Chapter Twenty #3
He moved with that silent efficiency of his, disappearing from the room like a shadow slipping away. I closed my eyes, trying to focus on my breathing in the momentary reprieve between contractions. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Slow and steady. I could do this. I had to do this.
The next contraction hit just as Sterling returned, arms laden with supplies. I cried out, clutching at the sheets as the pain crashed over me in waves.
“Good timing,” Sterling said dryly, setting his burden on the dresser. He’d gathered more towels, a large bowl of steaming water, shoelaces for some reason, and what looked like a first aid kit from under the bathroom sink.
“I set off a flare,” he added, moving back to the foot of the bed. “Standard emergency signal. If they’re anywhere in the north pasture, they’ll see it. They’ll be here soon.”
I nodded, too focused on breathing through the ebbing contraction to form words. Soon wasn’t soon enough, though. The baby was coming now, with or without Burke.
Sterling washed his hands thoroughly in the bowl of hot water, then used one of the clean towels to dry them. Every movement was precise, methodical, as if he were preparing for an operation rather than a birth.
“The next ten minutes are going to be hard,” he said, meeting my eyes with that direct gaze that always made me feel like he could see straight through me. “But you can do this.”
The certainty in his voice steadied me. Sterling didn’t deal in empty platitudes or false reassurances. If he said I could do it, he believed it.
“What do I need to do?” I asked, my voice steadier than I expected.
“When the next contraction hits, you’re going to push,” he explained, adjusting the sheet over my legs. “Push like you’re trying to force out the worst constipation of your life.”
A startled laugh escaped me at his blunt description, but it died in my throat as another contraction began to build. This one felt different—an overwhelming pressure that demanded release.
“Now,” Sterling said, his voice commanding in a way that brooked no argument. “Push, Danny.”
I pushed, bearing down with everything I had, a guttural sound tearing from my throat that I barely recognized as my own. The pressure was immense, unbearable, like my body was being torn in half from the inside.
“Good,” Sterling approved as the contraction eased. “Again with the next one.”
The next minutes blurred into a haze of pain and effort. Push. Breathe. Rest for precious seconds. Push again. Sterling’s voice remained steady throughout, guiding me through each contraction with the same calm authority he’d probably used to direct teams through combat zones.
“I can see the head,” he announced after what felt like hours but was probably only minutes. “Dark hair, like Burke’s.”
The image of our child—a real person with Burke’s dark hair—gave me a fresh surge of determination. One more push. I could do one more.
The next contraction built like a tidal wave, and I pushed with every ounce of strength I had left, a primal scream tearing from my throat as I felt something give way.
“That’s it,” Sterling encouraged, his hands steady and sure. “The head is out. One more push for the shoulders.”
I collapsed back against the pillows, gasping for breath, sweat soaking through my shirt and into the bedding beneath me. I wasn’t sure I had another push in me. I was empty, spent, my body trembling with exhaustion.
“Look at me,” Sterling commanded, and my eyes snapped to his automatically. “One more push, Danny. Just one more and you’ll be holding your son.”
My son. Burke’s son. Our baby.
The final contraction built, and I summoned strength I didn’t know I had, pushing with a determination born of love and desperation and the fierce need to meet this child who had been part of me for so long.
And then, suddenly, the pressure eased, and I heard the most beautiful sound in the world—a thin, outraged wail as my son took his first breath.
“He’s here,” Sterling said, and for the first time since I’d known him, there was genuine emotion in his voice—wonder, maybe, or something close to it. “He’s perfect.”
I fell back against the pillows, tears streaming down my face as Sterling quickly wrapped the baby in a clean towel. My arms reached for him automatically, a deep omega instinct to hold my child overriding exhaustion and pain.
Sterling placed the small bundle on my chest, and I looked down into the red, wrinkled face of my son for the first time.
Time seemed to stop. The world narrowed to just this—this tiny person with Burke’s dark hair and what looked like my nose, his little mouth open in an indignant cry that announced his arrival to the world. Ten perfect fingers, ten perfect toes. A miracle made flesh.
“Hello,” I whispered, my voice choked with tears. “I’m your daddy. I’ve been waiting so long to meet you.”
As if he recognized my voice from all those months of talking to him through the barrier of my skin, his cries softened, his tiny body curling instinctively toward my warmth.
