Chapter 24 #2
I gritted my teeth as the doctor’s fingers pushed inside her, more from the discomfort of Rory clawing the shit out of my neck than my need to cut the man’s hands off for touching my wife intimately.
The reminder that he was only doing his job, and that there was no pleasure to be found in it, was the only thing keeping my inner alpha at bay.
Forehead creased as he felt around, Corsi’s eyes lifted to mine, and immediately, I knew whatever the issue was, it wasn’t good.
“Speak,” I commanded.
“Mrs. Bellini brought to our attention earlier that the baby has been unusually active throughout labor. It would seem that the little one’s gymnastics have put him in a position that isn’t conducive to a vaginal delivery.”
Rory clung to me, begging, “Don’t let him slice me open. I don’t want to die.”
With my lips pressed to the side of her head, I shushed my wife gently. “That’s not going to happen, because I’m sure Dr. Corsi has a plan. Isn’t that right?”
The look I shot in his direction told him if he didn’t have a plan, he’d better think of one, and quickly.
The doctor cleared his throat, voice coming out strained; he was likely scared for his life if this went sideways.
“The baby is presenting shoulder first. I could attempt an internal version, which would require me to reach inside to turn him head down again, but I must warn you, without pain medication, the procedure will no doubt be excruciating.”
“Is that the only option other than surgery?”
He ducked his head. “Yes, sir.”
“Then do it.”
That was all the consent he needed to proceed. Retrieving his bag from nearby, he pulled out a syringe and a small pair of metal scissors. I arched an eyebrow at the implements as Rory moaned loudly, contorting in my arms while in the throes of yet another contraction.
Once it passed, and my wife relaxed on the mattress, Corsi laid out the procedure in detail.
“While a cervical check only demands two fingers be inserted, the internal version requires my entire hand. To ensure there’s enough room, I’m going to perform an episiotomy, which will widen the vaginal opening.
I apologize in advance; this won’t feel great, Mrs. Bellini, even with the use of a local anesthetic. ”
When I glanced down at Rory, her eyes were blank, and I realized she’d made a conscious effort to disassociate from what promised to be perhaps the single most agonizing experience of her entire life.
“Just do it already.”
Rory hissed, stiffening when the needle pierced her sensitive flesh, but that was nothing compared to her reaction when the scissors cut into her.
The inhuman howl next to my ear made me wince, and she jerked in my hold, desperate to escape what I could only imagine felt like torture, but my grip on her didn’t loosen, keeping her immobile so the doctor could do his job.
When Corsi pulled his hands away, the latex covering them was coated in bright red blood. With one, he palpated on her exposed stomach, locating the baby’s head before reaching inside her with the other.
That’s when Rory lost it completely.
An animalistic scream split the air, and she bucked wildly, fighting against both the man restraining her and the one whose arm was shoved to the elbow between her legs.
My nerves were completely shot by the time the doctor finally withdrew, a relieved rush of air flowing past his lips when he pressed on Rory’s belly, confirming our son was now engaged head down in her pelvis.
Wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm, he declared, “You should be good to push now, Mrs. Bellini.”
Rory didn’t waste any time, bearing down when the next contraction hit, grunting as she exerted extreme effort to birth our son.
“That’s it,” I coached. “You’re doing it.”
Time became an endless blur of pushing, broken up by the panting breaks that came in between. And yet, our boy still hadn’t made it earthside, and Rory’s energy was fading fast.
She collapsed against me with a defeated cry. “He’s too big. I can’t get him out.”
Thank God her eyes were closed because she’d have probably gone ballistic when she saw the gleaming forceps Dr. Corsi brought forth. Hell, even I was a little rattled at the sight of them. They were huge!
“I’m going to help guide the baby out, Mrs. Bellini.” He kept his tone calm, soothing, so as not to alarm her.
She was so delirious with pain that she only let out the tiniest whimper when he eased the tools inside her, positioning them around the baby’s head.
“With the next contraction, I want you to give it everything you’ve got,” Corsi instructed.
Rory mumbled something incoherent but managed a weak nod, indicating that she understood. Not long after, her body tensed, and she began to push, this time yelling, “Oh fuck! OH FUCK! IT BURNS!”
The doctor’s forearms strained as he tugged with a white-knuckled grip on the forceps’ handles. “Almost there. Keep going.”
Her screams neared a pitch only dogs could hear as they boomeranged around the inside of my skull, my brain throbbing with an intense headache that had the edges of my vision blurring.
“Stop!”
The one-word command was issued harshly enough that Rory’s eyes popped open.
“What’s wrong?” she gasped, breathless.
Leaning forward, I peeked between her legs, catching the moment that the doctor eased the cord from around the baby’s neck.
“Nothing.” I rubbed Rory’s arm. “He’s got hair.”
“He does?” Unfocused blue eyes blinked up at me.
“Mm-hmm.” My lips found her temple. “You’re doing so well. Not much longer and he’ll be in your arms.”
Her chest heaved on a broken sob. “I’m so tired.”
“You can rest soon. I promise.”
Fuck, after this ordeal, it would be a miracle if she wasn’t bedbound for a week in order to recover.
“All right, Mrs. Bellini. Feel free to push whenever you feel the urge. One more should do it.”
