19. Wren
Chapter 19
Wren
I shuffle on the couch, trying to find a position where my back doesn’t scream at me. Gabriel’s in the kitchen, making me a hot water bottle. Again. The thing’s been a godsend these past few days. Or has it been weeks? Everything’s blurring together.
“Gabriel, hurry up with that, please,” I call out, not managing to keep the whine out of my voice. A week overdue, and it feels like this baby’s made a permanent home inside me.
“Coming, mistress.” I smile as his voice floats back, that reassuring timbre that’s become my anchor in a sea of crankiness.
I push myself up, ready to trudge to the bedroom and maybe wallow in self-pity when it happens. A gush, warm and unmistakable. My leggings are suddenly soaked, and for a second, I freeze.
“Gabriel!” It comes out half yelp, half gasp.
He’s there in a flash, his gray eyes widening as they drop to the puddle at my feet. “Oh, fuck.”
I laugh, shock morphing into something lighter, almost bubbly. “I think it’s time.”
He nods, the leader in him taking charge. “Okay, let’s go.”
While this building has a state-of-the-art medical facility, it’s not equipped to deliver a baby. So, we’ve practiced this dozens of times. Bags in the car, route to the hospital mapped out, everything planned down to a tee. Except for the part where Ed, our ever-ready driver, turns into my delivery chauffeur.
“Ed’s downstairs,” Gabriel says, grabbing his keys and my purse. He’s been on high alert for days, waiting for this moment.
I follow, clutching my belly, a mix of nerves and excitement buzzing through me. This is it. The home stretch. Literally.
“Ready, little bird?” Gabriel asks, offering his arm as we head out the door .
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I reply, because what else is there to say? It’s happening, and there’s no turning back now.
The tires of the sleek black sedan glide over the asphalt, a steady thrum beneath us as the city blurs past. Gabriel’s hand, warm and reassuring, hasn’t left mine since we bolted out of our penthouse. His other arm is wrapped around my shoulders, holding me close as if he could shield me from the pain with his presence alone.
“Doing great, Wren,” Ed calls from the driver’s seat, his eyes meeting mine in the rearview mirror for a moment before refocusing on the road. “Almost there.”
“Great” is one way to put it. I’m a week overdue and currently feel like a beached whale with a penchant for dramatic entrances. Each jolt of the car sends another pang up my spine, and I grit my teeth, trying to remember breathing exercises or something equally useless.
We pull up to the hospital, and the efficiency of our arrival would make a military operation look sloppy. Ed’s already out and opening my door before I can think of moving. A wheelchair appears from thin air, guided by a nurse who must have been tipped off by our grand entrance .
“Contractions?” she asks, her voice all business.
“Close enough to play a decent tune,” I quip, gripping the arms of the wheelchair as another one hits.
Gabriel nods at the nurse, the brown of his eyes turning stormy with concern.
“Let’s get you comfortable,” the nurse says, wheeling me through the gleaming corridors.
“Comfortable” is a relative term in a hospital, but they try their best. The private suite is spacious, and within minutes, I’m hoisted onto a bed, changed into a gown that feels more like a napkin, and hooked up to an IV.
“Hey, you’re doing amazing,” Gabriel reassures me, his voice the calm in my tempest of discomfort. He stays right beside me, ice chips and kind words at the ready.
“Amazing would be having this baby already,” I say between clenched teeth as another contraction rolls through me.
“You’ve got this, little bird,” he murmurs, tracing circles on the back of my hand with his thumb.
“Little bird” feels like a bit of a misnomer when every inch of me feels stretched and swollen, but the nickname still manages to bring a smile to my lips. That is until the next wave of pain makes me want to claw the sheets or maybe Gabriel’s hand, but I refrain. It’s not his fault that childbirth is a cruel, beautiful torture.
“Okay, time to push again,” the doctor instructs, all professionalism and encouragement.
Pushing feels like trying to do a pull-up after running a marathon, and it’s brutal, sweaty work. I bear down, my whole body tensing, while Gabriel supports me. He wipes sweat from my brow and whispers promises of how soon we’ll meet our baby.
“Anytime now,” I pant, half-delirious, half-amused by the absurdity of it all.
“Any second,” he agrees, kissing my forehead.
Through it all, he never lets go of my hand, his grip a lifeline as I navigate through the waves of agony and anticipation. We’re in this together, as we have been from the start, and soon, very soon, we’ll be three.
The brief reprieve is over. The pain comes thundering back, demanding my focus, my everything. Gabriel’s saying something, but it’s like he’s underwater and I’m straining to hear him through the waves crashing in my head .
“Push, Wren,” the doctor orders.
I look up at Gabriel, his deep brown eyes a steady force.