I barely registered Sterling moving around the room, cleaning up, handling whatever needed to be done after a birth. All I could see, all I could focus on, was this perfect little person cradled against my chest.
I don’t know how long I lay there, marveling at every detail of my son’s face, before I heard the commotion downstairs—the front door slamming open, boots pounding on the stairs, Burke’s voice calling my name with a panic I’d never heard before.
And then he was there, filling the doorway, his face drained of color as he took in the scene—me on the bed, Sterling with blood on his hands, the small bundle cradled against my chest.
“Danny,” he breathed, crossing the room in three long strides and dropping to his knees beside the bed. “Oh my God, Danny.”
His eyes were wild, moving frantically between my face and the baby, his hands hovering as if afraid to touch either of us. I’d never seen Burke Callahan at a loss before. It was almost as miraculous as the baby in my arms.
“It’s okay,” I assured him, reaching out to catch his trembling hand. “We’re both okay.”
“But the flare... and you were alone...” His voice broke, raw emotion stripping away his usual confidence.
“Not alone,” I corrected, glancing at Sterling who stood silently by the window now, watching us with that unreadable expression. “Your brother was here.”
Burke’s eyes found his twin’s, and something passed between them—a silent communication born of shared DNA and a lifetime of understanding each other in ways no one else could.
“Thank you,” Burke said simply, the words heavy with meaning.
Sterling nodded once, accepting the gratitude without need for elaboration.
I shifted slightly, adjusting the bundle in my arms. “Burke,” I said softly, drawing his attention back to me. “Meet your son, Brandon Callahan.”
The name had come to me in that moment of first holding him—a perfect blend of Burke and my own middle name, Daniel Brandon Jenkins. A new name for a new generation, free from the shadows of both our pasts.
Burke reached out with trembling hands, and I carefully transferred our son into his father’s arms. The look on Burke’s face as he held our child for the first time—wonder, awe, fierce love—broke my heart open in the best possible way.
“Hey there, little man,” he whispered, tears filling his eyes and spilling unashamed down his cheeks. “I’m your papa.”
Brandon’s tiny hand escaped the confines of the towel, his perfect fingers splaying against Burke’s chest as if reaching for his father’s heart. Burke made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob, pressing a gentle kiss to our son’s forehead.
In that moment, watching the two people I loved most in the world meeting for the first time, I understood what all the pain and fear had been for—this perfect, impossible miracle. Worth every contraction, every moment of terror, every doubt.
Worth everything.
* * * *
The world had narrowed to this perfect triangle—Burke, our son, and me—nestled in the warmth of our bedroom as evening shadows lengthened across the walls.
I’d been moved to a clean bed hours ago, after Dr. Winters arrived to check that both Brandon and I were healthy.
The commotion of the day—Sterling’s unexpected midwifery skills, Rawley and Macon’s panic when they arrived with Burke to find me already holding our son, Jojo’s tears when he brought food and baby supplies—had finally settled into this quiet, sacred moment.
Burke curled behind me on the bed, his chest warm against my back, his chin resting on my shoulder as he watched with fascination while I fed our son. Brandon’s tiny mouth worked eagerly at my chest, his dark lashes fanned against cheeks still flushed from the effort of being born.
I’d known, intellectually, that male omegas could nurse their babies. It was one of the biological quirks of our designation, covered in all the books and classes. But experiencing it was something else entirely—this profound connection, this ability to sustain the tiny life we’d created.
Burke’s hand rested warm and possessive on my hip, his gaze never leaving our son’s face. “He’s perfect,” Burke murmured for what had to be the hundredth time since he’d held Brandon. The wonder in his voice hadn’t diminished with repetition.
I smiled, leaning back into his strength. “Of course he is. Look at his genes.”
Burke pressed a kiss to my temple, his lips lingering against my skin. “I still can’t believe it. I was gone for three hours, and I come back to find you’ve given birth with my brother playing doctor.” His voice caught slightly. “I should have been here.”
“You’re here now,” I assured him, reaching back to touch his face. “And now do you believe me that having Sterling here is a good thing?”
Burke’s chest rumbled against my back as he chuckled. “Yes, dear,” he said, the teasing note in his voice belied by the sincere gratitude beneath it. “I’ll never doubt your judgment again.”