Mustering up every last ounce of strength she had left, my wife gave it her all, and with one final shout, our son’s slippery body slid onto the mattress.
Rory sagged against me, completely spent.
“He’s here. You did it.” I peppered kisses to the side of her head. “I’m so proud of you.”
Overwhelmed with relief, she wept loudly. And only then did I realize we were missing the accompanying set of cries.
Almost too terrified of what I would find when I looked away from my wife, I forced my eyes to lift to the scene playing out at the foot of the bed.
Our newborn son was covered in a waxy white substance mixed with blood, but underneath, his skin was blue.
The doctor suctioned his mouth with a bulb before placing the infant face-down over his forearm, frantically rubbing his back.
I could just barely read the words his lips silently mouthed, Come on, little one. Give me a cry.
Numbly, I shook my head. This couldn’t be happening.
Not after our enemies failed time and time again to end his life in utero.
Not after his mother endured an unmedicated traumatic birth to bring him into this world.
Not after I found it within me to fall in love at first sight with a little boy who might not ever take a first breath.
Rory blubbered against my chest, her tears soaking through the thin cotton of my shirt as she pleaded with God to save her baby while in the same breath cursing me for not taking her to the hospital, weather be damned.
My soul was violently ripped from my body, and it felt like I was watching the scene from above as the man who’d literally kept me alive after multiple gunshot wounds struggled to resuscitate our baby boy. All while I sat a few feet away, unable to do anything more than cling to my hysterical wife.
Grief closed in from all sides, suffocating me, almost as if I was stripped of the ability to breathe alongside my son.
The crushing weight of loss settled deep in my bones, and the words I’d said to Rory after the bombing came back to haunt me.
We can make another baby, but you are irreplaceable.
I was wrong. So very, very wrong.
Luca was a part of me—of both of us—and losing him would create a hole in my heart that no other child would ever be able to fill.
Eyes burning, I buried my face in Rory’s hair. It was too painful to watch this tragedy play out a moment longer.
Just when it felt as though all hope was lost, that our family would be forever broken, the weakest of cries sounded.
My head snapped up to find the baby Dr. Corsi held beginning to move, his skin transitioning from blue to pink as a louder wail pierced the air.
An expression of sheer relief overtaking his features, the doctor chastised, “Gave us quite a scare, young man.”
“Rory.” I gave my wife a gentle shake. “Rory, look. He’s okay.” It was a wonder I was able to speak around the lump lodged in my throat.
“Wh-what?” Sniffling, she turned her head just in time to watch the doctor clamp and cut our son’s cord. More tears fell as she extended her arms, choking out, “Let me have him.”
Immediately, the infant was placed on her chest, and she clutched him tight, peppering kisses to the dark hair at the top of his head. “Mommy’s here, Luca sweetheart. I love you so much.”
With the crisis involving the baby seemingly over, my concern shifted to Rory. She had a family history of postpartum hemorrhage, so even though she’d made it through the rough delivery, her health was still at risk.
Mindful that my wife’s stress levels were already through the roof, I conveyed the question—asking about her condition—to the doctor using only my eyes.
He dipped his chin in silent understanding before speaking directly to Rory.
“The skin-to-skin you’re doing is perfect, Mrs. Bellini, but if you want to see if maybe he’ll latch, breastfeeding will encourage your placenta to detach.
Once that’s been delivered, I’ll get to work stitching you up before recording the baby’s measurements. ”
Rory didn’t waste a single second, bringing our son to her breast, encouraging him to take the engorged nipple into his mouth. She hissed when he clamped down on the sensitive peak.
On high alert at her discomfort, I asked, “Does it hurt?”
“A little at first.” Her eyes stayed fixed on the baby. “But it’s better now.”
For a while, the only sounds in the room were those of Luca’s greedy sucking, and I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the first bonding experience he shared with his mother.
Trailing a fingertip down his soft cheek, Rory said, “John.”
“What?” I jolted at her back, the sudden movement causing the baby to pop off her breast and let out a displeased wail.
“It’s okay, sweet boy.” She quietly hushed our boy, switching him to the opposite breast and encouraging him to latch with a practiced ease that betrayed she was a natural. Twisting her neck around, she met my gaze. “I want that to be his middle name. I want him to carry both parts of you.”
“Luca John.” I tested out how it sounded. “Yeah, I like that.”
Rory beamed up at me. “Thank you.”
I huffed out a laugh. “Not sure why you’re thanking me when you did all the hard work.”
Her smile only grew. “Oh, you owe the push present to end all push presents after this.”
Pressing a kiss to her temple, I murmured, “Anything you want, it’s yours.”
“You know what I want.”
Eyes falling shut, I released a heavy sigh. Yeah, I did, and it was something money couldn’t buy.
She wanted John to make a miraculous reappearance. Even if it were possible to flip some internal switch and be that man for her, I couldn’t afford to grant that wish. Not now, at least. Not when I was engaged in a war that put my family’s safety at risk.
But I refused to let the shadows of those looking to take me down and eliminate my bloodline darken this day.
My son’s birth was cause for celebration, and that’s where I chose to focus my attention.
Come tomorrow, I would go back to work, figuring out how to protect his future.