"You're doing great," my sister Addison says from the foot of the bed. She's the calmest person in the room, probably because she’s had a baby herself. "Just breathe."
"I am breathing!"
Technically you're screaming,Nightmare observes.But I can see how you'd confuse the two.
Eryx shoots a look at nothing—which is where Nightmare lives—and growls, "If you can't be helpful, be quiet."
I am being helpful. I'm providing moral support.
"You're providing commentary."
Same thing.
Another contraction. I arch off the bed, and Eryx's other hand presses to my lower back, magic flowing from his palm. It doesn't take the pain away, but it dulls the edge.
"I hate you," I gasp.
"I know," he says softly. "I'm sorry."
"You should be. This is—" The words cut off as another wave crashes through me.
On the bright side,Nightmare says cheerfully,after this, filtering nightmares will feel like a vacation.
"Not helping!"
I thought it was encouraging.
The midwife—an elderly witch named Marta who my mother swore by—checks me again. "You're close. Very close."
"How close?" Eryx demands.
"Minutes."
His face goes sheet white. "Minutes?"
Oh good,Nightmare says.He's going to pass out. I've been waiting for this.
"Don't you dare," I hiss at Eryx.
He straightens. "I'm not going to pass out."
"You look like you're going to pass out."
"I'm fine."
He's definitely not fine,Nightmare stage-whispers in my head.
The next contraction is the worst yet. I feel it everywhere—ripping, tearing, like my body is being split in two.
"Push," Marta commands.
So I push.
And push.
And push.
Eryx's hand is in mine, his magic wrapping around me like a shield. I feel his fear through the bond, his awe, his absolute terror that something will go wrong.
