Chapter 15
She set down the receipts and placed both hands on her bump. Firm. Tighter than usual.
Just the baby moving, she told herself. The little one’s been active all day.
But the tightness didn’t ease. Instead it built to a peak—not unbearable, but definitely uncomfortable—and then slowly faded.
She checked her watch. Seven-thirty in the evening.
She’d been planning to head home soon anyway.
She started packing up her materials, moving carefully.
The tightness had completely dissipated, leaving just a lingering awareness of her midsection.
Five minutes later it happened again, and this time she recognized it for what it was—a contraction. Her heart rate spiked.
Too early. I’m only twenty-eight weeks. This is too early.
She grabbed her phone with shaking hands and pulled up her pregnancy app. The symptoms section loaded with agonizing slowness.
Contractions before 37 weeks could indicate preterm labor. Contact your healthcare provider immediately.
Her breath came faster. The contraction had passed, but what if another came? What if the baby was coming now, months before it should?
She needed Victor.
The phone rang three times before he picked up.
“Chloe? What’s wrong?” His voice was instantly alert, picking up on something in her silence.
“I’m having contractions.” The words tumbled out. “Two of them. Five minutes apart. I’m at the archives and I don’t know if I should drive and what if—”
“Breathe.” His voice was calm, anchoring. “I need you to take a slow breath for me. Can you do that?”
She sucked in air, her lungs tight.
“Good. Now let it out slowly.” A pause while she obeyed. “Again. That’s it.”
Her heart rate slowed fractionally.
“Now tell me exactly what you felt,” Victor said. “Start to finish.”
“My back hurt first. Then my belly got really tight. Like someone was squeezing it. It lasted maybe thirty seconds and then stopped completely.” She pressed her free hand to her bump. “Then it happened again five minutes later.”
“Any pain?”
“Uncomfortable. But not… not terrible.”
“Bleeding? Fluid?”
“No. Nothing like that.”
“Okay.” She heard rustling on his end. “I’m coming to get you. Don’t drive. Just stay where you are and try to relax.”
“Victor—”
“I’ll be there in five minutes. If you have another contraction before I arrive, time it. Note the intensity. But Chloe?” His voice softened. “This is most likely Braxton Hicks. Practice contractions. Perfectly normal at your stage.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ll be sure after I examine you. Five minutes.”
He hung up before she could respond. She set down her phone and wrapped both arms around her belly. The baby kicked—a reassuring thump against her ribs.
“You’re okay in there, right?” she whispered. “Just practicing? Not trying to make an early entrance?”
Another kick, stronger this time. She closed her eyes and focused on breathing.
In through her nose, out through her mouth.
Slow and steady like he had instructed. She was still breathing deliberately when the door to the archives burst open.
Victor strode in looking rumpled and intense, his medical bag in one hand.
“Hi,” she said weakly.
“Any more contractions?”
“One. About three minutes ago. Same as before.”
He crossed to her in three long strides and crouched beside where she sat. His hands came up to frame her face, tilting it toward the light.
“Eyes look good. Pupils equal and reactive.” His fingers found her pulse. “Heart rate’s elevated but not dangerously so.”
“I was panicking.”
“Understandable.” But his thumb stroked her wrist, a gesture of comfort rather than clinical assessment. “Let’s get you somewhere more comfortable than the floor.”
He helped her up with careful hands and guided her to the small seating area—the two armchairs he’d arranged to have delivered without ever mentioning them. He knelt in front of her, his bag open beside him. “I’m going to examine you. Check the baby’s position and heart rate. Is that okay?”
She nodded, too anxious to speak. His hands were warm when they pressed against her belly, methodical and sure. He palpated carefully, his expression focused.
“Baby’s head-down. Good position.” He pulled out a fetal doppler. “This will be cold.”
The gel was frigid against her skin, but she barely noticed. She watched his face as he moved the doppler across her belly, searching. Then the rapid whoosh-whoosh-whoosh filled the quiet archives.
“One-forty,” he murmured. “Perfect.” He moved the doppler slightly. “Strong and steady. No signs of distress.”
Relief made her eyes sting. “The baby’s okay?”
“The baby’s fine.” He gently wiped off the gel and pulled her sweater back down. “What you’re experiencing are Braxton Hicks contractions. Practice contractions. Your uterus is preparing for eventual labor, but it’s not the real thing.”
“How can you tell?”
“True labor contractions follow a pattern. They get longer, stronger, and closer together over time. Braxton Hicks are irregular. They can be uncomfortable, but they don’t progress.” He sat back on his heels. “Did you drink enough water today?”
She thought about it. “Maybe not as much as I should have.”
“Dehydration can trigger Braxton Hicks. So can a full bladder, certain positions, and physical activity.” His mouth quirked. “Have you been lifting heavy boxes again?”
“Just a few.”
“Chloe.”
“They weren’t that heavy!”
“You’re in a town full of Others who would be happy to help with heavy lifting.” His expression was stern, but his eyes were warm. “Use them.”
“I don’t want to be a bother.”
“You’re not a bother. You’re pregnant. There’s a difference. And besides, most of them would be thrilled to show off their strength.” He stood and offered her his hand. “Come on. I’m taking you home and making sure you drink a full glass of water. Then you’re going to rest.”
