Page 63 of Protected By Her Daddy

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.

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