Page 101 of Pas de Trois
And again.
His head slips out from the opening and I have no fucking clue how this is physically possible.
“Holy shit. Shit,” I mutter, reaching for him, carefully wrapping my hands around his tiny head. “He’s almost out. Push.”
I tug lightly and somehow, his shoulders slide free as Anya bears down one last time. With a final agony-filled scream, she’s done what seems like the impossible. He’s out. Her baby. Maybe my baby. Definitely our baby.
Beats pass in silence.
Silence, deafening stillness as Anya and I both hold our breath. But then a cry from our baby’s quivering lips bursts into the night and I feel…I feel…fucking everything.
“Blanket,” Anya pants out. “Cover him.”
I set him down on the blanket between her legs and start to wrap him in it, shielding him from the frigid cold surrounding us. I lift him, wanting to show Anya, but the white snow that was hidden by the blanket instantly turns crimson. Blood rushes out of her, spilling fast and dark.
I look up at her just as her elbows slip out from beneath her and she falls onto her back, her knees slumping to the side as she instantly slips from consciousness.
“No!” I shout, shuffling to her side on my knees, still holding the baby in my arms. “Anya…”
She’s still, silent, and I don’t know what to do. The adrenaline in my veins spike again, but the frequent ebb and flow is draining me, making the chemical rush useless other than to agitate and cloud my senses.
I wait.
I watch.
I hope for something to happen.
Then she blinks and I gasp with relief.
Her eyes flutter and her head rolls lazily to the side, turning toward me. Her voice is unnervingly quiet. “I…I think something’s…wrong.” Her eyes roll back before jolting back into focus, but the focus is only there for a few moments at a time as she fights a terrifying sleep that threatens to steal her from me.
“Anya,” my voice trembles, “you can’t do this now. We’re almost there. We’ve almost made it.”
My breath catches in my lungs and my eyes threaten to shed tears that have no business being shed—we’re almost there.
We were almost there.
“It’s close,” Anya whispers. She shuts her eyes and blinks out a lonely teardrop that rolls slowly down her cheek. She looks at me with a fierce determination when she opens her blue eyes again. “It’s only another mile, maybe two,” she gasps. “Cut the cord. Take him. And run.”
Cut the cord.
Take him.
And run.
Take him and run.
“No, baby, no. I’m not leaving you here.”
“I think you have to. Please. Go. If they catch you…they’ll take him. They’ll take him and…kill you…and they’ll raise him as their own. Don’t give them that. Don’t let our baby have that fate. Please. Go. I can’t go with you.”
“You can’t go with me? You have to. Anya, you have to.” Agitation reaches my tone. “We’re so close, so goddamn close!”
“I’m…losing a lot of blood, Ezra. Don’t waste time.”
“Baby, no, don’t say that.” My eyes are pulled away, trailing down her gown as I see the crimson life force pour from her, staining her gown, tainting it with gore, soaking the fabric, and spreading endlessly.
I meet her eyes again and her forehead wrinkles as her brow furrows. “I love you, Ezra. You did everything you could.”
