𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥'𝐬 𝐒𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭 | 𝟏𝟖+

47

Damien just stares at me. Then, all at once, it hits him. "Fuck. Fuck!" he shouts, his hands coming up to grip my shoulders. "Okay, okay. Uh, can you walk? How far apart are the contractions? Shit, isn't it too early?"

He's rambling, his words tripping over each other in his panic."What do I do, Cat? Fuck, what do we need? Towels? Hot water? Jesus, I don't know how to deliver a baby!"

It would be funny if I wasn't freaking the fuck out myself. "Damien...breathe," I tell him, reaching out to grab his hand. "Just get me to a hospital."

Damien nods frantically, already fumbling to help me to my feet. He's got one arm securely around my waist as he guides me out of Ethan's house, his other hand pressing his phone to his ear. "I need this place cleaned up, quickly. No trace."

I tune out the rest of the conversation, too focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Damien manages to get me back to the car, easing me into the passenger seat. But as he peels out onto the road, I feel the first real contraction hit.

"You okay, baby?" Damien asks, glancing over at me with concern.

I nod, rubbing my belly soothingly. "Yeah, just...contraction. Not too bad yet, but...ah!" I'm cut off by another one, this one stronger than the last. I grip the armrest, panting through the pain.

As the contraction eases, I happen to glance over at Damien. And I notice the blood still smeared across his face. "Damien, the blood," I remind him, my voice strained. "You need to clean up before we get to the hospital."

"Shit, you're right." He starts rummaging around in the center console with one hand, the other still on the wheel as he speeds down the highway. Finally, he comes up with a pack of wet wipes, hastily scrubbing at his skin.

By the time we screech to a halt outside a small hospital, Damien's face is clean. But I'm barely paying attention, too caught up in the intense contractions now gripping me at regular intervals. Damien hurries around to my side, lifting me out of the car. I lean on him as we make our way in, my legs shaking with the effort of walking through the pain.

As soon as the nurses catch sight of us, they spring into action. There's a flurry of activity as they get me into a wheelchair, firing off questions about my contractions, my water breaking.

"How far along are you in your pregnancy, ma'am?" the nurse asks me, her voice calm.

"I'm 32...weeks," I reply, my voice trembling slightly as I try to hold back tears.

They wheel me into a room, helping me onto the bed as they page the doctor. I'm panting now, sweat beading on my forehead as the contractions come faster.

Damien stands beside me, his hand squeezing mine tightly. "You got this, Cat," he keeps saying, his voice trembling.

I'm panting and grunting like some kind of feral animal. The doctors are all huddled around, staring at the machines hooked up to me and timing each contraction. They keep throwing around the words "high risk" and "premature".

I've been at this for hours now, each contraction ripping through me, the pain so intense, it's hard to breathe. I squeeze Damien's hand so hard I'm pretty sure I'm cutting off his circulation, but he doesn't complain. He just keeps whispering encouragement, brushing the sweat-soaked hair off my forehead.

I start to feel nauseous and I barely have time to turn my head before I'm puking my guts out, the nurses scrambling to hold a bucket under me. Then, I feel a new sensation building. An overwhelming pressure, like my body is screaming at me. "I need to push," I gasp out, my voice strained. "Fuck, I need to push now!"