Page 29 of His Perfect Little Heirs

I barely hear him. A whimper thrashing from inside me because I've lost them—again.Panicked, I touch the damp blanket around my waist, gasping for air through my rising pulse. I'm hollow. I feel hollow.

Where are they?

Where are my babies?

I can't do this again.

What is wrong with my body!

Clay is upon me, cupping my cheeks before I have time to lift the sheets and assess the bloody damage that will—

"Calm down, sweet girl.” His lips hover over mine. “Your water broke. The babies are fine."

"What?"

"You're in labour, little deer." He strokes my cheeks with his thumbs, gazing into my eyes dotingly. "Your water broke, Fawn. You’re fine.”

"They’re,"—I clutch at our unborn children, covered in my skin and heavy against my uterus—"They’re okay?"

Clay forces a smooth signature grin but is unable to mask his concerns. They are rooted in the love he has for me and his babies. Today is the day he loses control of the situation. Not only loses it, nope, butrelinquishesit to another. To a doctor. And that is Clay Butcher's worst nightmare. If he could deliver the baby himself, I swear he would.

His tone is a deep, gravelly timbre as he says, "They are perfect. Are you able to stand, or shall I carry you?"

My eyes sweep the room. It's strangely still and uncomfortably quiet, absent of the shambling of feet I had expected come L-Day.

It's time to leave, I suppose. To push. And meet our babies… I feel tears cling to the backs of my eyes. My throat clogs up with fear of the impending pain, fear I'll do something wrong—thatmy bodywill do something wrong…

And everyone will see.

A room full of strangers.

A hospital. Hating the idea of leaving the house yet, I consider stalling. If I stall, maybe they’ll just shoot out like a bar of soap from a tight fist. The doctor could give Clay a cricket mitt, so he can catch them as they fly from inside me. I've heard stories—

Shaking my head, I draw myself out of my delusions. I'm just not ready to be a number on a chart; I've been a number on a chart my entire life. In foster care… that is all you are.

I don't want that right now. "Are we going to the hospital soon? Or can we wait a bit?"

"Not exactly."

My breath catches. "What?"

"Can you stand, or shall I carry you?" he repeats, dipping to kiss my nose, followed by my lips. It’s soft. I have a different Clay Butcher today. Leaning back, he pins me with a honed focus. "I'd very much like to carry you."

The weight of our babies seems to push harder on my pelvis, so I nod. "But I'm wet. I don't want—"

My words are cut off when he threads his arm under my legs and braces my back and neck with his other. Lifting me with ease, he walks through the empty house.

Each corridor is bathed in a soft orange hue. The sound of Clay's confident rap along the floor is even and loud in the absence of other noise.

Where is everyone?

Henchman Jeeves.

Jasmine.

When I pictured L-Day, it was a calamity. The mansion hectic with activity, orders and formalities soaring through the corridors. Royals are born! Alert the corgis. Ring the bells. A soldier at every exit. Fireworks. A helicopter. All the X-men— I'm not sure what they are doing; maybe protecting me or carrying me, which seems a little strange—

My wild thoughts end when a mild pain rolls along my pelvis. I bury my face in Clay's chest, the beating of his heart against my ear is like a drum counting down with his footsteps. While outwardly he's…Clay.Sir. My rock of smooth, delicious control.

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