Chapter Twenty
~ Danny ~
I stood back to admire my handiwork, hands resting protectively on my swollen belly. Sterling’s room was finally perfect—the last space in our new home to be properly settled.
The morning light streamed through the east-facing windows, just as I’d promised him it would, casting golden patterns across the simple navy bedspread I’d chosen.
Not too fussy, nothing that would make him uncomfortable, but still homey enough to say “This is yours. You belong here.”
The nightstand was bare except for the lamp and the single framed photograph I’d just placed there.
It had taken weeks to find the perfect one—a candid shot Rawley had snapped.
Burke and Sterling standing side by side, their identical profiles outlined against the sunset, heads bent toward each other in conversation.
Neither was smiling—Sterling never did—but there was something in the way they leaned toward each other, comfortable in a shared space, that made my heart ache.
I picked up the frame, running my thumb across the smooth glass.
These two men, so similar and yet so different.
Both had saved me in their own ways. Burke with his love, his strength, his unwavering belief that I deserved better than the life I’d known.
And Sterling with his silent protection, his fierce loyalty, his willingness to stand between us and any threat without question or hesitation.
“What do you think, little one?” I murmured, my free hand caressing my belly where our son had been unusually active this morning. “Think your Uncle Sterling will approve?”
A sharp kick answered me, pulling a soft laugh from my lips. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
I returned the photograph to its place, angling it just so, then stepped back once more to take in the whole room.
The dresser Burke and I had found at an estate sale, refinished in rich walnut.
The bookshelf stocked with titles Sterling had mentioned in passing—military histories, wilderness survival guides, and the dog-eared copy of “The Old Man and the Sea” Burke swore was his brother’s favorite, though Sterling would never admit it.
It wasn’t much, this offering of four walls and a bed, but it was what we could give—a place that was his and his alone, whenever he needed it. No expectations, no demands. Just belonging.
A dull ache spread across my lower back as I turned to leave the room, pulling a grimace from me.
These last few weeks of pregnancy had been increasingly uncomfortable—back pain, swollen ankles, the constant pressure that made walking feel like a major athletic achievement.
Dr. Winters had assured me it was all normal, especially for a male omega pregnancy, but that didn’t make the discomfort any easier to bear.
“Two more weeks,” I reminded myself, rubbing slow circles into the small of my back. “Just hang in there two more weeks.”
Burke had been reluctant to leave me alone this morning, but the fence along the north pasture needed repair before the coming storm, and everyone was pitching in. I’d practically had to shove him out the door, walkie-talkie in hand, assuring him I’d be fine for a few hours.
“Call if you need anything,” he’d insisted, pressing the device into my palm. “I mean it, Danny. Even if you just want company. I can be back in ten minutes.”
I’d rolled my eyes but accepted the walkie-talkie, touched as always by his protective instincts. Now, though, I realized I’d left it somewhere—the kitchen, maybe? Or the living room? I couldn’t remember setting it down.
I made my way slowly down the hallway toward the stairs, one hand braced against the wall for balance. At thirty-eight weeks, my center of gravity was completely shot, my body an unfamiliar landscape dominated by the basketball-sized protrusion that had once been my flat stomach.
I was halfway down the stairs when the first real pain hit.
It wasn’t like the Braxton Hicks contractions I’d been experiencing for weeks—mild tightening sensations that came and went like waves. No, this was a knife of white-hot agony that sliced through my abdomen, stealing my breath and buckling my knees.
I gasped, gripping the banister so tightly my knuckles turned white. For a moment, I couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but ride the wave of pain that consumed every nerve ending in my body.
And then, as suddenly as it had come, it receded, leaving me trembling and breathless on the stairs.
“No,” I whispered, my hand instinctively cradling my belly. “No, no, no. Not now. Not today.”
Another contraction seized me before I could finish the thought, harder than the first, sending me to my knees on the stairs with a cry that echoed through the empty house. I clutched at the railing, desperately trying to stay upright as my body convulsed with pain.
