EPILOGUE
SOREN
The baby comes three weeks early.
One minute, Layla is laughing at something Monique said, her hand on her belly, looking radiant. The next moment, her eyes go wide, and she gasps.
“Soren,” she says, her voice strangely calm. “I think my water just broke.”
Chaos.
Monique screams. Servants run. I lift Layla in my arms, she’s shaking, her fingers digging into my shoulders, and carry her to the birthing chamber we’ve prepared.
Hilda is there within minutes, barking orders, her hands efficient and steady. “The baby is coming fast, Your Majesty. We need to get her ready.”
“I’m not leaving,” I say, my voice leaving no room for argument.
“Your Majesty, it’s not customary…”
“I. Am. Not. Leaving.”
Hilda looks at me, sees something in my face, and nods. “Fine. But don’t get in my way.”
I don’t. I hold Layla’s hand. I wipe her forehead. I tell her she’s beautiful and strong and that I love her, over and over, until the words lose meaning and become pure prayer.
The labor is hard. Layla is fierce, she doesn’t scream, she roars, her warrior spirit shining through every contraction. She squeezes my hand so hard I think she might break bones. I don’t care. Let her break them. Let her take everything I have.
“You’re doing so good, baby,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “So fucking good. I’m so proud of you.”
“You did this to me,” she pants, her eyes flashing with something between love and murder. “You and your giant Viking sperm.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I love you.”
“I love you too, you big bastard. Now help me push.”
I do. I hold her up, support her back, count with her, breathe with her. I’m useless and essential all at once.
And then, after what feels like a lifetime and a heartbeat, I hear it.
A cry.
A loud, angry, perfect cry.
“It’s a girl,” Hilda announces, lifting the baby into the air. “A healthy, beautiful girl.”
The world stops.
I look at my daughter, my daughter, and I can’t breathe. She’s tiny. Perfect. Covered in blood and fluid and absolutely the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. She has Layla’s dark hair and my blue eyes, and she’s screaming like she’s ready to fight the world.
“Give her to me,” Layla whispers, her voice exhausted but fierce.
Hilda places the baby in her arms. Layla looks down at our child, and her face transforms. All the pain, all the exhaustion, all the fear, it melts away into pure, overwhelming love.
“Hi, baby,” she whispers, tears streaming down her face. “I’m your mama. And I love you so much.”
I sit on the edge of the bed, my arms around both of them, my heart so full I think it might explode. I press a kiss to Layla’s temple, then to our daughter’s forehead.
“Welcome to the world, little warrior,” I murmur. “Your mama and I are going to love you forever. We’re going to protect you. We’re going to teach you to be strong and kind and fierce. And we’re going to mess up a lot, but we’re going to love you through all of it.”
Layla looks up at me, her eyes shining. “You cried.”
“I did.”
“The big scary Viking king cried.”
“I’d cry a thousand times for you. For her. For this.”
She reaches up, her hand cupping my face. “I love you, Soren.”
“I love you too, Layla. Forever.”
Our daughter chooses that moment to stop crying and open her eyes. She looks right at me, at her father, and I swear, I swear she smiles.
“She knows you,” Layla whispers.
“She knows us.” I kiss them both, my wife and my child, my whole world in my arms. “She knows she’s loved.”
And she is. More than anything. More than everything.
Forever.
THE END.