Page 39 of His Ruthless Vow

"Out of pocket," I say, stepping forward. I keep my voice pleasant. "We're paying cash."

The receptionist's eyebrow arches, but she shrugs. "Suite 304. Elevator's down the hall."

The waiting room on the third floor is painted in soft blues and creams, designed to be calming. It has the opposite effect on me. Every instinct I have—every cell of the man I used to be—screams that sitting in open spaces is dangerous. That we should've hired a private doctor. That being here, surrounded by other people, leaving traces, is reckless.

But Alana needs proper care and my job now is to focus on her. So I sit, thigh bouncing, while she fills out forms and hums a sweet melody I'm sure our little one loves.

"Nervous habit," she notes, nodding at my leg without looking up from the paperwork. "You're going to wear a hole in the floor."

"I'm not nervous."

"Liar." She finishes writing and caps the pen, finally turning to face me. Her eyes are soft, understanding. "I am too. What if something's wrong? What if⁠—"

"Don't." I take her hand, lacing our fingers together. Her skin is cold. "Nothing's wrong. I can feel it."

"You can feel it?"

"Yes." I press my other hand to her stomach, palm flat against the wool. "He's strong. Like his mother."

She covers my hand with hers and lifts an eyebrow. "He?" she asks, smiling. But I don’t get a chance to respond.

"Miss Volsky? We're ready for you."

We follow the nurse back to the examination room which is small, dominated by a large monitor and a padded table with stirrups. Alana undresses behind a curtain while I stand awkwardly by the sink, reading posters about breastfeeding and postpartum depression. When she emerges in a hospital gown, her belly looks twice as big and her face twice as soft. Her eyes track me as she climbs onto the table and sits with her hands folded.

"Lie back, please," the technician says, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a name tag that reads Irina. I wonder if Alana has noticed, if it makes her feel anything that this nurse shares a name with her mother. "This will be cold."

Alana settles onto the table, and I move to stand beside her, taking her hand. She squeezes hard, but I don't pull away. I want the pain. I want to feel everything she's feeling.

Irina squirts blue gel onto Alana's exposed belly, and she gasps at the temperature. "Sorry, sorry," Irina murmurs, but she's already focused on the screen, adjusting dials and settings. "Let's see what we have here."

The monitor flickers to life, gray and white static resolving into shapes I don't understand. Irina moves the wand across Alana's stomach, pressing gently, and suddenly—there.

A profile. A head, turned slightly, unmistakably human. Two hands, raised as if in surrender, fingers splayed. A spine, delicate and perfect, curving like a question mark.

"Oh," Alana breathes, and I feel her grip go slack with wonder. "Oh, my God, Devon. Look."

I'm looking. I'm staring, actually, my throat tight with emotion. The baby moves, a subtle shift, and I see the flutter of a heartbeat on the monitor. It's my child, growing inside the woman I love. My heart is so full, I can't even speak right now.

"There's the heart," Irina says, clicking buttons to measure. "One hundred fifty beats per minute. Perfect for twenty weeks."

She moves the wand again, and the image shifts, showing us different angles. The spine again. Legs kicking lazily. And then⁠—

"Well," Irina says, a smile in her voice. "Would you like to know the sex?"

Alana looks at me, eyes wide and wet. "Yes," we say together.

Irina adjusts the wand, zooming in on something between the baby's legs. "Congratulations," she says. "You're having a boy. A very active boy—see there? He's not shy about showing off."

I laugh, and it comes out choked, broken. A boy. My son. Our son.

"Is he—" Alana's voice cracks. "Is he healthy? Everything looks okay?"

Irina spends the next ten minutes showing us everything—the four chambers of the heart, the kidneys, the brain, the placement of the placenta. She measures limbs and checks fluid levels, and with each normal result, I feel another weight lifting from my chest.

"Everything looks excellent," she finally confirms, wiping the gel from Alana's stomach with a warm towel. "Growth is right on track. Anatomy is perfect. Dr. Volkov will review the images, but I see no concerns. You're doing wonderfully, Mama."

There isn't a storm cloud in the sky that will ever be able to rain on this parade. My son will grow to be strong and capable outside of my father's world. He'll know gentleness and safety, and he'll know peace—not war. Alana looks up at me and smiles, and I lean down and kiss her forehead.