“Turn left!” I bark, seeing the road up ahead.
The rest of the drive is lost to my mounting panic, because what the fuck? Is my first act as a father going to be my own goddamn absence? Probably for the best, anyway. I don’t know anything about being a father. I couldn’t even handle being the son to one.
I’ve spent months pushing aside this paranoia, allowing Tristian to be the one who worries and frets. I’ve thrown myself into my role—King—but I’m not scared of leading South Side. That’s easy. I can face down guns and politicians, pay off agencies and execute my enemies. But being a father? That’s the only thing I’ve found terrifying in a long time. What if it’s genetic? What if I’m like Daniel?
Finally, we arrive at the birthing center, and once again, I shove aside those negative thoughts. Tristian tied himself in fucking knots finding the right practice, but this one has been with us throughout the whole pregnancy. All the nurses, OBGYNs, doulas, birthing coaches, and technicians know me on sight, which is probably why when I roll through the doors like a lunatic with the biggest arms dealer in the region right on my heels, all the receptionist does is point to the doors on her left.
I fly through them, only vaguely noting that Yolanda and her Things have hung back. Hardly ten feet into my sprint down the hall, I hear it.
Story’s deep, agonized sob.
I jolt toward the sound, heartbeat thundering in my ears, vision narrowing down to a single point. Everyone violently jumps when I crash through the door, panting and terrified, but there they are.
Tristian and Rath are on either side of the bed, holding her hands, and I know I’m late—fucking unforgivably, insanely late—but there isn’t a baby. Not yet.
Story breaks down the second she lays eyes on me, chest hitching with a sob. “Where were you?!”
“I’m sorry,” I say, rushing to her side. I press a kiss to her forehead, her cheeks, her chin, chanting, “Sorry, sorry, sorry. Is she okay?”
Story nods. “Other than deciding today is the day she’s evacuating my body.” She seizes and yowls, gripping Tristian’s hand so hard he grimaces in pain. “I’m peachy.”
The birthing coach is between her legs, saying, “It’s time to push again, okay? You think you can be stronger now that all the daddies are here?” It’s not said unkindly, but still makes my chest clench angrily. Not at the coach. Not at Story. Not even at Yolanda.
At myself.
She gives a tired nod, face red and damp with sweat, and Tristian puts her hand in mine, moving up to the head of the bed. No one blinks when he slips in behind her, taking her weight against his chest as Rath and I bolster her hands.
“You’ve got this, sweetheart,” he says into her ear, and she nods, seeming to steel herself.
“I’m ready,” she says, determination flashing in her eyes.
What happens next is something too magical to put into words. I don’t mean magic in the cutesy, Disney sense. I’m talking deep, dark sorcery. Something ancient and primal. It’s in the tenor of her screams and the snarl on her face. It’s the sheen of sweat on her forehead, glistening. It’s the cut of her teeth as her lips pull back with the ferocity of her pushes. It’s the way her hand trembles in mine—not out of weakness, but out of the pure magnitude of her strength. It’s life, but it’s also death. The death of something I might think to grieve later on.
That sweet, innocent, doe-eyed girl I fell into a fatal obsession with is gone.
But in her place is a woman.
A warrior.
A Queen.
Our daughter arrives thirty minutes later, screaming into this world in a rush of angry cries. She’s the only thing I can bring myself to look at, but I can still feel Rath and Tristian’s awe as the doctor places the baby on Story’s chest.
Story folds her into her arms without question or concern, giving an exhausted, breathless laugh as she lays eyes on our tiny, writhing, furious daughter. “Hello there,” she greets, eyes heavy and wet. She runs a gentle knuckle over her wrinkled cheek, and before she looks at us—before she even registers anyone else is in the room—she presses a kiss to her head and whispers, “I have so many promises to make.”
The first time Tristian holds her, he looks like someone just asked him to solve all of the world’s problems in the next seven hours. He looks overwhelmed and a little crazy, but there’s a warmth in his eyes I’m not used to seeing—not even with his little sisters.
“She’s perfect.” He says this with a hint of shock, as if she’s been in this world for mere minutes and she’s already done something incredible. Quieter, he tells the baby, “You’re perfect,” and gently brushes his lips over her forehead.