The anguish in the small face at being separated from his mother pierced Xavier unexpectedly. He felt ridiculously helpless, wishing he could comfort the boy.
“We’ve been preparing for a premature birth. He’s small, but that attempt to cry is a good sign. That’s the pediatrician who’s taking him. He’ll run tests and place the Prince in an incubator then come speak to you. You’ll probably be able to hold him. Your son, I mean,” she said with a wry attempt at humor. “Not the pediatrician.”
Son. Xavier nodded and texted Trella’s family, including his grandmother.
A boy.
It seemed such an inadequate few letters for the magnitude of what was happening to him. He had a child. A son.
His phone buzzed with returned texts from Trella’s siblings, congratulating him and asking after her.
He glanced up and something had changed. The team around Trella had snapped into frantic action. The anesthesiologist was clearly alarmed and the surgeon’s movements became agitated. Through the glass, he heard raised voices issue sharp commands.
“What happened?” Xavier slapped his hand to the window, even as his gaze looked for the door to enter the room.
“Sir, I—” The nurse made as if to close the curtain.
“Find out what’s happening.”
“Of course.” She hurried away.
He pressed his forehead to the cold glass, terror snaking to squeeze his heart. He strangled on the one word he managed to whisper.
“Bella.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
TRELLA CAME TO in a blurred awareness of voices and stark white. Even Xavier looked carved from pale marble, his blue eyes translucent as antique glass. Bottle blue, she wanted to call it. She should use that shade in next season’s collection.
Why was he leaning over her like that? So close and grim?
“Baby?” She tried to say, but there was no sound. Her voice had evaporated.
“Fine. Really well, considering how small he is.” He backed off as a nurse picked up her wrist, but his eyes stayed locked on her.
He. “A boy?” That came out in a raspy whisper.
“Yes.”
She blinked heavy eyelids and tried to smile. “Sadiq.”
“What?”
“He saved me.” She was becoming aware that she was stoned. Recreational drugs weren’t her thing, but she’d been prescribed so many pharmaceuticals to quell her panic attacks that she knew what this foggy haze was. She hated it and fought to think through it. “I wouldn’t be here without him.”
“Dr. Lagundo saved you,” he snapped.
“Why are you mad?” She frowned, startled to find the nurse was still beside her, fussing with her arm. Whatever she did hurt, but distantly. “Can I see him?”
“Soon.” The nurse seemed familiar. Her smile was nice, but Trella couldn’t recall her name.
She hated drugs. Hated being dopey and disassociated. She ought to be upset as Xavier’s remark belatedly penetrated. “I almost died?”
“There were some tense moments,” the nurse said. “Your doctor will tell you more. I’ll let her know you’re awake.”
She left and Xavier came back to her side, mouth pinched.
“Are you angry that I pulled through?”
“What? No! Why would you think that?”
She tried to think through a brain made of cotton balls. “You don’t like me. You’re mad about the baby.”
“None of that is true.” He loomed over her again, very intimidating. If she wasn’t so spaced-out, she would think he sounded tortured. “You scared the hell out of me.”
Was he holding her hand? Something cupped her fingers in warmth. It was nice. She liked the gentle stroke across the back of her hand.
“But it would have been easier for you.” She was briefly thankful for the drugs because despair didn’t overtake her. “I make things harder. I don’t mean to. My family forgives me because... I don’t know. They love me, I guess. But you don’t, so it’s okay if you wish I had died.”
“Stop saying that. What would Tyrol do without you?”
“Who’s Tyrol?”
“Our son.”
She frowned. “I expected a girl.”
“I texted you the name a couple days ago.” He sounded disgruntled. Maybe self-conscious. “You said you liked it.”
“When? I hate drugs. They make me so stupid. Is it Tuesday or Wednesday?”
“Wednesday. I texted on Monday and asked what you thought of Tyrol or Trentino.” He seemed to be petting her arm, combing his fingers into the gaps between hers. “They’re family names. You said you liked Tyrol. We’re not naming him Sadiq.”