Page 28 of Light

“No!”

“You need to do this, damn it!” I’m toast for resistance as she jerks my hand back down, forcing my forefinger back against her trembling skin. “He wants out, husband. He wants out now. And he’ll do it, no matter what it takes.”

“She’s right.” Though Cal mutters it with conviction, his shoulders are cliffs of tension and his knuckles are still coiled and pale against the wheel. “I don’t want it to be true any more than you do, man. But if that kid’s ready, he’s ready.” He finishes with a shared glance in the rearview, his eyes telling me what he doesn’t dare voice aloud. That Emma may be rasping and shaking, but her will has never been forged of stronger iron—her conviction never more focused or unfaltering. Because everything else, including me and even her own existence, pale to dim priorities behind the life that wants to break free now.

No.

That will break free.

That thought must be digitally scrawling across my forehead, because she speaks out as if following up to it. “So is he going to do this shit his way or yours?”

I wait for two seconds, hoping—in vain, I already know—that she has a third option. But I’ve got to gird my goddamned balls and accept those choices. Which aren’t really choices. Am I going to let my infant son, brilliant as he is, go into random Hulk-smash mode on my wife’s vital organs, or am I going to lead by example and show the little bugger that punches should only be a last resort?

And even then, with precision.

Precision.

Okay, yeah. That’s going to have to be my keyword here.

And even as I think it, I can’t believe it.

But I lock my teeth, square my jaw—and, most importantly, clear my mind of every last distraction except all the anatomy diagrams I’ve memorized over the last couple of months. If civilian study hours really counted toward anything, there’s a damn good chance I could qualify for an OB-GYN residency by now, anyway. I’m just putting the knowledge to use in a way that turns my ears to bells and my stomach to rocks.

But I push past both. Hard.

Before pulling in a breath. Thoroughly.

Then shifting my finger on Emma’s belly. Determinedly.

And then…freezing.

Completely.

Horrifyingly.

My vision clouds. My equilibrium careens. I zero in on the sight of my index finger, prepped and resembling a powered laser pointer, but activating it any further is a thought as foreign as slitting my own throat.

“Fuck,” I choke. “No!” The mists in my vision thicken—but in the midst of them, clear as if it’s happening again, I see Kane lying prone beneath me instead. Begging me to save Los Angeles—and his sanity—by killing him with my bare hands. I battle to tell myself this isn’t the same shit at all, but the only answer from my senses isn’t helping.

This isn’t the same.

It’s worse.

Even thinking of cutting into this woman—of purposely slicing her open—is a visceral rip in my soul. A violation of my existence. And while my logic swings back with swords of common sense, I furiously and methodically snap each one.

“I can’t.” It coils up from the sea of bile in my gut, a hateful gurgle. “Velvet,” I rasp. “I—”

“Reece.” But I’m torn off my mental moorings by the anguish of her whisper—and then the taut, tormented moan with which she finishes. The Kane memories vanish like smoke, torched by the distress that takes over her whole form. “Reece. Please!” She grabs at the middle of my chest, igniting my vest and shirt until her fingertips sear my skin. Vaguely, I’m aware of the cigar-sized scorches now connecting my pecs, but there’s no time to acknowledge the pain—not when Emma’s clearly enduring so much more of it. “Intestines aren’t supposed to be trampolines, right?”

I gulp hard. “Holy fuck.”

At once, her stare sharpens. A few seconds of hope interrupt her misery. At once, I’m invaded by conflicting, wrenching emotions. There’s raging fury about her pain but consuming elation that I can do something about it. Except that my heroic duty here is going to involve…

“Goddamnit.”

It bears repeating, probably a hundred times more, but there’s no time for that. Doing the right thing doesn’t mean doing the easy thing. But Christ on a pogo stick, how many more times do I have to show the universe that I fucking get it?

Apparently—and clearly—one more.