Page 185 of Vow to Claim You

Everything after that was a blur. Bright lights and surgical masks and Aric’s face above mine, pale but steady, telling me it was going to be okay. We were going to be okay and to just hold on, just breathe. And then, a cry. Strong. Insistent. The cry of a baby announcing his arrival to a world that’s been waiting for him.

They held him up over the surgical curtain so I could see—just for a moment, —and the relief that flooded through me was so overwhelming I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t do anything except cry and laugh and reach for Aric’s hand.

He’s here. He’s alive. He’s okay.

Nine months of fear. Twenty-two hours of labor. An emergency c-section that left me shaking on the operating table.

And it was worth it.

Every terrifying moment. Every sleepless night. Every prayer I sent up to whatever force might be listening. Worth it.

I can’t stop looking at him. At his dark hair—my hair, already thick and unruly even minutes after birth. At his nose—Aric’s nose, straight and proud, though in miniature it just looks adorable. At his eyes—closed now, but I know what color they’ll be. Pale blue. Clear as the winter sky. His father’s eyes. His sister’s eyes.

Anabella. The thought of her doesn’t bring the crushing grief it once did. It’s still there, and will always be there. A part of me that’s missing, a piece of my heart that lives somewhere I can’t reach. But it’s softer now. A scar instead of an open wound. A memory I can hold without breaking.

She would’ve loved him. Her little brother. I know that with a certainty I can’t explain. Wherever she is—with my grandmother, in whatever light exists beyond this world—she’s watching. She knows. And she’s happy. I have to believe that.

Aric sits beside me on the bed. He hasn’t said a word in minutes. Just sits there, staring at our son with an expression I’ve never seen on his face before. Something beyond love. Beyond wonder. Something that looks almost like reverence, as if he can’t quite believe this small, perfect creature is real.

“He’s beautiful,” I whisper.

Aric doesn’t answer, just reaches out. Touches our son’s cheek with one finger. So gentle, so careful, as if he’s afraid the baby might shatter at the slightest pressure.

“He’s perfect,” he says finally. His voice is rough. Thick with something I recognize. Tears, I realize.

Aric Vold is crying.

Not sobbing. He would never sob, not even now. But there are tears on his cheeks, silent and unashamed, and he makes no move to wipe them away.

“I didn’t know,” he says quietly. “I didn’t know it could feel like this.”

“Neither did I.”

And I didn’t. I thought I understood love. I thought I knew what it meant to care about someone so much that their existence becomes essential to your own. But this…this is something else entirely. This is a love so fierce, so consuming, so absolutely overwhelming that it terrifies me. A love that would make me do anything—anything—to keep this tiny person safe.

I would die for him. I would die for him without hesitation. Without regret. Without a moment’s thought for my own survival. But that’s easy. Dying is easy. It’s a moment. A decision. A single act of sacrifice, and then it’s over. Living is hard.

I understand now. In a way I couldn’t then when I was drowning in grief, when the weight of everything I’d lost was crushing the breath from my lungs, when I couldn’t see a reason to take the next step.

I understand now what Aric was asking me. Not just to exist. Not just to survive. But to live. To wake up every morning and choose this. Choose him. Choose the messy, painful, beautiful work of building a life together. To be there for the moments like this one—holding our son, feeling his warmth against my chest, watching his tiny fingers curl around mine.

I would die for them.

But I will live for them.

And perhaps, the outcome would’ve been the same no matter what choices I made. That losing Anabella was meant to break us open so we could learn what love truly is. For my sanity, I have to believe there was a reason.

Aric leans in, pressing his lips to my forehead. “Thank you,” he murmurs against my skin.

“For what?”

“For him. For staying. For giving me this.”

I look up at him. At this man who has killed for me. Who has burned for me. Who has gotten on his knees and begged for me. Who has held me through the darkest nights and never let go.

“Thank you for giving me a reason to.”

He kisses me. Gentle. Tender. Like he has everything he ever wanted right here in this room.