Page 104 of Breakaway Daddies

“Damn right,” Thomas says, flopping over to rest his head on Jinx’s stomach. “Lyra’s romantic as hell.”

“Orion,” I say, pointing to the hunter. “Classic. Hard to miss.”

Jinx leans into my shoulder, her voice soft. “Mom used to show me constellations when I couldn’t sleep. Said the stars were stories people left behind so we wouldn’t forget them.”

I glance at her. “What story do you want to leave behind?”

She’s quiet for a long moment, eyes still on the sky.

“Something messy,” she finally says. “But good. Something real. With chaos and sharp edges and way too much love.”

Thomas groans dramatically. “Put that on my tombstone.”

Bruno chuckles. “Here lies Thomas Boyd: Chaos. Sharp edges. Too much love.”

“Shut up,” Jinx mutters, but she’s smiling.

CHAPTERTHIRTY-ONE

Jinx

Being in labor is…a lot.

Like, alota lot.

It’s hot, and loud, and messy in a way that makes every muscle in my body feel like it’s revolting.

And yet here I am, sitting in a big inflatable tub in the middle of the boys’ living room, with fairy lights strung overhead and soft punk music humming from the speakers, trying not to scream my damn lungs out while my uterus goes full war-drum mode.

Exactly the chaos I signed up for.

Iwantedthis. I wanted the home birth, the water, the control, the familiarity. Hospitals freak me out. I wanted this to feel like mine.

And okay, maybe I romanticized it a little bit. But even now, even as pain knifes through my spine and another contraction steals the air from my lungs, I don’t regret it.

Well. Not much.

“Deep breaths, Jinx,” Ally says, her voice calm and steady as she kneels beside me. “You’re doing beautifully.”

I don’t feel beautiful. I feel like a goddamn sea monster, half submerged and growling with every contraction. But I squeeze her hand anyway and try to breathe through it.

Rowan is pacing nearby, chewing on a protein bar like it’s made of concrete, his jaw tight with nerves.

Thomas is bouncing on the balls of his feet like he’s about to be called onto the ice for overtime.

Bruno’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, quietly mumbling affirmations while holding a damp washcloth to my forehead.

“Guys,” Ally says gently, “maybe give Jinx alittlespace. She’s doing great, but it’s getting intense now.”

“She’s a warrior,” Bruno says reverently. “A goddess. A queen.”

I grunt through a contraction. “Bruno, unless your flattery is going to pull this baby out of me, I need you to zip it for a sec.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, holding up his hands and scooting back.

That’s when Nina, my midwife, steps forward with a practiced calm that settles the air around her. She’s got silver-streaked curls pulled back in a low bun, and she moves like someone who’s delivered a thousand babies and seen a thousand more. No panic. Just quiet certainty.

“Jinx, you’re doing great,” she says, checking her tablet and then giving me a quick but gentle once-over. “That last contraction was long and strong. You’re transitioning.”

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