Galloway sank beside me, ducking under to slick back his long dark hair. He’d shaved with the Swiss Army knife a week ago, and his stubble matched that of a tortured alpha male with sexy, dangerous shadows.
“I don’t know if it’s safe being in here while giving birth.” I hated to suggest we should leave after finding some comfort, but the very real fear of sharks wouldn’t leave.
“I’ll watch over you.” He scanned the black horizon. In over a year on our island, we’d grown accustomed to seeing in the dark. Our eyesight hadn’t improved (Galloway’s most likely had deteriorated without his glasses) but somehow, we understood the world a little more not having electric light blinding us every time the sun set.
“Besides, we’ve never seen a shark in our reef before.” He grinned. “You’re safe.”
“Just because they haven’t been here before doesn’t mean they won’t co—” Another contraction cut me off mid-word. My teeth clacked together and my hands landed on my belly, doing my best to push internally and externally.
Heavy hands landed on mine, gently adding pressure to the struggling baby beneath my skin. I looked up, drowning in his elysian blue eyes.
I didn’t speak.
He didn’t speak.
But we agreed that he would help me, and together, we would survive this night.
Everything else faded as I turned inward to my task. I didn’t ask where Conner and Pippa were. I didn’t struggle when Galloway went behind me and supported my legs so I could squat on the sandy bottom. I didn’t cry out even as my body bellowed and fought against stretching wide enough to grant life.
Time lost all meaning and I focused everything on ridding whatever alien gave me so much pain.
I wanted to sleep in peace.
“You’re almost there. One more, Stel. Come on.”
My head lolled on his shoulder. Air was hard to come by, and I’d never ached so much in my entire life. The stars had gone, replaced with pink-silvery light of a new sun.
His bulk warmed my back, interposed with shots of cool seawater as he breathed. His hands rested on my belly, ready to help with the final push.
I wouldn’t lie and say it wasn’t the most excruciating thing I’d ever endured.
I screamed so loud the sound wave skipped like a skipping stone over the glassy surface, ricocheting around our island.
That final push was hell and brimstone and the devil himself.
But the rush and relief afterward? That was the most euphoric sensation I’d ever had.
Galloway’s hands left my belly, dipping between my legs to catch our child.
Raising the tiny red thing, seawater and blood cascaded from its squirming legs.
Galloway had never shared his past with me. He still refused to say what changed his heart from such a caring, wonderful man into a hardened cynic. But none of that mattered because as he held his child and patted its back to earn a squall from new lungs, a single tear rolled down his cheek.
“Oh, my God.” He cupped our baby so rapturously; she was instantly promoted as priestess of his heart.
I’d done it.
I’d endured my worst fear and delivered a healthy child.
I’d given us a girl.
Chapter Fifty-Two
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G A L L O W A Y
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MARCH
THERE WAS A new dimension to our marriage.
A deeper depth.
A complicated, awe-inspiring connection.
After Estelle had given birth, I passed her our daughter and helped her deliver the afterbirth. Once done and both mother and child were clean, I carried the loves of my life and tied off the umbilical cord.
Using the Swiss Army knife (sterilized in the fire), I had the honour of separating the final link and creating a brand new tiny human.
I did all that on instinct.
I’d never been around a newborn before.
I’d never watched what happened or what to do afterward.
But the knowledge was inside me, just like the knowledge that I’d found my soul-mate, and together, we were invincible.
Those first few nights were hard.
I was tired.
Estelle was knackered.
Yet we had a brand new person demanding to be fed and changed and tended to. We alternated between zombie-like awakeness and catatonic sleeping.
Pippa and Conner were left to their own devices, and instead of burning down the camp, they kept me and Estelle fed. They cleaned the house, they fished, they cooked. They made me so damn proud and grateful.
There were so many things to juggle.
The first time Estelle breast fed freaked me out until the baby settled into suckling.
The first time breakfast went through my daughter to reappear in a disgusting mess, taught us that hygiene would be paramount.
And the first time she burped and fell asleep in our arms, ensured we’d put up with anything because we were in love.
We cut up a ratty t-shirt and transformed it into a reusable diaper.
We held each other when the baby slept and sympathized when she wouldn’t stop crying.
So many firsts.
So many things to learn and overcome.
By the time the first week passed, we’d recovered enough to be mildly coherent.
However, Estelle suffered a breakdown when her nipples became sore from constant feeding, and I felt utterly inadequate because I couldn’t take over and prevent her pain.
All I could do was hold her, rock her, and keep our baby as clean as possible.
Our island hadn’t changed.
But my God, our world had.