Chapter 22 #2
“Better,” Layla said softly, though her eyes flicked to me with a weight I didn’t miss. “But don’t hover so hard you crush her, Lucien. She needs your steadiness, not your storm.”
I clenched my jaw, but this time I didn’t argue as I pulled Sorcha tighter against me, whispering fiercely against her skin, “You’re going to be fine, baby. Both of you. Just breathe. Stay with me. Please.”
Her fingers curled weakly in my shirt, her voice so soft I almost didn’t hear it. “I’m scared.”
“So am I,” I admitted, my throat burning. “But we’re in this together. Always.”
And as the sun blazed outside, I held her like I could shield her from the world, fury and fear tearing me apart inside, but only tenderness reaching her.
The hours bled slow and heavy until at last, dusk broke over the mansion. I felt the shift before I even heard the car. The hum of tires on the gravel drive, the scent of steel and antiseptic. The doctor was here.
Ivan and Gideon were at the door in an instant, ushering him inside with the urgency of men who knew the weight of this moment.
He entered the room still immaculate in his three-piece suit, but I caught the flicker of weariness in his eyes.
He carried his case like it was another limb, and as always, he didn’t waste time on pleasantries.
“Out,” he ordered the men, his tone sharp but calm. “All but you.” His eyes cut to me. Of course I wasn’t leaving.
Layla stayed as well, her hand already smoothing over Sorcha’s hair, her voice steady even as Sorcha groaned softly, clinging to my hand like it was her only tether.
The doctor opened his case, pulling out instruments with methodical precision. His hands were steady, his voice quiet as he asked Sorcha to breathe, to lie back, to let him check her.
Every touch made my jaw clench. Every time she flinched, my claws wanted to burst through my skin. My growl was low, constant, as if the sound could keep the danger at bay.
“Lucien,” Layla whispered, her eyes locking on mine. “Let him do his job.”
It was the only thing that kept me from tearing the doctor’s hands away when he pressed against her swollen belly, when Sorcha gasped, sweat beading on her temple.
At last, the doctor leaned back slightly, his gaze flicking between us. “The child is early, but the heartbeat is strong.” His words clipped, deliberate. “She’s in labour. It looks like you are going to have your child tonight.”
The room spun. For all my planning, for all my preparations, I wasn’t ready for the word to fall like a blade.
Sorcha whimpered, her nails digging into my palm, and I bent low, pressing my forehead to hers. “You hear that? He said strong.” My voice was raw, breaking, but I forced steadiness into it. “You’re both strong. We’ll get through this.”
The doctor was already moving, snapping orders.
“I need hot water and fresh linens. She’ll need to stay upright as much as possible.
When it’s time we will move quickly. If she pushes too hard, we risk…
” He stopped, glancing at me. “You don’t need the details.
Just keep her calm. Her body will do the rest.”
“Don’t speak about her like she’s not here,” I snarled, but Sorcha’s trembling hand on my chest pulled me back from tearing into him.
Her eyes found mine, wide and shining with fear. “Lucien…”
“I’m here.” I kissed her damp temple, my voice a vow against her skin. “Every second. Every breath. I’m not leaving you.”
Layla moved with quiet efficiency, already fetching linens, steadying the room with a presence that made me silently thank the gods she was here.
But even over Sorcha’s laboured breaths, over the doctor’s clipped orders, I heard it…the faint shuffle of boots in the hall. The weight of presence I knew as well as my own heartbeat.
My brothers.
They weren’t in the room, but they were there.
I could feel it through the bond of blood, the way their energy pressed against the door like a wall.
Draugr’s pacing was heavy, steady, a rhythm of a soldier barely containing the urge to break in.
Viking’s voice rumbled low, a growl that carried despite the walls.
“Is she alright?” Volken’s tone was sharper, clipped, demanding updates with the cold edge of a strategist who hated being left blind.
And Roman…Roman’s voice, quieter, calm but carrying steel, was the anchor in all of it, asking nothing more than, “Is he holding up?”
