Page 25 of Bound in Matrimony

"How long? How far apart? How strong? Should you be standing? Where's your hospital bag? Did you call Dr. Winters? I'll get the car. No, I'll call an ambulance. Maybe a helicopter would be faster?—"

"Knox." I interrupt his spiral with a firm tone, the one I use when he's being particularly unreasonable. "I've had three contractions in the last thirty minutes. We have plenty of time. The hospital is fourteen minutes away with normal traffic. Dr. Winters said not to come in until the contractions are five minutes apart for at least an hour."

He stares at me as if I've suggested we deliver the baby on the subway. "Unacceptable. We're going now."

Another contraction begins, and I can't hide my wince as it tightens across my abdomen. Knox is beside me instantly, supporting my weight, his face a mask of barely contained panic.

"Breathe," he instructs, demonstrating the pattern we learned. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. That's it."

The irony of him coaching me while looking like he might pass out isn't lost on me, but the contraction demands too much concentration for me to comment.

When it passes, he literally sweeps me off my feet, carrying me as if I weigh nothing despite being heavily pregnant.

"Knox, put me down. I can walk. We don't need to leave yet."

He ignores me completely, striding toward our bedroom where the hospital bag—actually three meticulously packed suitcases—has been waiting by the door for weeks.

"I'm calling Dr. Winters," he announces, somehow managing to hold me while retrieving his phone. "And the hospital. They need to be ready. And security—we'll need the route cleared."

"We don't need a police escort to—" I begin, but he's already dialing, his voice shifting into the commanding tone that probably terrifies his employees.

"This is Knox Vance. My wife is in labor. We're on our way. I expect Dr. Winters to be waiting when we arrive." He pauses, listening, his jaw tightening. "I don't care if she says it's too early. Seraphina would minimize a bullet wound. We're coming now."

I should be annoyed by his high-handedness, but there's something touching about his complete unraveling. This man who controls billion-dollar deals with icy precision is coming apart because our daughter is making her entrance into the world.

He carries me to the elevator, the suitcases somehow now in the hands of our building's security chief, who must have been summoned while I was distracted by the contraction. A car is already waiting when we reach the ground floor, not our usual town car but an SUV with what appears to be a police escort.

"You didn't," I say, raising an eyebrow as he settles me into the backseat with the gentleness one might use for priceless crystal.

"I did." He slides in beside me, one hand immediately finding mine, the other resting on my belly. "Nothing is taking chances with you and our daughter. Nothing."

The drive that should take fourteen minutes takes eight, thanks to whatever strings Knox has pulled. He doesn't release my hand once, his eyes constantly scanning my face for signs of distress. When another contraction comes, stronger than the others, he looks so agonized you'd think he was the one in labor.

"It hurts," he says, not a question but a tortured statement. "I can see it in your face."

"It's supposed to hurt," I remind him, breathing through the tightening. "That's how we know our daughter is coming."

"I hate this," he confesses, his voice raw. "I hate seeing you in pain. I hate not being able to fix it."

The vulnerability in his admission catches me off guard. Knox Vance doesn't admit helplessness. Ever. But in this moment, faced with the natural process that can't be controlled, can't be bought off or intimidated or overruled, he's completely undone.

I squeeze his hand as the contraction subsides. "You're not supposed to fix it. You're just supposed to be here with me. And you are."

He brings my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles with such reverence it makes my chest ache. "Always."

When we arrive at the hospital, it's like a scene from a movie. Staff line the entrance, a wheelchair appears instantly, and Dr. Winters—who indeed has been summoned despite my early stage of labor—waits by the doors.

Knox helps me from the car with excessive caution, then seems reluctant to let me sit in the wheelchair, as if he doesn't trust anyone else to transport me.

"Mr. Vance," Dr. Winters says with the patient tone of someone accustomed to anxious fathers, "your wife is inexcellent hands. We're going to get her settled and monitor her progress. First babies often take their time."

"Time," Knox repeats as if the concept is foreign to him. "How much time? She's in pain. Can't you speed this up? There must be something?—"

"Knox." I capture his hand, drawing his wild gaze to mine. "This is going to take hours. Possibly many hours. You need to breathe."

A hint of color returns to his face as he visibly tries to collect himself. "Hours," he repeats. "Right. Of course. I've read about this." His free hand moves to the inside pocket of his jacket, where I know he keeps the laminated timeline of labor stages he created.

Dr. Winters catches my eye with a sympathetic smile. In the nine months she's been my obstetrician, she's witnessed the full spectrum of Knox's protective obsession.

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