wave. Claire shifts into coach mode while I sign consent forms no one actually reads.
Elevator doors open onto the birthing wing. We have a private suite and the best view in the building because, of course, I made sure to sort that out. I glance out the window, a commander’sinstinct mapping streets, imagining what kingdom my child might inherit—if they want it.
Jenna’s gasp snaps my attention back.
One nurse calibrates monitors while another tags an IV. I station myself at Jenna’s left, hand enveloping hers, counting breaths with her. Her grip is crushing, but I don’t flinch. Pain shared is pain stolen.
“You’re five centimeters,” the midwife announces. “Moving fast, Mama. Let’s get you settled.”
Five centimeters already. My pulse slows. My job is simple now—protect, support, breathe.
Jenna meets my eyes, sweat dampening her temples. “Told you we had plenty of time.”
I press a kiss to her knuckles. “Indeed you did. But I’m still glad we didn’t test the upholstery.”
The double doors of Labor & Delivery sigh shut behind me, and for the first time in twelve hours, my shoulders loosen.
The corridor is quiet and dimly lit, smelling faintly of antiseptic and lemon floor polish. A janitor pushes a mop past the vending machines, earbuds in, oblivious to what just occurred behind those doors.
I pause halfway to the elevators and lean against the wall for a second.
Vanya.
The name floats up from my chest like steam. I say it aloud, barely above a whisper.
“Vanya.”
My daughter.