“You’ve got this.” His voice is a warm blanket on a cold night, and I cling to it as I gather every ounce of strength left in me.
I push with a fervor I didn’t know I had, Gabriel’s hands firm against my back, an unyielding pillar in my hurricane of pain. I remember how he found me, broken and lost, and now here we are, creating life from love and whispers in the dark.
“Almost there, Wren,” Gabriel murmurs.
I wonder if he’s talking to me or himself. Maybe it’s a prayer to the universe that he won’t have to see me in agony much longer. Yeah, I’d like that too.
“Relax for a second,” the doctor suggests.
That seems like telling a fish to take a walk, but I try, my chest heaving, my body slick with sweat. I catch a glimpse of Gabriel’s face, etched with concern and awe, and it gives me a jolt of bravery. Or maybe it’s stubbornness. Either way, I’ll take it.
“Ready, Wren?” My husband looks at me, not seeing the woman in labor but the woman he protected, the one he nurtured back to life .
“Yes,” I gasp, though it sounds more like a grunt. “Let’s do this.”
“Push!” the doctor commands again.
A symphony of voices all chant for the grand finale. I bear down, my scream mingling with Gabriel’s encouragement, becoming a battle cry.
“Keep going! She’s crowning!” the doctor exclaims.
I don’t need a mirror to know my face is probably the color of a ripe tomato, but who cares? This is about bringing our baby into the world.
With another determined yell that echoes off the sterile white walls, I experience a sudden release. Pressure, pain, it all washes away for a split second as our baby slides out and into the waiting hands of the doctor.
“Here she is,” Gabriel says, his voice catching as he gets his first proper look at our daughter.
“Cut the cord, Gabriel,” the doctor instructs.
Gabriel steps forward, snipping the cord with a precision that speaks of his military past. It’s done. We’re parents.
I watch, hardly able to believe it, as the nurse takes our little miracle to clean her up. My body throbs, a dull reminder of what just happened, but it’s nothing compared to the tidal wave of emotion when I hear that first cry.
“Is she okay?” I ask, my voice trembling like a leaf in the wind.
“Perfect,” Gabriel answers, his tone laced with a wonder that tugs at something primal within me.
The baby’s cry slices through the haze of exhaustion like a shot of adrenaline straight to my heart. For a moment, nothing else exists, no pain, no worry, just her. My baby girl.I’m ready to burst with love, with longing, with a fierce protectiveness I’ve only ever felt from Gabriel. Until now. Now it’s my turn to stand guard, to keep our little family safe and cherished.
“Can I see her?” My heart pounds, eager for that first glimpse, that first touch.
“Of course, Wren,” the nurse says, her voice as soft and warm as the bundle of joy she hands me swaddled in hospital-issue cotton.
And just like that, the room shrinks to the three of us, a new universe where we’re the stars, and nothing else exists.
She’s so tiny, so fragile-looking, but her eyes are wide open and staring right at me. Instinctively, I pull her close to my chest, and she settles against me with a little sigh that feels like a secret message of love. Gabriel leans over us, his tall frame casting a shadow of protection. His brown eyes shine with unguarded amazement.
“She’s perfect. And safe. We love you so much, my love,” I say tearfully, my lips brushing her forehead in a kiss that seals a thousand silent promises.
Gabriel’s hand is gentle on her back, his touch reassuring. Its strength and warmth seep through the thin hospital blanket. He kisses my forehead, and there’s a sacredness in that simple act.
“I’ll keep you both safe. You’ll never know neglect, hunger, or fear again, Wren,” he vows, his voice a low rumble that echoes in my bones. “Our baby will never know those things either. I’ve already set up a trust fund for her. She’ll never go without, I promise you that.”
I nod, too full of emotion to speak, my heart swelling in my chest like it might burst. For so long, I was used to scraping by and worrying about tomorrow’s meal, but now there’s only an overwhelming sense of security.
“Congratulations, both of you,” the doctor says, breaking into our little bubble as he finishes up. He gives us a nod and a smile that actually reaches his eyes before slipping out the door .
The nurses move around us, their efficiency a quiet dance. One fluffs my pillows while another checks my vitals, her hands quick and sure.
“Your blood pressure is perfect, Wren,” she tells me.
I almost laugh because “perfect” seems to be the word of the day.
“Thank you,” I murmur, still lost in the rhythm of my daughter’s breathing.
“Everything looks great here,” another nurse chimes in, giving the baby a once-over. “We’ll leave you in peace for a little while, but press the call button if you need us.”
“Will do,” I reply, my gaze not leaving the precious face nestled against me.
