Chapter 29 Declan
DECLAN
“It’s fine,” she says again, offering the room a clearly forced smile, as tight as the skin on her hands.
“Let’s check anyway,” I tell her firmly. “Just to be safe.”
Her right hand is puffed, the skin shiny and tight. It’s wrong. I move to her side. “How’s your head?”
“Just tired,” she says, rubbing her temple. Her voice is too light, airy almost. “It’s been a day.”
“Look at me, Willow,” I tell her.
She does—and blinks hard, then again. “Sorry, it’s…weird. Lights are—” She hesitates, squinting toward the lamp. “Kind of sparkling. Like glitter.”
A stone drops in my stomach. I reach for the blood-pressure cuff in my bag. “You’ve got a headache?”
“It’s fine,” she insists, but her tone is brittle. Her mother straightens from where she’s been perched on the bed’s edge. Camille stops mid-sentence, pastry half lifted to her mouth.
“What’s going on?” her mom asks. “What does glitter mean?”
“It means she’s having a visual aura,” I say, keeping my voice even.
“Sometimes it’s as simple as a migraine,” Sean says smoothly.
“Sometimes it’s not,” comes Rowan’s retort.
I slide the cuff around Willow’s arm. “Let’s check your pressure.”
“Declan,” Rowan murmurs, his voice barely above breath. “Her hand’s fierce swollen.”
“I see it,” I say. “Sean, get me the kit from the hall—front pocket.”
Sean’s gone and back in seconds, handing me the small case like we’ve done this a hundred times. He’s quiet now, no jokes. That’s how I know he’s scared.
The cuff inflates, hissing. The room’s full of people but nobody moves. The air feels heavy, like even sound might make things worse.
Willow tries to keep still, eyes unfocused on a point on the wall. I watch the needle fall, wait for the pulse under my fingers, and then it hits the number that makes my jaw lock.
“One sixty over one ten,” I say quietly.
Camille’s head snaps up. “Is that—”
“Too high,” I finish. “We need to go.”
“What?” her mother asks, the pitch of her voice rising. “Go where?”
“To the hospital,” I say. “Now. It’s her blood pressure. And the swelling. And the vision changes.”
Her mom blinks fast, processing. “Is this…bad?”
“Preeclampsia,” I tell her. “Potentially serious. She needs monitoring.”
“I thought you were monitoring her,” Willow’s mother says, her voice shrill and anxious.
“Well, she needs more monitoring!” I snap, aware of all the eyes on me. “Chey, call ahead and tell them she’s thirty-three and change, triplets, sudden headache and visual aura. Someone get her go bag. Rowan?”
“On it.” Rowan slinks away from Willow, and Sean slips in to take his place, helping her up to her feet.
“My go bag?” Willow asks, her green eyes wide. “Do you mean—”
“We have to be prepared, Willow. You’re thirty-four weeks with triplets. That’s far for triplets.”
“That’s six weeks early!” Willow’s mom crows.
I grab her arm gently, pulling her out of the room to make room for Sean and Willow.
“Ms. Abel, we need to stay calm for Willow, okay? I know it’s scary, but she needs us to be strong for her so she can be scared.
Does that make sense?” She nods at me numbly, and I pat her.
“Great. Thank you. Why don’t you go get your car started? ”
I move back into the room, where Cheyenne is holding a phone to her ear. She sees me, and I see relief cross her face. She announces, “Declan, I’m calling L I keep my hand on the small of her back. Her knees wobble. “Slow breaths,” I tell her. “In through your nose, out through your mouth.”
“You’re bossy,” she mutters to me, same as before.
“I’m efficient,” I retort, and she almost smiles back.
Her mother lets out a wet laugh that sounds more like a sob. “Y’all sound like her father and me when I was pregnant,” she says softly, and for a moment, everyone in the room goes still. Embarrassed, she tacks on, “I’m glad she has y’all.”
Then Sean’s voice cuts in from the hallway. “Car’s ready!”
“Okay! And so are we! Willow, take a look—this might be the last time it’s clean or quiet for a while.”
She laughs, folding a little, and leans into our weight. “It hasn’t been clean in a long time,” she tells me, her words slurring, one last joke out the door.