Page 132 of Brutal Puck

A massive contraction hits, then, and I have to brace myself on the back of the sofa that sits in my city-view office.

“On it,” he says, pulling out his phone. He makes a quick call and then says, “The car will be out front in three minutes.”

“My bag,” I say.

Nik grabs the overnight bag we’ve had packed for weeks. I just tote it from work to home every single day.

We rush to the elevator, then ride down to the lobby.

The car is waiting, and the driver speeds us toward the hospital.

By the time we arrive, my contractions have quickly progressed to ten minutes apart, and I am met at the hospital entrance by a wheelchair and a slew of hand-chosen private nurses.

Inside my private birthing suite, I change into a hospital gown and lie back on the bed. My doctor arrives shortly after to do an exam, after which she says I’m a six.

The contractions pick up in timing and intensity, and I’m offered an epidural, but I decline. I want to be fully present for this.

By the time I’m told to push, I’m crying and screaming, my body wracked with pain and adrenaline. Nik is right beside me, kissing my forehead, whispering praise against my hairline.

“You’re perfect,” he murmurs. “So damn strong. So beautiful.”

And when our daughter is born, her cry is strong and loud, I cannot stop crying with her, and Nik breaks down.

Not in the quiet, stoic way I’ve seen before.

He sobs.

His breath catches. His shoulders shake. Tears spill over his cheeks like he doesn’t even realize it’s happening.

And he just keeps staring like he’s seeing a miracle unfold before him.

“I didn’t know…” he chokes, unable to finish the thought. He reaches out like he’s afraid to touch her, like she’s made of light and stardust and the fragile remnants of a dream he never let himself have. “She’s… ours?”

Later, I hold her, wrapped tightly in a hospital blanket, her tuft of dark hair covered by a tiny pink hat. Nik sits next to us, stroking her tiny cheek with a finger.

“I can’t believe she’s here,” I say quietly.

“She’s so beautiful,” he answers. “Like her mother.”

“And so strong like her father.”

“I didn’t know it was possible,” he says hoarsely, “to love someone this fast. This much.”

And for a man who’s seen so much violence, who’s worn so many masks, this moment strips him bare.

“What should we name her?”

We chose not to know the sex until she was born, and we decided not to name her until we met her.

But in the back of my mind, I have been thinking of my mother, Lucia. And I have become very close with Nik’s sister, Misha.

Nik looks at me like he knows I have something in mind, so I blurt, “Lucia Misha Campisi-Ivanov?”

“Lucia,” he says, his accent heavy. “Lucy for short, perhaps?”

I grin. “Lucy. I like it.”

He leans over to kiss our tiny child’s cheek. “Hello, Lucy.”

We are quiet for a long time, just marveling at what we made together.

Marveling that we are together, despite who we are, where we come from, and what we’re forced to be for our families.

This baby, our little family, is something we chose for ourselves, something we earned.

Nik says often that he would kill for me, die for me. And tonight, I finally understand just how he feels.

I’d do the same for them. Both of them.

THE END.