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I don’t let my instincts answer that. There’s no time, anyway. Emma explodes with a sharp gasp as Bean changes up his beat, using her belly as his full-on mosh pit. As his kicks intensify, so does her exterior stress. The fire spreads out from her hairline, sizzling down her neck until the entire neckline of her dress is fried away. Through a jolt of divine grace, there are enough sequined tatters left to cover the essentials of her chest, as well as everything between her waist and knees.

And yeah, divine grace really is the right vernacular.

Since the woman still has flames for fingers and skin like gilded neon.

But that’s my sole gift from grace—because then I notice the biggest change of all.

Her smile is gone. Completely.

Nibbled away by the pained winces that keep chomping at her serenity. With every new stab she endures, my gut is shredded into shark chum—especially with the comprehension that I’m no longer sharing the burden with her.

What the hell?

The circuit between us has been suddenly, inexplicably severed. And goddamnit, I have to accept it. Doesn’t mean I’m going to fucking like it. Now is the time fate decides to give me a taste of impending fatherhood, normal guy style? No thank you, asshole. I’ll take my mama-on-fire and my son-on-supercharge version any day of the week, along with every ounce of the physical pain that means. This worthless bystander shit isn’t even for the birds. At least birds can gather twigs and chop up worms.

I’m worse than a worm right now.

Beyond mush.

A coiled ball of goo on the sidewalk, looking on as Emma wraps her fingers around my knuckles as if she’s about to challenge me to an arm wrestle. With the way things have been going since we left the house tonight, I wouldn’t be surprised if she did. Instead, with intent that’s equally as vehement, she states, “I think we’ll have to make this up as we go along, mister.”

I roam my adoring gaze across every beloved curve of her gorgeous features. “I think you might be right, goddess.”

She looks a little confused by my easy capitulation but issues just as firmly, “That also means you’ve got to listen to me, husband.”

I pull her hand over and kiss her fingertips. “I’m hearing every beautiful syllable, wife.”

She firms her features. “No. Not just hearing. Listening, okay? As in, complying.”

I lift my head by an inch, arching my brows by an equal amount. Labor pains or not, she’s tiptoeing through the delicate phrasing here—but “delicate” is a word as useful as “worm” to me. “Yes, Emmalina,” I counter. “I know what that means.”

It’s not a lie; nor is it the truth I want to accept. But there’s no time to debate the point. I’m not the one with the demanding creature in my stomach. So like it or not, I’m following her command—the exact same way she’s taking her orders from the bean.

A modicum of solace comes when the car’s weight noticeably shifts, and I look up as Cal completes the turn onto Mulholland. “Thank God,” I mutter. “Less than thirty and we’ll be home, Velvet.”

But as the words are leaving my lips, she’s lowered my hand back down across her stomach—and I nearly drop a shocked hiss as my own punctuation. But I’m too late. Emma beats me to the punch with a hoarse gasp that coincides with the massive heave of her midsection. At once, I’m joining her. No longer do I liken the swell to gentle ocean waves or a rowdy club dance pit. There’s a raging alien in that cramped cavity, seemingly determined to take inspiration from his cinematic counterpart—by punching his way out of his mother.

Free. Free, Mama. Free, Dada. Now!

The look that takes over Emma’s face is suffused with so much love and light, I finally understand why so many classic painters were inspired to create angels. But no masterpiece I’ve ever seen, even in all the galleries and cathedrals I’ve traveled to across the world, do justice to my wife’s beauty in this moment.

“Baby, I don’t think this kid will wait three more minutes, let alone thirty.”

Yeah, even when she insists on saying that.

“Holy God.” I seethe it out, realizing Disciplinary Dad Time starts right this second. When Bean kicks out again, his demand meets the plank of my restraining palm, backed by my decisive growl. “No you do not, young man.”

“Reece.” Emma’s frustrated huff has me pinning her with my glare. Still, she charges, “Do you remember what you just agreed to? What you just swore that you understood?”

Gut-deep snarl. “That was different!”

“No.” Faster and stronger than the golden bullet she’s embodying, she whips a hand around my wrist. “It’s no damned different.” Her face softens, but her grip is still a solid-gold cuff. “This is the way it’s going to happen, Zeus.” As soon as she blinks back a new slew of tears, I comprehend the deeper gist of her shaky tone. Shit. She’s known this all along. Has probably had several conversations with Bean about it already. She’s known all of this but has waited this damn long to spring it on me…

Knowing exactly how I’d react.

Just like this.

With instincts igniting in horror. Then outrage. Then at last, disgusting coils of raw fear.