She let him pull her up. “I can drive myself—”
“No.”
“Victor—”
“Chloe.” He stepped closer, his hands settling on her shoulders. “You called me terrified. I’m not putting you behind the wheel until I’m absolutely certain you’re calm and steady. Humor me.”
She could see the real concern beneath his professional demeanor. The fear he’d hidden while examining her, now bleeding through in the tightness around his eyes.
“Okay,” she said softly. “Thank you for coming.”
“Always.” The word was quiet but absolute.
He quickly gathered her things—bag, jacket, the stack of documents she’d been reviewing—then he ushered her out of the archives, one hand at the small of her back.
The November air was icy after the warmth of the basement.
She shivered despite her coat and Victor immediately draped his jacket around her shoulders.
“You’ll get cold,” she protested.
“I run warm.” A slight smile. “Hyde’s metabolism.”
They drove to her cabin in comfortable silence. He kept glancing at her, obviously monitoring her condition, but she found it oddly soothing—the weight of his attention, the knowledge that he was watching for any sign of distress.
This is what it would be like, she thought. If we were together. Really together. He’d take care of me like this all the time.
The thought made her chest ache with longing.
He parked and came around to help her out of the car before she could protest. He carried her bag and materials in one hand, helping her up the porch steps with the other. As soon as they were inside, he went straight to the kitchen and filled a glass with water.
“Drink.”
She accepted the glass and drank obediently. The water was cold and clean, and she realized she was thirsty. She had been all afternoon.
“All of it,” he said when she started to lower the glass halfway through.
She finished it and set down the empty glass. “Happy?”
“Getting there.” He refilled it. “One more. Then you’re going to lie down while I make sure you have adequate supplies.”
“I have supplies—”
“Humor me,” he said again.
She drank the second glass more slowly, watching him move through her small kitchen. He opened cabinets and the refrigerator, taking inventory with the same systematic approach he probably used for medical supplies.
“You need more protein,” he announced. “And your vegetable drawer is concerning.”
“I haven’t had a chance to shop—”
“I’ll go tomorrow.” He closed the fridge. “And I’ll make you a list of what you should be eating at this stage.”
“Victor, you don’t have to—”
“I want to.” He turned to face her, his expression serious. “Let me do this, Chloe. Let me take care of you.”
The rawness in his voice made her throat tight.
“Okay,” she whispered.
He nodded once, satisfied. “Now. Couch or bed?”
“Couch. I’m not tired, just…” She gestured vaguely. “Unsettled.”
“Understandable.” He guided her to the couch and helped her settle against the cushions, adjusting pillows behind her back. “How’s that?”
“Good.”
“Pain? Discomfort?”
“No. I feel fine now. Just a little foolish for panicking.”
“You weren’t foolish.” He left her long enough to build a fire, then returned and sat on the coffee table facing her, close enough to touch but maintaining a careful distance. “You were protecting your baby. That’s exactly what you should do.”
His eyes were doing that thing where they softened when he looked at her. The thing that made her want to climb into his lap and never leave.
“Thank you,” she said. “For coming. For not making me feel stupid.”
“You could never be stupid.” He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering. “Brave, yes. Occasionally reckless with heavy lifting. But never stupid.”
She caught his hand before he could pull away. “Victor.”
“Yes?”
“Will you stay? Just for a bit?”
She watched him wage the internal battle—duty versus desire, professional boundaries versus personal need. His jaw tightened and his free hand clenched into a fist. Then he exhaled slowly. “Yes.”
Relief flooded through her. “Thank you.”
“But only if you promise to rest. No getting up for things you don’t need. No arguing about being coddled.”
“I never argue about being coddled.”
“Chloe.”
“Fine. I promise to be a model patient and let you hover to your heart’s content.”
“Good.” But he was smiling now, the tension easing from his shoulders.
He moved to sit beside her on the couch, careful not to jostle her. She immediately curled into his side, her head finding the space between his shoulder and chest that seemed designed specifically for her. His arm came around her, secure and warm.
They sat like that for long minutes, not talking. Just breathing together while the fire crackled and the baby shifted lazily in her belly.
“I was so scared,” she admitted quietly. “When the contractions started. All I could think was that it was too early. That something was wrong.”
“That’s a normal reaction.” His hand moved to her belly, spanning the curve. “But you and the baby are both healthy. Strong. There’s no indication of preterm labor.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.” He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “You’re doing everything right, Chloe. Taking care of yourself. Eating well—mostly. Staying active. This baby is lucky to have you.”
The casual affection in the gesture made her heart squeeze.
“The baby’s lucky to have you too,” she said. “Even if you won’t admit you’re already attached.”
She felt him go still.
“Chloe—”
“It’s okay.” She tilted her head back to look at him. “I know this is complicated. I know you’re fighting it. But Victor, you’re already here. Already caring. Already part of this baby’s life.”
His eyes were glowing faintly green. Hyde, stirring in response to her words.
“I can’t promise you what you deserve,” Victor said, his voice rough. “Can’t guarantee I won’t hurt you. Or scare you. Or—”
She kissed him. It was meant to be reassuring—soft and brief and uncomplicated—but the moment their lips met, something shifted. He made a low sound in his chest—half-groan, half-growl—and pulled her closer, kissing her with a desperate intensity