Chapter 67
Sixty-Seven
Sorcha
Ihad never once in my life felt pain like that.
I’d always assumed I’d be quiet when I gave birth. Stoic. Like my mother—who’d sweat and cried silent and still in my father’s arms until her body finally gave up and she stopped breathing. My body didn’t agree. I screamed through the contractions and went limp in Neal’s grip between them.
At Neal’s instruction, Glen settled both hands on my low back, pressing hard when the waves hit their peak. Meanwhile, Neal carded gentle fingers through my hair, kissing my face and murmuring reassurance.
Nothing helped.
The clock said it only lasted two hours, but I could’ve sworn we crouched there on the kitchen floor for days before the pain and pressure finally, mercifully let up and Glen exclaimed, “You did it, lass! You’ve a daughter, my loves!”
I collapsed back into Neal’s chest, crying hard now—pain, relief, and terror all mingling.
“Can I please go to bed now?” I asked as Glen passed me the tiny, squirming bundle.
My daughter—too small by half, pink skin so fragile it was nearly translucent, breath hitching like she wanted to cry but couldn’t find the strength.
My daughter—too early, born on the floor in the middle of the night without a healer, but present, with us, her family, perfect and complete.
Neal laughed, actually laughed, and I looked up to find his eyes wet with tears as well.
“Anything, Sorcha,” he said. “Anything for you and her.”
“We made it, little one,” I murmured, pulling the baby closer. “We did it.”
I breathed in the perfect newborn scent, savored the fleeting moment of peace—just me and Neal and baby, together in the pre-dawn quiet—before Cavan returned with the midwife, before Ansel came with questions about how to prosecute Irene, before the world crashed in and ruined it.
“What should we name her?” Neal asked, his fingers tracing quiet circles on the baby’s brow as I held her.
I tipped my head to look at him and tried to reply. And then my vision swam and the world went dark.