I’d been afraid I wouldn’t carry to full term. But by some miracle, I had. (Mainly thanks to Galloway’s constant monitoring). However, I was about a week early. Was that a good thing or bad? Was the baby fully grown or not? Was it too big for my body or would I deliver without injury?

So many questions.

So many terrors.

And no one to give me answers.

I had no way to tell if it was a boy or girl, healthy or deformed. But I knew from the strength of its kick that it wanted out. It stupidly wanted to enter a world where I couldn’t guarantee its safety.

“Stel...is it the baby?”

I stroked his cheek. “Don’t worry about it. Just a cramp. Go back to sleep.”

He sat up instead. “Let me get you some water. Do you need to use the bathroom?”

The concern and hopeful fear in his gaze undid me.

I smiled softly. “I love you, G.”

His shoulders slouched. His hands came up and captured my cheeks. He kissed me long and slow, tasting and worshipping me all at once. “I love you more.”

I laughed as he gathered me in his embrace. “I don’t think we need to debate who loves who more.”

Rearranging his grip, he hauled me to my feet. With him acting as my crutch, he guided my waddling pregnant form from our house to the smouldering fire outside.

The stars shone fiercely, determined not to give up their velvet patch as the horizon slowly brightened.

“Wait there. I’m going to get you a coconut. You need to drink and nibble on something.”

I’d learned not to argue.

There was no point.

He never listened anyway.

.............................

The sun slowly set on the most painful day of my existence.

The false alarm hadn’t been false at all and the banding agony only grew stronger and more painful as morning became afternoon and afternoon became evening.

I didn’t want to eat or drink.

I couldn’t move without Galloway’s aid.

I was tired, cranky, and in tears fearing what would happen.

The nightmare that’d haunted me for months seemed to come true the longer I was in labour. Contraction after contraction, my body tried to deliver my child, but contraction after contraction, it failed.

My water didn’t break, and slowly, my energy dwindled. I rode the pain rather than fought with it to push.

The children had spent the day by my side, alternating between bathing my sweaty body with seawater and holding fresh coconut juice to my lips. Galloway hovered like a heartsick parent, looking as if he’d happily go to war with death itself if it meant I would be safe.

The hopelessness in his gaze quadrupled my heart rate until I struggled to breathe.

And now, the moon took centre stage again, and still, I struggled.

How long did labour normally last for? Three hours? Three days? I didn’t have much more to give if it was any longer.

Don’t give up.

You can’t give up.

I couldn’t leave him. Leave them.

The night I’d taken Galloway as my husband was the night I’d vowed not to die in childbirth.

My place was here, by his side.

I. Will. Not. Die.

Panting through yet another contraction, I tensed until the pain subsided and collapsed into an exhausted sleep in Galloway’s arms.

.............................

I woke to wetness and shooting sharp pain.

Galloway shifted behind me; his arms tightened around my shoulders where he’d kept me safe, lying on his chest with my hips between his legs. The fire flickered over us, showing my swollen belly and his mangled ankle disfigured from the crash.

The pain wrapped awful pincers around me, squeezing my uterus until I screamed.

Something wanted me to push.

I needed to push.

Push.

Push.

Push!

I screamed again, giving in to the urge but coming up against more agony than I’d ever felt before.

I can’t.

You have to.

I’m not ready.

You are.

I wasn’t aware as Galloway moved me to stand. I didn’t comprehend as I left the sandy beach and somehow ended tucked in a fetal position in his arms.

“Where—where are you taking me?” My voice was weak and wobbly. I was thirsty, so thirsty. I was hungry, so hungry.

Everything inside argued with itself. I was upside down and back to front. Too hot, too cold, tired, ready, sick, energized, dying, alive.

I don’t know what to do!

Push. Push. Push.

“Your water broke in your sleep. You need to push, Estelle. And I’m going to help any way I can.”

No, I don’t want to. I want to believe this isn’t happening.

“I want to go to sleep.”

“You can’t. Not until you’ve delivered.”

“How is carrying me going to help me do that?”

He didn’t reply, merely carted me down the beach and straight into the cooling sea. The hotness of my skin welcomed the salty freshness.

I sighed in relief.

Yes, that’s better.

I’ll just live here.

Forever.

He waded a little deeper until the water lapped his waist before reverently letting me go. The buoyancy of the water and weightlessness of no longer fighting such heaviness of my womb was sheer heaven.

The tide cradled me, swishing me back and forth as it lapped against the sand. My feet brushed the sandy bottom, but I made no effort to stand. Reclining, I tipped my head back, wallowing on the surface like a spread starfish while my belly reached for the waxy moon.