Page 42 of Pack Baby for the Bratva
“Mac.”
Her mouth trembled as she nodded.
I leaned closer and let my scent deepen carefully. Not enough to crowd her. Just enough to steady and ground her.
“Please don’t leave me, Gregor.”
“I never leave my post.”
Something in her face softened around the panic.
The doctor came through the speaker. “Maeve, can you hear me?”
“Unfortunately,” Maeve said.
“Good. Is there heavy bleeding?”
I checked. “No.”
“Pressure? Urge to push?”
Maeve made a strangled sound. “I have an urge to kill everyone who told me childbirth was natural.”
“That means yes,” I said.
“I hate you.”
“Noted.”
The doctor’s voice sharpened. “Gregor, you need clean towels. Wash your hands thoroughly. Sanitizer if you have it. Bring water. Is there a first aid kit?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Move.”
I moved.
The new flat still smelled of paint and sawdust. Artem had stocked it like a man preparing for siege conditions, which infairness was often how he approached domestic life. I found a batch of new towels, bottled water, antiseptic, a medical kit, and a sanitizer.
No maternity supplies.
A separate failure.
When I came back, Maeve was trying to sit up.
“No.”
“Do not tell me no, Gregor. I want a hospital.”
“It’s no longer safe to move you.”
“It’s also not safe to leave me here with a man whose medical training is probably bullet removal and glaring.”
“I also know suturing.”
“That is deeply unhelpful.”
I sanitized my hands while her scent thickened around us. Fear, caramel, milk-sweetness rising under panic. The room smelled like her and fresh plaster and the beginning of something none of us had planned well enough for.
