Something ours.
This is the beginning of the life we’re going to build together.
EPILOGUE
Zara
October—39 Weeks, 5 Days
The National Maternity Hospital was supposed to be the calm, serene, spa-like sanctuary I’d envisioned when I booked the private suite months ago.
Instead—it’s literal hell.
I’m inagony.
Real, biblical, kill-me-now kind of agony.
‘You’re doing amazing, sweetheart,’ Cole murmurs, dabbing my forehead like I’m some delicate flower and not a sweating, snarling demon dreaming up ways to murder him for putting me in this position in the first place.
‘Amazing?’ I gasp as another contraction tears through me like I’m being split in half by a blunt, rusty medieval weapon. ‘I’m not doing amazing, Cole. I’m dying. Actually dying. And this—’ I jab a finger into his chest—‘is all your fault.’
He bites down on a laugh.
Anactuallaugh.
The traitor.
‘Not helpful,’ I growl. ‘I swear to God, when this is over, I’m going to?—’
Another contraction hits like a wrecking ball, and I arch off the bed, gripping his hand so hard he winces.
‘Jesus, Zara—you’re going to break my fingers,’ he says through gritted teeth, still managing to sound amused.
‘I don’t care about your fucking fingers, Cole.’ I pant. ‘I want DRUGS. Where are the drugs? I was very clear in my birth plan—all… the… drugs.’
Dr Kensington offers me a sympathetic smile. ‘You’re nine centimetres dilated, darling. You were eight when you got here. Too late for an epidural.’
I glare at her. ‘How can it be too late for drugs? This is Ireland. We invented drinking through trauma.’
Cole chokes on a laugh.
I love the man, but I swear to God I want to punch him right now. I consider calling my brothers. They’d probably help. Probably. They seem to be warming to my boyfriend these days.
‘Baby,’ he whispers, leaning close. ‘You’re the strongest woman I’ve ever met. You survived the fire. You survived my mother. This—’ he kisses my temple ‘—you’ve got this.’
‘I fucking hate you right now,’ I whisper.
‘I know, sweetheart.’ He kisses me again. ‘But I love you.’
Another contraction slams through me, and I crush his hand like a hydraulic press. A growl rips out of me that doesn’t sound human.
‘She’s crowning,’ Dr Kensington turns to the midwife beside her, like she’s announcing dinner’s ready.
‘I am never—ever—having sex with you again,’ I gasp.
‘You said that last month,’ Cole murmurs.
‘AND I MEANT IT.’
