Page 229 of Bedeviled

I laugh, but then it ends in a groan as a new contraction has me bearing down.

I want to back out of my own body. This is cruel stuff women have to endure.

“My fierce queen,” Memnon says, stroking my leg. “I’ve got you, keep going.”

An impossible command when I don’t have any energy left. And yet, somehow, my body still manages it. I don’t even bother to dull my cries as my legs come up and I push.

I see Memnon’s own shoulder muscles tense, either because he hears my pain, or he feels an echo of it.

“That’s it,” he encourages. “Their head is almost out.” His eyes rise to mine. “You’re doing so well.”

I’m heartened by the words, and I cling to them as I hold Memnon’s gaze. This is about as far from a battlefield as one can get, and yet there is that same breathless energy in this room.

The contraction passes, but as the minutes tick by, another one comes all too quickly. And still our midwife is nowhere to be seen.

Another wave of pressure tightens my belly, one I’m not ready for. It demands I bear down, and Goddess, but it hurts. I cry out as I push as hard as I can.

“Yes, my brave witch, I know it’s excruciating, but it’s working. Their head is almost out⁠—”

I gasp at that. Almost out!

The contraction hasn’t even fully let up when another one grips me.

Oh, hell.

I don’t even bother to muffle my cries.

“One more push, and their shoulders should be out,” he says.

I can’t do anything but push, but I try to make this one count.

“Yes, my love, you’re doing it—their shoulders are out!”

Even as Memnon says it, I feel the rest of my baby’s body slide out into Memnon’s hands.

“You did it,” Memnon says, and there’s a note to his voice that I’ve never heard before. “I have him.”

“Him?” I say weakly, lifting my eyes.

“Him,” Memnon confirms, his eyes misty as he holds up our wailing son, uncaring that he’s covered in blood and other fluids.

He comes to my side and places him oh-so-carefully on my chest as, in the distance, I hear footfalls running toward our room.

Undoubtedly the midwife.

My attention stays fixed on my son.

“Look at what you made,” Memnon whispers, tears in his eyes.

I like to think of myself as a strong, no-nonsense woman, but who am I freaking kidding? I cry like a baby—like my baby—as soon as I meet his gray eyes.

Once my tears finally abate, I stroke my son’s little cheek, enamored.

Sacred spells.

He’s mine.

Memnon has an equally gobsmacked look. I think that perhaps both of us assumed, even while I was pregnant, that I wouldn’t be able to have kids. We hadn’t been able to for so long, and then there’d been those instances in my last life when I lost a child.