31. Lincoln #3
The private maternity suite overlooked a garden bright with sunshine. Maeve had been in and out all day. Presley had sent a message that said, You are a goddess and also allowed to swear. Artem had arranged enough security that the hospital probably counted as an embassy now.
Still, the babies hadn’t come.
Labor had started, stopped, started again, then settled into a stubborn pattern that made the doctor thoughtful and made every alpha in the room quietly lose years off his life.
Dr. Sanders stood near the foot of the bed, calm-eyed and kind.
“Mary,” she said, “you’ve done very well. Baby A is tolerating labor, but progress has slowed. We may need to consider taking you into surgery if things don’t change soon.”
Mary froze, and the bond tightened with her fear. I felt it in my chest.
Hudson did too, and he leaned close, his mouth at her temple. “We’re here.”
“I know.” Her voice shook.
I kissed her knuckles. “Whatever happens, we’re here with you.”
Mary closed her eyes as the monitor filled the room with one heartbeat, then another.
Hudson whispered something to her too low for anyone else to hear. Then he began to purr against her.
I held my hand over my chest as love came crashing through to me so hard I could barely stand. A purr escaped my lips.
Mary’s grip changed, and her eyes opened. “I need to push.”
Dr. Sanders stepped closer. “Mary, we need to take you into the theater.”
“I need to push,” she hissed and then looked at me, then Hudson, eyes wide and suddenly clear. “Now. I mean now.”
Everything moved. The bed shifted. Nurses came in and out. The sound of Hudson and me never stopped.
Maeve appeared at the door, saw the room, and stopped with both hands over her mouth. Presley was suddenly on speaker because Maeve had apparently decided remote moral support counted as medical assistance.
“Push like you mean it, love!” Presley shouted through the phone.
“Who called her?” Mary demanded.
“Me,” Maeve said. “She’s good in a crisis.”
“I’m having babies. It’s not a good time.”
“It’s Presley. It’s always a good time.”
When the next contraction hit, all humor vanished and Mary never got to quip back.
“Argh!!” Mary bore down with a sound that came from somewhere deep and ancient, her hands crushing ours, her body working with a force that humbled every alpha instinct I had ever mistaken for power.
“That’s it,” Dr. Sanders said. “Beautiful, Mary. Again.”
“This is not beautiful,” Mary gasped.
“Then ugly,” Presley called from the phone. “Push ugly.”
Mary laughed once, furious and breathless, then pushed.
Baby A arrived with a cry that split the world open, a boy, small and furious and perfect.
Hudson made a sound I would remember until the day I died.
The nurse placed him briefly on Mary’s chest, and she stared down at him as if her whole life had rearranged itself around the damp, wailing weight of him.
“Hello,” she whispered.
Our son cried harder.
“Yes,” Mary said, crying too. “I agree. Very rude out here.”
Baby B decided being outdone was unacceptable, and the second birth came faster.
“Fuck…Fuck…Fucking hell.” Mary swore in three accents, threatened to haunt Hudson if he ever said she was doing beautifully again, and then pushed our baby into the world beneath the storm-soft light of a London afternoon.
“A beautiful baby girl,” Dr. Sanders said.
One boy and one girl.
Mary heard the words and began laughing before the tears had stopped.
“I got one,” she said, dazed and sobbing. “I got one girl.”
“You got one of each,” I said, voice wrecked, placing our son back in her arms. And our daughter was placed beside her brother. She was smaller and quieter.
Hudson’s hand covered both babies with shaking care. Mine covered Mary’s hair, and the bond between us glowed so bright I could hardly think.
Mary looked up at us, exhausted beyond anything I had ever seen, claimed marks vivid on her neck, babies against her chest, rings on her hand.
“I’m going to have my hands full.”
Hudson kissed her forehead. “So will we.”
I bent and kissed her mouth.
Maeve was crying openly at the door, Presley was crying loudly through the phone, our son wailed again, and our daughter yawned.
Mary looked down at them, then back at us. “We need names,” she whispered.
“We do,” Hudson said.
“Later,” I said.
Mary smiled, eyes already drifting closed as the babies settled against her. “Later,” she agreed. “Go and call Damien, and tell him he has a brother and sister.”
“Doing it.” Minutes later, I got Damien on a video call. “You have a brother and sister.” I pointed the camera to the babies.
“Oh, they’re so gorgeous. I’m so happy for you. Can I speak to Mary?” I gave her the phone. “I’m really happy for you, Mary, I truly am, and I’m sorry for everything, and for making you feel bad for everything I did wrong.”
“It’s okay,” she whispered. “Just remember, you have siblings now, and your dads are still yours.”
“Thank you.” His voice croaked. “I’ll visit soon.”
I smiled at my pack mate. We had our omega, and our children, both here and on a call. We also had a bond that our omega had chosen before she brought our new babies into the world.
There was nothing else to want. We had everything we needed.