Alpha Dom and His Human Surrogate

Chapter 292 – A Gift

Sinclair

Agony.

It’s agony for me – obviously, more for my mate, I’m sure – but watching her survive this is ripping me apart.

I struggle against Roger’s grip – he shouldn’t be stronger than me, he’s never stronger than me, I should be able to break away – but something about all of this has just taken it out of me. I am weak, now, watching my mate struggle for her life, watching my son take his first breaths, that rips the energy from me. I gasp for breath, panicked, looking between my Ella and the baby in the doctor’s hands.

“Relax,” Roger commands, his voice low behind me as he holds me back with a hand on each of my arms. “Let them work. You can’t do anything right now. They’ll call you when they need you.”

I know he’s right, but the impulse – I have to do something –

Still, I stand with my brother, letting him take control as I watch Hank and Cora moving, blessing them in my mind with every breath that pants from my lips. Ella lays back against the pillows, pale, breathing faintly, apparently half conscious and half out.

The pair of doctors move fast. Hank glances over the crying child and then quickly hands him to Cora, reaching for the medical bag that sits on the bed between them. Cora does a quick inspection of the baby and then hastily cuts the umbilical cord. Then, she meets my eyes.

“Come and take your child, Dominic,” she demands, wrapping him hastily in the scrap of a pillowcase that I tore to pieces not long ago. “He’s fine – but Ella needs both Hank and I right now.” Roger releases my arms and I move forward, my eyes half on my beautiful Ella as I take the baby from Cora’s hands. I can’t – how can I greet my son when his mother –

“The child,” Cora says, holding my gaze for a brief moment before turning back to Ella. ” Concentrate on the baby, Sinclair. We’ve got Ella for now.”

–

And so I do. I look down at my infant son, crying his lusty little heart out, waving his little tiny fists in the air. Something in me takes over something I’m not sure I knew was there – as I begin to shush my child, to rock him, to try to bring him to a peaceful state in this scary new world. Slowly, softly, I raise my hand to wipe at the liquid on his face, to clear it, marveling at the fact that his entire head is completely dwarfed by the size of my palm

And then, following an impulse that’s totally new to me, I lean forward and bring my face close to my sons, pressing a kiss to his head and taking a deep breath of his new baby scent, totally new and, somehow, already totally his own. “Welcome, baby,” I murmur.

vision I can see Cora and Hank working swiftly with their medical supplies,

her cheeks a little.

call Ella’s name, my attention snaps away from Rafe and to the sisters on the bed. “Ella,” Cora says, and I see my mate – oh, thank god – I see her blink, and focus on her

to Ella’s side, determined to be with her – to give her everything

mate’s hand, the baby

to access the gift. You need it.

her eyes. But I don’t know

call her name, but Cora snaps her attention to me and shakes her

my mate’s hand, and let her do

Ella

–

to do anything right now to think, to concentrate, to communicate – let alone enter the calm meditative state I need to access my

and I don’t know whether it’s blood loss from Hank’s medical cut, or some sort of tear within me, or…something else. But my vision fades in and out from a hazy view of the palace

standing by my side, feel his hand in my own,

was

–

within me. So, working hard to steady my breathing, to not slip into oblivion, I close my eyes and work to

to that cool lavender, and I

glowing, as Cora was, that day by the temple

perhaps, they can’t see anything at all – if the gift is working

within its warmth, and can almost hear her – the Goddess, my mother whispering to me that she will make it

given the world, I have earned this, and that she will make it

its time getting there. But as it seeps through every

shocked. I take a deep breath and look around at the four of them. But I ignore them all,

little baby. Who is not

–

me. I grimace at it – apparently,

reaching for my son.