A crackling, glorious, gusty cry sounded, and my lips found the strength to curve.
"Dragon's breath," Catherine Eames murmured, staring into her own arms, eyes fixed onto the delicate, powerful, reddened little being she held.
"Is that?—"
"Widow Eames?" Torion rasped, still holding me.
"It's—it's?—"
Alarm was dull in my body, but what could possibly be wrong when another sweet scream was released, a small fist raised in defiance?
"She's perfect."
It was Mairwen who spoke, peering over the widow's shoulder, rousing the woman from her stupor. The young, winged omega smiled at me, canny and sweet and a bit dazed too.
"She's perfect," Mairwen repeated.
Catherine Eames looked to Mairwen, blinked, and then nodded. "Healthy. Healthy little…girl you have. H-here you are."
It wasn't until she was in my arms, laid down on the softest linen, wings still gently bound at blunt tips and hooks, that all the pieces fit back together. A baby girl, mydaughter.
Withwings.
"Perfect."
The word stroked over my shoulder before terror or shock could rise up in me. Torion's hand—which looked a little bruised from my grip—reached down, one finger extended to hover near her foot until she kicked and nudged at him. Her cry hiccuped, gentler now.
My eyes watered, and it wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that anything, any emotion, no matter how beautiful, how strong, might interrupt this moment, my sight of her. My daughter. My child. We'd made it into the world together after all. She'd made it into my arms.
And she was perfect. And suddenly, that was all I'd ever truly known in my life.
I have a daughter. And she is perfect.
"So soon?"Torion asked, and I blinked, but I didn't look away from the little bundle nestled against my chest. She had black hair, and the red of her skin had settled to a softer, pale sandy brown.
"Mm?"
"You're frowning already. I thought it would take longer," Torion said.
I ran my tongue around the inside of my mouth and grimaced at the stale flavor, then let out a sigh and tried to ease the muscles of my face. "Is there tea?"
I was trying not to pay too much attention to how my body felt in the aftermath of the birth. The little baby girl in my arms was a strong distraction, but my throat did hurt from shouting. Tea would be welcome. They'd moved me and the babe at some point when weariness hit too hard for me to keep my eyes open, and now Torion and I were alone in the nest, in our chambers, with ourdaughter.
Torion ran his hand down my arm and then brushed a fingertip against the back of our daughter's head, through the fine, dark hair, before rising from the bed. With his back turned, I finally lifted my gaze and watched him. He moved smoothly, relaxed, not edged with the tense energy he sometimes got when he was worried for me.
"We don't have a name for her," I said.
We'd had a small collection of boys' names—Torion's father's, my own father's, and then our preferred choice of Lachlan. Torion's head turned, and he smiled. "We don't. Our little surprise."
"Will you hold her?" I asked, forcing the words out. He'd been so patient, settling for little touches, briefly bowing over me to kiss the back of her head.
He grinned now and almost tripped over the rug in his haste to return to the bed, but he didn't spill a drop of the tea and he moved oh so gently back onto the mattress at my side.
"You know why I was frowning," I said in a whisper, my hands fisting into the sheets as Torion lifted our baby from my chest and then eased himself down into the same reclined position I'd been in.
"You're worrying," Torion said, his voice equally hushed, barely audible under her fussing. I clenched my hands tighter to keep from stealing her back until they both settled together. "But that's okay."
I snorted and buried my groans as I attempted to get myself into something resembling sitting up so I could drink. "It's okay?" I repeated.