As they leave, Gabriel scoots his chair closer, his presence a steady anchor. I look up at him, and our eyes lock. There’s so much I want to say, thank-yous and I-love-yous and a million other words, but they all seem too small, too confining for what’s between us now. So instead, I squeeze his hand. It’s one of those moments where we communicate more perfectly through silence than through the imperfection of words .
Gabriel’s warm hand envelops mine, his touch both grounding and electrifying.“You did it, Wren,” he says, pride etched in every syllable.
I shake my head, a smile tugging at my lips despite the weariness weighing on my bones. “We did it, Gabe.”
Memories flash, his fist flying into the wall, his gentle caress as he wiped away my tears, his promises of forever. “You saved me that day you fought off my attacker, in so many ways. And you’ve given me all of you, a life I couldn’t have imagined, and now our daughter. I don’t know how I’ll ever thank you for all that you’ve given me.”
The chuckle that rumbles from him sends a familiar shiver down my spine, though it’s dulled by the lingering numbness from the epidural. I think if I hadn’t recently pushed a human being out of my body, that sound would stir more than just my heart. “You’ve given me so much more, Wren. You gave me a life, love, and now a family. I think I owe you a whole lot more.”
My heavy eyelids flutter as I manage a crooked smile.“I guess we’ll have to owe each other then, won’t we?” The words come out softer than I intend, but they hang in the air between us, filled with the weight of truth.
His warm eyes, always so full of strength and certainty, now shimmer with something new, something tender. He looks at me, then at the tiny bundle in my arms. “May I hold her?”
A part of me wants to cling to our daughter, to never let go. But the larger part, the part that knows how much this man beside me deserves to cradle the life we created together, nods. “Of course.”
He stands, carefully peeling off his shirt, revealing the tapestry of muscles beneath. There’s nothing sexual about it; it’s a gesture of bonding, skin to skin, father to child. Gently taking the baby, he settles into the chair next to the bed, his large hands cradling her with a gentleness that belies their size.
“Go ahead and rest, Wren,” he says softly, his attention fully on the little girl whose tiny fingers grasp at the air. “I’m going to get to know my daughter a little.”
“Okay,” I whisper, the pull of sleep becoming irresistible. My body is starting to remember it’s run a marathon and then some. I close my eyes, surrendering to exhaustion, while Gabriel, my rock, my safe haven, takes his turn watching over our newest treasure .
As I drift off, I’m aware only of the steady rhythm of my two hearts, one beating against my chest, the other echoing it from across the room.
The world is a blur of soft beeps and the gentle rustle of fabric when I wake. Gabriel’s still here, his fingers stroking our daughter’s back with a touch as light as butterfly wings. It feels like I’m floating on a cloud of pure relief and bone-deep weariness.
“Hey, little bird,” he murmurs, his voice a warm caress against the cool air of the room. “You should rest more.”
I blink slowly, trying to focus on him through the haze settling over my mind. The peace is so thick it’s almost tangible, wrapping around me like one of those weighted blankets they advertise online. Comforting, grounding.
“You called me ‘little bird’ because I was always ready to fly away at the slightest noise,” I say, remembering when we first met.
Gabriel chuckles, a sound that ripples through the quiet room. “Yeah, you were skittish. But look at you now, Wren. Strong, brave, and a mother.”
“Turns out I just needed a good reason to stay grounded.” I let out a small sigh and watch him, the way his thumb brushes at the silky hair coloring our baby’s tiny head. His eyes are locked on her tiny face, dark like storm clouds but warm like a safe harbor.
“Hard to believe she’s ours, isn’t it?” he asks, his gaze flickering up to meet mine for a moment before returning to the little bundle in his arms.
“Completely,” I agree, my eyelids growing heavier by the second. “I used to think I had nothing left to lose, and now I have everything to gain.”
“Exactly.” He leans forward to place a soft kiss on my forehead. “Get some sleep. We’ve got a lifetime of gains ahead of us.”
“Nova.”
Gabriel looks at me blankly.
“That’s what I’d like to call her. Nova. It means new. Like a new beginning.”
My husband smiles. “It’s perfect.”
I nod, satisfied. “Promise you’ll wake me if she…” My words trail off as a deep yawn claims me. I fight it, wanting to savor this moment a little longer.
“Shh, I promise,” he assures me. “Now sleep. You’ve done something amazing today.”
“Gabriel? ”
“Hmm?”
“I love you.” The words come out in a contented sigh, my heart swelling with an emotion so profound it almost scares me in its intensity.
He smiles, and even though my vision is dimming, I know it’s that smile that reaches his eyes and makes them crinkle at the corners. “I love you too, little bird. I love you too.”
As sleep finally pulls me under again, I know I’ve found my reason to keep flying. Not away, but toward a future filled with love and laughter. And naps. Definitely more naps.