Agony.

It's agony for me—obviously, more so for my mate—but watching her survive this is tearing me apart. I struggle against Roger's grip. He shouldn't be stronger than me; he's never been stronger. I should be able to break away, but something about all this has drained me. I am weak, watching my mate fight for her life, watching my son take his first breaths. It saps my energy. I gasp for breath, panicked, looking between Ella and the baby in the doctor's hands.

"Relax," Roger commands, his voice low behind me as he holds me back, a hand on each arm. "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 work, silently blessing them with every panting breath. Ella lies back against the pillows, pale, breathing faintly, seemingly half-conscious.

The doctors move swiftly. Hank glances at the crying child, then quickly hands him to Cora, reaching for the medical bag on the bed. Cora inspects the baby and hastily cuts the umbilical cord. Then, she meets my eyes.

"Come and take your child, Dominic," she says, wrapping him in the scrap of pillowcase I tore apart earlier. "He's fine, but Ella needs Hank and me right now." Roger releases my arms, and I move forward, my eyes half on Ella as I take the baby. I can't—how can I greet my son when his mother—

"The child," Cora says, holding my gaze briefly before returning 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 little heart out, waving his tiny fists. Something in me takes over—something I didn't know was there—as I begin to shush him, to rock him, to soothe him in this scary new world. Slowly, softly, I raise my hand to wipe the liquid from his face, marveling that his entire head is dwarfed by my palm.

Then, on a completely new impulse, I lean forward, press a kiss to his head, and breathe in his new baby scent—totally unique and already entirely his own. "Welcome, baby," I murmur.

From the corner of my eye, I see Cora and Hank working swiftly with their medical supplies; Hank sews quickly while Cora crouches by Ella's head, checking her pulse and gently smacking her cheeks.

When Cora calls Ella's name, my attention snaps from Rafe to the sisters on the bed. "Ella," Cora says, and I see my mate—oh, thank God—blink and focus on her sister, her face ashen. I immediately go to Ella's side, determined to be with her, to give her everything I can.

Cora ignores me as I take my mate's hand, the baby nestled in the crook of my other arm.

"Ella," Cora says steadily. "It's time to access the gift. You need it. Ask her to heal you."

Slowly, Ella nods and closes her eyes. But I don't know if that's because she's accessing the gift…or something else…something much worse. I open my mouth, panicked, to call her name, but Cora shakes her head.

So I close my mouth, squeeze my mate's hand, and let her work.

Ella

It's terribly hard to think, to concentrate, to communicate—let alone enter the calm meditative state needed to access my mother's gift.

My body is wracked with pain. I don't know if it's blood loss from Hank's cut, some internal tear, or…something else. My vision fades in and out between a hazy view of the palace bedroom and utter blackness.

But in the brief moments when I can concentrate, I see Sinclair beside me, feel his hand in mine, and see our baby wrapped in a sheet in his arms—just as in the dream state.

This gives me new determination. Working to steady my breathing, to avoid slipping into oblivion, I close my eyes and strive to access that state.

It's harder than ever, but eventually, I get there. I watch the insides of my eyelids fade from black and red to a cool lavender, and feel my mother's gift wash over me. I passively wonder what my family is seeing—am I glowing, as Cora did by the temple steps? Or can they see nothing at all? Are they just holding their breaths, hoping I'm not slipping away?

I feel the gift take hold, like a mother's embrace. I feel cradled in its warmth and almost hear the Goddess, my mother, whispering that she will make it right—that for all I've given the world, I have earned this.

The magic flows through me like rainwater through grass, seeking my roots, refreshing me slowly. As it seeps through me, I feel renewed.

When I open my eyes, everyone is staring, shocked. I take a deep breath and look at the four of them, ignoring them all to focus on the bundle of white blankets in my mate's arms.

My little baby. Who is not crying.

"Rafe," I cry, struggling to sit up, a pang of pain shooting through me. I grimace—apparently, the Goddess's gift didn't fix me completely—but mostly ignore it, reaching for my son.

"It's all right, Ella," Sinclair says, kneeling and offering my son. Tears slip down my cheeks, and I'm surprised to find myself sobbing as I hold my baby for the first time. As I gaze at my child's face…

"Baby," I whisper-cry, my chest heaving with relief to see he's fussy and unhappy, but not sad, not hurt—just adjusting to his new world. He flinches at my tears, making me laugh. "Sorry, baby," I murmur, brushing them away. "Mama's not always like this."

"It's all right, Ella," Sinclair whispers. "He's safe—you're safe. A few tears on his face aren't the worst part of his day."

"Poor little baby," I sob, a smile breaking through my tears. My body is a mix of happiness, guilt, worry, and joy—all blending so I barely recognize myself.

Except I know I'm a mother. I'm his mother. That, finally, is true.

"Let's give them a minute," Roger whispers. "Would that be alright?"

I hear Hank's medical assent and look up to see the three of them moving away, Cora climbing off the bed and beaming at me.

"We'll be back soon," she whispers. "You're fine, Ella—the gift worked. Just…take a minute. Say hello to your child."

I nod, smiling and wiping away my tears. Then, the three of them leave.

And I'm left alone with my perfect little family. My mate, my son, and me. Complete.