"I can't." I shake my head, my voice a ragged whisper. "I can't do it. She's stuck. I don't have anything left."
"Look at me." Ross drops my leg onto the stirrup. He leans over the bed, catching my face between his large hands. His blue eyes are fierce, burning with absolute devotion. "Look at me, Sandra. Do not give up. You are a survivor. You walked barefoot to find us. You are a fighter. You have one more fight left in you. Dig deep and find it."
"She is crowning," Dr. Ramirez announces, her voice carrying a sharp thrill of excitement. "The head is right here. Sandra, I need you to give me two more strong pushes. You are going to meet your daughter in two minutes."
The words cut through the fog of exhaustion.
Jethro squeezes my hand. Caleb rests his hand on my knee, his dark eyes wide and shining behind his glasses. Oli tightens his hold around my ribs, pressing a fierce kiss to the side of my head.
"Do it for her," Jethro growls from my side, his Alpha instinct surging to the surface. "Bring our daughter into the world."
The monitor spikes. The final contraction rips through my body.
I let go of the fear. I draw a massive, shuddering breath into my lungs, tuck my chin to my chest, and push with a primal, animalistic roar. The burning sensation peaks, stretching me to the absolute breaking point.
"The head is out!" Dr. Ramirez shouts. "One more push for the shoulders!"
I bear down with the last desperate fraction of my strength, pushing past the pain, pushing past the limits of my body. A sudden, immense release of pressure floods my system. The agonizing stretch vanishes, replaced by a strange, hollow emptiness. I collapse back against Oli, my chest heaves with desperate gasps. The room spins. The edges of my vision blur with dark spots. Before an oxygen mask is pressed to my face.
A sharp, piercing cry shatters the tense silence of the delivery room. The sound is beautiful. It is loud, angry, and strong. It is the sound of life. Tears spill over my eyelashes in a massive, unstoppable flood. I open my eyes, looking toward the foot of the bed.
Dr. Ramirez holds a slippery, squirming, screaming infant in her gloved hands. The baby is covered in streaks of blood, her tiny fists waving blindly in the cold air of the hospital room. She possesses a thick mop of dark hair, exactly like mine.
"She is perfect." Dr. Ramirez smiles, using a bulb syringe to clear the fluid from the baby's nose and mouth. "A beautiful, healthy girl. Time to cut the cord, Dads."
Ross and Caleb step forward. Their hands shake as they take the surgical scissors from the doctor. They share a look before they cut the umbilical cord together.
Dr. Ramirez steps around the side of the bed. She doesn't take the baby to the warming table. She places the screaming, slippery infant onto my bare chest.
The weight of her is solid and warm. The minute her skin touches mine, her frantic cries hitch, turning into soft, sputtering whimpers. She turns her head, rooting against my collarbone.
I bring my shaking hands up, cradling her tiny, fragile body against my heart. The world outside the hospital room ceases to exist. The mafia, the debts, the trauma of my past; it all burns away to ash, leaving only the profound, staggering reality of the life resting in my arms.
Jethro leans over the bedrail, resting his forehead against my shoulder. He stares down at his daughter, tears tracking down his cheeks. He reaches out with one massive, trembling finger, letting the infant wrap her tiny fist around his knuckle.
"Look at her," Jethro whispers, his voice breaking. "Look at what you made."
Ross drops to his knees beside the bed, burying his face in the mattress near my hip, his broad shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Caleb stands over him, his hand resting on Ross's back, his own face buried in his free hand as he loses his battle with his emotions. Oli leans his chin on my shoulder from behind, pressing kisses to the crown of the baby's head. His honeysuckle scent blooms with a pure, overwhelming joy that fills every corner of the room.
"Do we have a name?" Dr. Ramirez asks, standing by the computer to input the official birth record.
I look down at the dark hair and the tiny, perfect features. I think about the life we built in Willowside. I think about theroots we planted in the cold earth, and the beauty that grew from the ashes of my old life.
"Juniper," I say, my voice raspy but certain. I look up, meeting the eyes of each of my men. "Juniper Rose."
The chaos of the delivery room fades into a quiet, exhausted blur.
The nurses take over. They clean Juniper, weigh her, and swaddle her in a striped hospital blanket. They tend to me, managing the afterbirth and stitching a minor tear. The process takes hours, pushing us deep into the afternoon and the early evening. The snowstorm continues to rage outside, encasing the hospital in a fortress of white ice and howling wind.
The medical staff transfers us to a quiet recovery suite at the end of the maternity hall.
The exhaustion hits me like a freight train. The adrenaline burns out of my bloodstream, leaving my muscles heavy and my mind clouded with a thick, irresistible fog. I fall asleep almost the second they transition me into the clean hospital bed.
I drift in and out of consciousness through the long, quiet night.
When dawn breaks my eyes open. The storm passed. The howling wind is gone, leaving a profound, insulated silence in its wake. The sky outside the window shifts into a pale, bruised purple, the rising sun reflecting off the massive snowdrifts burying the town of Willowside. I blink the sleep from my eyes, shifting against the pillows. A dull ache throbs between my thighs, a stark reminder of the marathon I survived yesterday, but my body feels lighter. I look around the dim recovery room.
My Alphas succumbed to their exhaustion. Ross sleeps in an uncomfortable vinyl recliner in the corner, his long legs stretched out, his head tilted back. Caleb rests on the small visitor sofa, his glasses folded neat on the side table, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. Jethro sits in a straight-backed chair positioned in front of the door, his arms crossed over his chest, his chin resting on his sternum in a light, tactical doze.
