Page 23 of Light

Except that this time, the spikes aren’t just driving into my crotch.

My hips, my abdomen, my stomach, my ribs—anything and everything below my sternum is gashed into ribbons and then twisted into knots, only there’s a goddamned burning coal cinched in the center of each one. My only lifeline back to sanity is the juncture of my hand with Emma’s, though she’s returning my desperate clutch with pressure that matches her excruciating wail.

“Ohhh, God! Ohhh, Reece!”

“Here, baby,” I somehow choke out. “I’m—I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“No shit,” Cal mumbles from the front—though his sarcasm is short-lived once he dashes another look back at us. “Ohhh, shit,” he’s sputtering instead, putting the new refrain on repeat as he concentrates on weaving through the traffic sludge through Culver City and the west side. Silently, I beg him to be careful. The countdown to midnight is well over an hour away, but I’d bet my left nut—if the damn thing agrees to talk to me again—that half the west side has been screaming hello to the new year since Manhattan did. “Guess the hospital option is really off the table now,” he utters, apparently really getting the point that the Richards Family light show is only just getting started.

“Just step on it,” I get out in return, checking off just about every box for testy-asshole-billionaire in the process. But when I have to interject a bunch of wheezes that sound more like a constipated rhino, I feel Cal’s empathy piling on top of his incredulity. “Over the Sepulveda Pass,” I continue. “Then out the 101 to Las Virgenes.”

He nods while trading glances with me again in the rearview. The motion is calm, but his dark eyes aren’t. He’s finally figuring out the scope of what’s happening here—not that he’s comfortable with it, which makes two of us. I’m not exactly down with being the poster boy for karma’s retribution on behalf of every woman since Eve, but at least there’s going to be a reward for this pain. A huge one.

Cal, seeming to read that thought from the resolve on my face, makes an attempt at levity. “Guess you drew the cosmic short straw, man.”

I shove out a wry grunt. “Or the longest.”

“Which makes you the world’s wisest optimist or blindest idiot.”

“Or both.” With a sigh that’s more weary than my years, I gaze out the window for a second. We’ve started up the rise into the pass, with the LA Cemetery sprawled to our right and the white Travertine beauty of the Getty perched atop the hill to our left. The two edifications to the past have me reflecting backward, resulting in my philosophical follow-up. “Sometimes, blindness is wisdom, buddy.”

Cal looks ready to nod again—but in commiseration or confusion, I’m not certain—but before he gets his chance, my head is yanked back down by a hand at the roots of my hair. “Okay, Gandalf, save it for your son,” Emma snaps, already writhing as her stomach really starts resembling the surface of the sun. “Who’s hell-bent on hearing it sooner than later!”

All of that spews from her in a pained rush, and I’m positive she’s yanked out a full hock of my hair as the next spasm fully hits. I brace myself for the same cutlass through my middle, hanging on to her tightly when it does. With my forehead pressed sideways across hers, I join her in breathing through the height of the jolt, though I’m not surprised to feel myself smiling at the same time. I’m no stranger to knowing how to handle extended pain, but I’m a giddy virgin at the thought of it actually yielding an amazing gift at the end.

The world’s best gift.

The kid who’s already stolen my heart, captivated my spirit, and worked his way into the depths of my soul.

The being with a vocabulary nearly better than mine—but likely doesn’t recognize the word “ordinary.”

And if I have anything to say or do about it, he never will.

As a matter of fact, I make a silent vow to the universe that I’ll never crave ordinary again.

Even in this moment, with my bloodstream feeling like fried electrical lines.

Even in this moment, with my woman working to scalp me with her fingertips.

Even in this moment, with my desperate bellows matched to her strident screams—and not in the let’s-get-our-freaky-kink-on kind of way.

As a matter of fact, if I so much as breathed the words “freaky kink” right now, I’m sure Emma would work on rearranging my ball sack instead of my hair. And despite the rampant joy in all my senses, I make a new deal with the universe: to happily trade places with her, if only for a few minutes, to give her relief from the storm clearly raging through her whole system. It’s worth a try, right? Before thirty minutes ago, who’d have ever predicted any man alive would know the torture of childbirth—or be grateful for it? But right now, I’m nothing but gratitude.

All right, not entirely true.

In between the awe and wonder, there are slices of pure pity for every member of my gender. And yeah, there’s a little arrogance involved on that one. But even stripping my inner Tony Stark out of the equation, the feeling remains the same. How can any man say he truly understands this miracle without sharing in every stage of it? Yes, even in the pain. Perhaps especially in it.

Which is why, as Emma slams a foot against the door to gain traction for a new contortion, I let her yank my head down so hard that I’m getting a suntan from her stomach. Her other hand falls free from my hold and sweeps out to slam against the passenger seat headrest. She arches her torso up, and I indulge a few seconds of admiring how perfectly the move shows off every luscious curve of her pregnancy-ripened tits before guilt takes over on a bunch of different levels.

“Velvet.” I let it vibrate with every husky note of my emotion as I lift back up and then shift beneath her, hoping to cradle her head more comfortably. “Goddamn, you’re amazing.”

She tilts up enough to get down a new swig of water. As she settles back onto my lap, still breathing hard, she wobbles out a small smile. “Says the only man in history experiencing his kid’s birth like this?”

“Says the guy who wouldn’t have it any other way.” I pull a towelette out of the plastic dispenser that Cal’s managed to wedge between the two front seats. Each of the gentle swipes I give her cheeks causes a temporary swath of cyan through the pulsing gold of her skin, practically matching the brilliant gleam in her eyes. As soon as I stop, they darken once more to the color of midnight. Not the dreamy midsummer kind, either. Her irises are nearly indigo as she grabs the front of my shirt and twists hard.

“Hey.” I toss aside the towelette and rub my hand atop hers. “Baby? What is it?”

“Reece.”