They didn’t push through the door. They didn’t need to. Just knowing they were there, gave me the kind of strength I hadn’t realized I needed. That I wasn’t carrying this storm alone.
I tightened my grip on Sorcha’s hand, leaning close enough for her to hear the words I couldn’t say out loud. “We’re not alone, baby. My brothers are out there. The whole family. They’ll hold the world off until you and I are ready to face it.”
Her eyes flickered open through the haze of pain, and the faintest smile tugged her lips. “Then I guess we can do this.”
And gods help me, I believed her.
And then the night unravelled into a blur of groans, shouts, and whispered promises. Sorcha’s cries cut me in ways no blade ever had, every sound tearing into me until I thought I’d lose my fucking mind. I held her through each wave, whispering her name like it was the only word I’d ever known.
When the doctor finally told her to push, my entire world shrank to her hand in mine, to her gasps, to the life we’d made fighting its way into the world too soon. My fear was a storm, but my voice stayed low, steady, for her. Always for her.
And when her scream broke the air, and another cry followed, thin but fierce, filling the mansion with its sound, I thought my chest would split open from the force of it.
For a second, the world went still. Silent. Even my brothers outside froze, I felt it, the collective stillness through the walls, like the entire Blood Mafia was holding its breath.
Then the wail grew stronger, angry and alive, and the room seemed to pulse with it. My knees nearly buckled as the doctor lifted the tiny, writhing form, blood-streaked and perfect, and announced in a voice that carried through me like a thunderclap.
“A girl.”
The words cut me open. My girl.
The doctor moved quickly, efficient hands cleaning her, wrapping her in white linens, while I stood rooted to the spot, trembling in a way I hadn’t since I’d been a boy.
Layla’s eyes glistened as she steadied Sorcha’s damp hair back from her face, whispering soft reassurances that she’d done it, that it was over.
But for me, it had only just begun.
When they placed the bundle in Sorcha’s arms, I felt myself fall, utterly and completely, to my knees beside the bed.
Sorcha was pale, exhausted, but the glow in her eyes when she looked down at our daughter could have lit the darkest cavern.
My throat burned as I leaned in, brushing a kiss to her temple before daring to look at the child.
Small. Fragile. But her cry carried the fire of our blood.
Sorcha’s lips trembled as she murmured, “She’s ours, Lucien.”
The doctor glanced at me, giving the faintest nod. He knew what came next.
With reverence, I slid my arms beneath her, lifting her out of Sorcha’s hold, though my chest screamed with the instinct to keep them both together.
The baby’s tiny fists curled, her face scrunching as she gave another defiant cry.
I bowed my head, fangs piercing my tongue, and pressed a drop of my blood to her lips.
Her cries softened, her body stilling as though some ancient recognition had sparked.
Then I drew a single bead of hers with the smallest prick of my fang, pressing it to my tongue, sealing her blood into mine. The ritual wasn’t for faith; it was for truth, it was to build the bond between me and my child, for eternity.
My voice, hoarse but steady, carried the words in the old tongue, a vow carved from my very marrow. “Blood of my blood. Flesh of my flesh. You are mine, as I am yours. No demon, no man, no power will ever claim you.”
When I finished, I pressed a kiss to her tiny forehead, then back to Sorcha’s damp skin.
My world. My entire goddamn world. This wasn’t her naming ritual, which would only be in a couple of weeks, but this was to ensure that she was protected and that I had a link to her, ensuring that she was always safe.
Outside, I heard the faint sound of Viking swearing under his breath, Volken muttering something sharp, Draugr’s low rumble of approval. Even Roman’s voice, soft but proud: “Another Dragic.”
I looked back at Sorcha, her tired smile breaking me in ways nothing else could. “She’s perfect,” I rasped.
Sorcha’s fingers brushed over mine, over the baby’s head. “She’s ours.”
And for the first time in centuries, I felt something I hadn’t believed in anymore. Hope.