Page 73 of Omega's Fire

I try to think, to time the intervals, but everything is blurring together. “I don’t know. Close. Really close.”

“Okay.” His voice stays maddeningly calm. “We’re almost there.”

The hospital comes into view. Nash pulls up to the emergency entrance and is out of the car before I can process that we’ve stopped. He’s opening my door, helping me out, his arm around my waist as another contraction hits.

This one is the worst yet. I double over in the hospital driveway, gasping, and feel something warm and wet between my legs.

“Oh god.” My voice cracks. “Nash, I think my water just broke.”

His nostrils flare and I realize he can smell it—the amniotic fluid, the change in my scent that signals active labor.

“Let’s get you inside.”

A wheelchair appears and suddenly I’m being wheeled through automatic doors into the bright fluorescent world of the hospital. Nash is beside me, one hand on my shoulder, talking to someone in scrubs about contractions and water breaking and gestational age.

The questions come fast after that. Insurance information, emergency contacts, medical history. Nash answers most of them while I focus on breathing through increasingly intense contractions. He knows my birthday, my social security number, my mother’s phone numbers. When did I tell him all that? When did he memorize the details of my life?

“We need to get you upstairs,” the nurse says after checking my vitals.

The elevator ride is torture. Enclosed space, fluorescent lights, the lingering scent of disinfectant. Only Nash’s protective alpha pheromones stop it from smelling cold. Another contraction hits as we reach the maternity floor and I grab for his hand instinctively.

“I can’t do this,” I whisper, the words slipping out before I can stop them. “It’s too soon, I’m not ready, I don’t know how—”

“Yes, you can.” Nash’s voice is fierce now. “You’re thestrongest person I know. You faced down the Bureau, you changed my mind, you’ve been growing our daughter for seven months. You can do this.”

The absolute certainty in his voice should piss me off. Instead it wraps around me like armor, strengthening something shaky inside my chest.

They get me into a hospital gown and onto a bed with monitors and wires and equipment I don’t want to think about. The contractions are coming every few minutes now, each one stronger than the last, and I’m starting to understand that this is really happening. Ready or not, my daughter is coming today.

“Mr. Torres?” A doctor appears, young and competent-looking. “ Let’s see how you’re progressing.”

The examination is uncomfortable and invasive but mercifully brief. “You’re about eight centimeters dilated,” she announces. “This baby definitely wants to meet you today.”

Eight centimeters. Almost there. The number should be reassuring but instead it makes everything feel more real, more immediate. I’m going to be a parent at any moment. I’m going to be responsible for keeping another human being alive and safe and loved.

Another contraction builds and I reach for Nash without thinking. His hand closes around mine immediately, solid and warm and steady.

“You don’t have to stay,” I tell him when I can speak again. “I know this wasn’t part of the plan.”

His eyes flash with something that might be hurt or anger. “Do you want me to leave?”

The question hangs between us, loaded with months of history and hurt and complicated feelings I haven’t sorted through yet. I look at him—really look—and see exhaustion and worry. He’s been patient with my walls. But right now, with our daughter trying to make her grand entrance so early, I don’t havethe energy to maintain my defenses. I’m also not sure that I need them.

“No,” I admit, the word barely audible. “I don’t want you to leave.”

Relief transforms his features. “Then I’m not going anywhere.”

A nurse bustles in with ice chips. “How are we doing, Dad?” she asks Nash, and he doesn’t correct the assumption.

Nash moves around the bed like he belongs here, adjusting pillows and checking monitors and somehow knowing exactly what will make me more comfortable.

Time passes in waves of pain. Nash never leaves my side. He feeds me ice chips when my mouth gets dry, rubs my back when the contractions peak, talks me through the breathing exercises we learned in class.

His scent surrounds me, steadying and familiar. If I was ever in doubt that he was my mate, I’m not now. Every instinct in my body confirms it.

“I called your mom,” he tells me during a quiet moment between contractions. “She’s on her way.”

“What did you tell them?”

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