Page 47 of Of Wolves and Wives

The minutes drag as they turn into hours. It doesn’t take long for it to become painfully clear that the baby won’t make it. We sit in a pool of her blood as tears slip from her eyes along with the occasional groan.

“I…need to push,” Lyra whispers.

Peirce’s eyes snap to mine at her words. I grimace, knowing that what happens now will determine if both the baby and Lyra are lost to us. So much could still go wrong, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to save either of them. I have too little knowledge of these things, and I curse myself as I nod to Peirce.

“There’s a pressure, please. I need to push,” she whimpers.

I nod to Peirce as I move back to shift her skirts. We have no choice. We’ve waited long enough for Rykker to get help. Any longer, and I fear that Lyra will be lost to us. I won’t be able to live with myself if she’s taken now. If she becomes another victim of the prince’s.

The sky has begun to lighten as Lyra pushes to no avail. I see no baby head, no anything other than more blood. My heart pounds with each groan from her. Each strain that only sees more blood oozing from her instead of producing a baby.

“Rykker,” Peirce says.

I glance over my shoulder, seeing him entering the clearing. At his side is Heath. Both are laden down with items as they move toward us. Grim-faced and eyes are full of worry as they glance at me as though I were the one laying in labor. I give them both reassuring nods before realizing they aren’t alone. Trailing behind them is Ms. Thompson. She takes in the scene before hurrying to Lyra, not so gently shooing me away. Joining Peirce, I use my skirts to dab at Lyra’s sweaty brows.

Pale light fills the clearing as a wail fills the air. Birds around us take flight at the sound of Lyra’s anguish. She’s survived, though just barely. Her baby, however, has not.

33

Rose

The gray morning is quiet, clouds covering the sky, and few birds dare sing. We are quiet as Ms. Thompson cleans the baby. The only sounds are Lyra’s soft sobs as she clutches herself. She refuses to allow any of us near her. I watch from a distance, my heart breaking for her.

Ms. Thompson puts the bundled baby on Lyra’s chest. Her sobs quiet as she stares down at her son. He’s perfect, though, too, still. He’s tiny, but his silver hair is striking. Lyra rubs her thumb along his cheek as she stares down at him.

“He must be buried,” Ms. Thompson says. “Immediately.”

Rykker nods at this, moving away from us to begin to dig the grave. I watch him before turning to find comfort in Heath’s arms. With his arms wrapped around me, guilt hits me. Lyra lays alone. Even Ms. Thompson seems to keep her distance, allowing Lyra a moment to grieve all that she has lost.

After a few moments, the older woman says, “We must return to the castle before we are missed.”

“No,” I mutter.

“Perhaps the Grey Prince will see it in his heart to have mercy. After all, this is the closest he’s coming to obtaining an heir. And you still carry.”

“We are never going back. Not now, not ever,” I snap.

Ms. Thompson turns to level me with a stern look. Our eyes meet as we stare one another down. If she expects me to bow to her, she’s never understood me.

“Lyra won’t survive the forest in her state.”

I snort before asking, “You think she will survive the prince? After everything that has happened?”

“She’s alive, is she not? She can give him another heir once she heals.”

Lyra lets out a terrified sound at this, her eyes widening as she stares up at Ms. Thompson. Her terror at the prospect cuts at me. No woman should have to worry about whether or not she can produce an heir for the prince. Has he not ruined enough lives?

“At least she has a chance,” Ms. Thompson says. “That alone is all she needs to continue to survive.”

Anger boils through me even though I can’t depute her words. I hate the truth buried in them. There is no flash of victory in Ms. Thompson’s eyes as she continues to watch me. When I open my mouth to say that she might be right, she holds up a hand. Shushing me. My mouth snaps closed out of surprise as she turns to glance at Lyra. She’s gentle as she approaches and gently takes the baby from Lyra’s arms.

“He needs buried now. Watch over her,” Ms. Thompson says to the men. To me, she says, “Come.”

The men glance to me, waiting to see if I stand my ground. A part of me wants to. But then I glimpse Lyra’s tears, and I nod to them. They need to protect her right now, not me. Peirce and Heath move toward Lyra while Rykker leads us to the grave he’s dug.

Ms. Thompson nods to him before crouching. Her tenderness with the baby surprises me. She’s gentle as she places him in the dirt. Rykker adverts his gaze as she sees to it the baby has a proper send-off. I don’t. Curiosity gets the better of me. As does watching this side of Ms. Thompson. I bite my tongue to keep the questions and accusations at bay. Until finally, I’m unable to hold my silence.

“Why did you help me escape?”

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