Page 62 of Protected By Her Daddy

“I love you, little bird. Always.”

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.

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