Page 27 of Light

Nevertheless, this goddess remains my beacon of beauty, strength, courage, and tenacity—all even more so now, since there’s a surge of a new element to her splendor as well. Maternal resolve.

“This is the way it has to happen, Reece.” She openly winces as Bean high-kicks his approval of that. “Just…just tell me you understand. Okay?”

My heart howls to do just that—but the depths of my spirit and the fibers of my fortitude are still drenched in roars of protesting rebellion. “Understand what?” I snap. “That I’m supposed to watch while this child refuses to take the normal exit out?” What the living fuck?

Though I hold back from spewing that aloud, I refuse to school my face into the same obeisance—a call I regret as soon as her whole body tenses with pain. But this time, her suffering isn’t due to a contraction or any of Bean’s kicks. Her heart is bruised—and I’m her callous assailant.

Damn it.

“Bunny,” I grate, sliding one of my hands to cradle the back of her neck. “Come on, now. Return the favor. You and him. Listen to me.” I spread my fingers up and then in, tenderly scraping them along her scalp. “What’s wrong with taking at least one part of this gig the right way?”

With a shaky exhalation, Emma lets her head rock back into my hold. With a gaze glittering as bright as abalone shells, she rasps back, “But what if it’s the wrong way?”

Narrowed gaze. Then even tighter, until I’m nearly squinting. “What do you—”

“What if…” She frantically shoots her gaze downward, but the sight of her cavorting belly only pales her skin by three more shades. Despite the bizarre sight and the nerves it unhinges for her, she goes on. “What if…it’s easier to get him out like this, than by forcing him down a dark and scary tunnel?” She raises her gaze and locks it to mine once more. “What if…he reacts to that fear by lashing out? By using any or all of the powers he’s inherited but doesn’t how to control yet?”

From the front, Cal busts out a sharp snarl. “Oh, hell!”

I twist my lips. “And now that that’s been said…”

My wife digs her hand into the front of my vest again. The tremble in her hold matches the dread in her gaze. “D-Don’t be mad.”

Shit.

I’m officially certain she’s not the only one flashing desperate fear right now—but I can do her one better. Guilt plugs so deeply into me, both my hands look tucked into dayglow-blue gloves. “Mad?” I blurt. “Velvet, does this kid have you high now?” I grab her hand and mesh our fingers back together. At any other time and in any other world, we’d be a special-effects department’s dream, my isotope digits mashed against the mini tiki torches of hers, but right now, I look at the sight with nothing but desperation and contrition. “I’m not mad, Emmalina,” I finally confess. “I’m…I’m sorry. And I’m terrified. And I’m feeling so goddamned helpless.”

I give in to a heavy wash of the latter, unable to even complete my thought. Four months ago, we stood before God and our loved ones, making vows to always be real and open with each other—but this is honesty I never thought I’d have to face. An impotence that’s worse than hell.

“Fuck!” I grate it as our bean shoves up again and Emma’s face contorts in a dozen angles. I repeat it as her torso lifts off my lap, almost as if the life inside it is pulling at her in his need to be free.

“Reece.”

Her sough interrupts my goal to invent a profanity better than the F-word. As soon as I fling my head back down, soaking up the magnificence of her beauty even in the throes of her distress, she speaks again.

“Y-You’re not…helpless.” As she speaks, she demonstrates the point—by sliding her hand to reposition mine.

Directly over the middle of her stomach.

With my forefinger straight and the rest curled in.

“I—I don’t underst—” I fall silent, darting a quizzical scowl between her face and her belly. “Wh-What the hell?” But as the words tumble out of me, mortification clings to them. The dread thickens as I really start understanding what she’s going to ask of me.

No.

What she’ll demand I do to her.

“What the hell, Emma?”

As if that’s going to hold her—or our irascible child—off.

“Reece.” A new grimace lances her face.

“No.” I jerk my hand up, twisting it into a tight fist. “No, goddamnit.” I notice Calvin twitching, as if he’s debating whether to pull over again. Wisely, the guy maintains most of his attention forward, gunning the car to an urgent but safe speed.

But not urgent enough.

“Reece.”