Chapter 162: 162

She follows my lead, our breaths syncing as the contraction slowly ebbs. For a moment, we’re back in that silly class, before everything went wrong.

Before truth became lies and love became ash in our mouths.

But then thunder crashes overhead, and reality crashes back with it. My wife is in labor too early, my sister-in-law is hunting a monster in the dark, and my world is burning down around me.

“Push!” Zoya urges, hands frantic near Ariel’s knees.

Ariel’s skull cracks against my collarbone. “I can’t⁠—”

“You can.” My palm splays across her heaving stomach. “You will.”

But then I see Zoya’s face tighten with concern. “The first one is breech,” she mutters to me in clipped Russian. “Blyat. We need to turn the baby.”

Ariel’s eyes roll wildly. “What? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” I keep my voice steady even as fear claws at my throat. “The baby’s just coming feet-first. We’re going to help them turn.”

Her fingers dig into my forearm hard enough to draw blood. “Don’t lie to me. Not now. Not about this.”

“Never about this.” I meet her gaze. “Trust me one last time. Just for this moment.”

Thunder crashes. In its echo, I hear her whisper, “I don’t know if I can.”

But she has no choice. None of us do.

“On the next contraction,” Zoya instructs, “you’ll need to help me guide the baby. Your hands are bigger, stronger.”

I nod, shifting position. Ariel’s thighs tremble against my palms as I brace her legs wider. The intimacy of it strikes me—how many times have I touched her like this in passion?

But never in pain. Never in fear.

“Ready?” Zoya asks as Ariel’s body tenses. She grabs my wrist, shoving it into the wet heat. “Find the heel. Gently.”

My fingers brush something—knobbed ankle, petal-soft skin. Ariel jerks, a wounded sound tearing from her throat.

“Hold her still,” Zoya barks at Pavel.

He pins Ariel’s shoulders as I work. Muscle memory from field dressings and snapped bones means nothing here. The child’s foot slips through my grip like smoke.

“Clockwise,” Zoya snaps. “Now.”

Ariel’s scream shreds the storm. “You’re killing him⁠—”

“Push,” Zoya commands. “Now!”

Ariel bears down. Her teeth sink into my forearm. I’m grateful for it—the pain is clean. Honest. A penance I’ll wear forever. I feel the exact moment the baby turns, life itself rotating beneath my hands. Then suddenly, incredibly, a head emerges.

The child comes free, pearl-white in the flashlight’s dying beam. Zoya’s hands dart in to catch the mewling bundle. “Boy.”

She passes the child to Belle, who swaddles him in fresh blankets and begins to clean him. Then Zoya looks back to me with a grim nod.

“One more,” I say roughly. “One more, Ariel. You can do this.”

Ariel clutches me tighter. “No—I can’t⁠—”

“You can.”

We do it all again. Screams soaking into the ground, along with the rain, with the roots of the plants we put there together. Heaven is cracking wide open above us as Ariel pushes and pushes—and at last, our daughter slides into the world.

Her first cry splits the night like lightning. Strong. Defiant. Alive.

Ariel reaches, but I’m already transferring the girl to her chest. Belle does the same. Her arms close around both infants, a fortress of tangled limbs and milk-scent.

“They’re perfect,” she says, voice thick with tears. “So perfect.”

Zoya makes quick work of the umbilical cords. Ariel is cradling both children. The boy is still loud as can be.

But my girl…

My daughter isn’t breathing right.

Her lips are dusky blue, chest barely rising. Not the healthy pink of her brother, who continues to cry.

“Something’s wrong,” Ariel whispers, voice cracking. Her fingers clutch our son tighter as she stares at our daughter’s limp form. “Sasha something’s⁠—”

I’m already moving, my notes from the Italian Lamaze class seared on the backs of my eyelids. “Give me a towel,” I bark at Lora. She scrambles to comply.

Laying our daughter on the clean cloth, I tilt her head back slightly—God, she’s so small, like a broken bird in my hands. Two fingers on her chest. Gentle puffs of air into her mouth and nose. One. Two.

“Come on, malyshka,” I murmur. “Breathe for Papa.”

Nothing.

Ariel’s sobbing now, fumbling for our daughter with her free hand. I block her view with my shoulder. She doesn’t need to see this. Doesn’t need another reason to hate me if I fail.

More compressions. More breath.

“Please,” I whisper. “Please.”

For ten eternal seconds, the world narrows to just this: my fingers on her tiny chest, my breath trying to fill her lungs. I’ve killed men. Saved them, too. But never have I felt so utterly helpless as I do now, trying to coax life into this precious scrap of humanity that Ariel and I created.

Then—finally—a weak cry.

But right on its heels is the deep, splintering groan of ancient wood giving way. My head snaps up just as lightning illuminates the olive tree at the edge of the garden, its roots tearing free of the rain-soaked earth. Like God cracking his knuckles.

“Inside! Now!” Belle and Zoya each take a child. I gather Ariel into my arms, careful to jostle her as little as possible. She’s limp as a rag doll, spent from bringing our children into this violent night. Against my chest, her skin burns with fever.

“The cellar!” Feliks calls over another thunderclap.

I nod. The cellar is built into the bedrock itself, with thick stone walls and a reinforced ceiling. If any part of this place can withstand nature’s fury, it’s there.

It withstood Ariel’s fury already, not so long ago. Compared to that, the storm is nothing.

We descend in a grim procession. Pavel leads with his phone’s flashlight, illuminating the narrow stairs. The beam catches cobwebs and bottles, casting strange shadows that dance like spirits on the walls.

The air down here is cool and damp, heavy with the musty sweetness of aging wine. I lay Ariel on a makeshift bed of tablecloths and jackets while Belle and Zoya tend to the twins.

“The storm’s getting worse,” Lora whispers, huddled against Pavel near the stairs.