This couldn’t be happening. Not now. Not when I was alone. Not two weeks early.
The pain eased enough for me to think, and I forced myself to breathe deeply. It was probably just false labor. Dr. Winters had warned me about this—intense contractions that mimicked the real thing but eventually faded.
I needed to get to the walkie-talkie, just in case. Just to let Burke know what was happening.
I made it down three more steps before the next contraction hit, this one so powerful that I lost my grip on the banister. I would have fallen if I hadn’t managed to catch myself against the wall, sliding down to sit awkwardly on the step.
The pain was overwhelming—like someone had reached inside me and was twisting my organs into knots. I could feel tears streaming down my face, though I didn’t remember starting to cry. My breath came in short, sharp gasps as I tried to ride out the contraction.
When it finally eased, I was drenched in sweat, my shirt clinging to my back. This wasn’t false labor. This was the real thing, and it was happening fast.
“Okay,” I panted, trying to gather my thoughts through the fog of pain and fear. “Okay, Danny. Think.”
I needed to get to the walkie-talkie. I needed to call Burke. I needed help.
Using the wall for support, I dragged myself to my feet and staggered down the remaining stairs, one hand pressed against my belly as if I could somehow hold the baby in by sheer force of will.
I made it to the bottom of the stairs before another contraction seized me, doubling me over with a scream that tore from my throat. My vision blurred, black spots dancing at the edges, and I felt myself falling, unable to catch my balance this time.
I hit the floor hard, landing on my hands and knees. The impact sent another shock of pain through my system, and for a moment I thought I might pass out.
“Burke,” I gasped, though I knew he couldn’t hear me. “Burke, please.”
I tried to crawl toward the living room, where I thought I might have left the walkie-talkie on the coffee table. But another contraction hit before I’d moved more than a few inches, freezing me in place with its intensity.
It was too much—too fast, too strong. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.
Burke was supposed to be here. We were supposed to have two more weeks.
We were supposed to drive calmly to the hospital, check in like normal people, have our baby with medical professionals and pain medication and all the safety nets modern medicine could provide.
Instead, I was alone on the floor of our home, my body tearing itself apart with contractions that seemed to be getting stronger and closer together with each passing minute.
Fear settled cold and heavy in my chest. What if something went wrong?
What if there were complications? Male omega pregnancies were still relatively rare, still carried risks that female pregnancies didn’t.
Dr. Winters had been monitoring me closely, had assured me that everything looked perfect, that there was no reason to expect problems.
But that was assuming I’d deliver in a hospital, with doctors and equipment and emergency protocols. Not alone on the hardwood floor of our entryway.
Another contraction ripped through me, pulling a hoarse cry from my throat. I collapsed onto my side, curling around my belly as if I could somehow protect the baby from what was happening.
“Please,” I whispered, though I didn’t know who I was talking to. God? The universe? The tiny person inside me who seemed determined to enter the world right now, ready or not? “Please, not like this.”
The pain eased momentarily, and I lay there gasping, tears streaming down my face. I’d never felt so alone, so terrified. Not even when Dennis had been at his worst, when his fists had left me bleeding and broken on the floor of our childhood home.
This was different—this wasn’t just fear for myself, but for the tiny, innocent life that depended on me. I couldn’t let anything happen to our baby. I couldn’t.
I tried again to move toward where I thought the walkie-talkie might be, but my body refused to cooperate. My muscles had turned to water, my limbs heavy and unresponsive. All I could do was lie there, waiting for the next wave of pain, hoping desperately that someone would come.
“Burke,” I called again, my voice breaking. “Anyone. Please.”
But the house remained silent except for my labored breathing and occasional whimpers. Outside, birds continued their morning songs, oblivious to the drama unfolding within these walls. Sunlight streamed through the windows, painting bright rectangles on the floor where I lay.
I was completely, utterly alone.
And then the next contraction hit, stronger than all the others combined, and I screamed. The contraction seemed to last forever, my body caught in a vise of pain that wouldn’t release me.