Page 125 of Biker Orc Baby Daddy
A cry.
Small. Sharp. Furious at being ejected into the cold, bright world.
"It's a girl," the midwife says, and there's a smile in her voice, the kind that says she never gets tired of this part.
She's placed on my chest, still connected, still slick and new. Tiny. Pink. Screaming her lungs out in outraged, healthy protest. Perfect. So perfect my heart physically hurts.
Gunther's crying. Not quiet tears—full-on sobbing, shoulders shaking, glasses fogged up, the works.
"Hi," I whisper, touching her impossibly small head, her little fists waving. "Hi, baby. Hi, sweetheart. We've been waiting for you."
She blinks. Goes quiet. Stares at me with grey-green eyes that seem to focus and unfocus, like she's trying to make sense of the sudden brightness, the voices, the fact that she exists at all.
"She's got your eyes," I tell Gunther, my voice thick with exhaustion and wonder. That particular shade—not quite grey, not quite green, shifting depending on the light. Unmistakably his.
"She's got your everything else," he counters, and there's awe in his tone. His finger traces the delicate slope of her nose, the curve of her tiny ear.
"Good. One of you is enough," I say, but I'm smiling. Can't help it. Can't stop staring at her, this impossible little person we made.
He laughs, shaky, broken, joyful, and kisses my forehead. Lingers there a moment, breathing me in. Then he touches her tiny hand, barely the length of his thumb.
She grips his finger. Holds tight with that instinctive newborn strength, like she already knows he's hers.
"Strong," he says, and his voice cracks again.
"She's ours," I whisper, because I need to say it out loud. Need to make it real.
"Yeah." Gunther looks at me, then back at her, tears still tracking down his face. "Yeah, she is."
We name her Mara. Orcish. Means "gentle strength."
Gunther insists, explains the meaning three times with that earnest intensity he gets when something matters. I don't argue. It fits. She's already both those things, gentle in her smallness, strong in the way she's holding on to us.
Orry meetshis sister three hours later.
Gunther carries him in, moving slowly, deliberately, like he's transporting something precious. He's been whispering to Orry the whole way down the hall—I can hear the low murmur of his voice, explaining, preparing. Sets him on the bed next to me with careful hands, making sure he's steady.
Orry stares. Eyes enormous, taking up half his face. He's clutching Mr. Grunt in one hand, the plush orc dangling forgotten.
"Baby," I say softly, adjusting my hold so he can see her better. "This is Mara."
"Baby?" His voice is hushed, reverent in a way I've never heard from him.
"Your sister."
He leans closer, drawn in by curiosity, and then does the most Orry thing possible—sniffs her head. Takes a big deliberate whiff like he's investigating a new food. "Smells funny."
"Yeah. Babies smell weird." I'm trying not to laugh. Don't want to break the moment.
"She little." He says it like he's discovered something profound, a scientific observation that needs recording.
"Very little. Much littler than you were. You have to be gentle with her, okay? Soft touches."
He nods. Expression going serious, solemn. The way he looks when Gunther explains something important about numbers or sorting. Reaches out and touches her hand with just one finger, so careful it makes my chest ache.
Mara squirms. Makes a soft squeaky noise, half-awake.
Orry gasps, jerking back slightly. "She talking!"
