Young Revelations (Young Series) by Kimble W.R

Author:Kimble, W.R. [Kimble, W.R.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Published: 2013-09-09T16:00:00+00:00

19

Six years ago...

Of all the things I’ve done in my life, all the experiences and dangers I’ve faced, nothing compares to this moment. I’ve never been more scared and worried in my life and I can’t think of anything that could come close as I rush through the hospital corridors fresh off a plane that flew far too slowly for the situation. Leo is right on my heels, directing me which way to turn and we both come to a sudden halt when we spot Claire and Bonnie sitting in chairs in the middle of the hallway, both of them staring at the door across from them.

“Claire,” I choke out. Her eyes snap over to mine and she jumps from her chair and practically throws herself into my arms.

“How is she?” I ask desperately.

Sighing shakily, my sister pulls away. “She’s okay,” she says flatly. “We don’t even know why this happened. She was perfectly fine this morning, then she started complaining about sharp pains in her belly. We had her lying down and within minutes she was hanging over the side of the bed throwing up, and that’s when Bonnie saw the blood.”

My hands are fisted in my hair as I fight against my emotions. “Where?” is all I can manage to say through my closed throat. Claire points at a door and I faintly nod before rushing to that door and pushing it open. I immediately find a team of doctors surrounding a bed. Straining my ears, I realize I’m hoping to hear a baby’s cry and I don’t know what it means that I don’t—has Samantha not given birth yet? Or has the baby not survived?

One of the doctors notices my arrival and walks over to me. “Sir, I’m sorry but you can’t be in here right now,” she says firmly, resting a hand on my arm to turn me around.

“My wife,” I choke out.

“Matt?”

I completely ignore the doctor’s orders, pushing past her and see Samantha in bed looking pale and sweaty, and with tears streaming down her face. “Samantha,” I whisper, closing the distance to her bed. I bend down and hug her as best I can with the IVs and other monitoring equipment attached to her, and she begins sobbing.

“I didn’t even get to see him,” she sobs. “Didn’t get to hold him.”

“Shh, baby,” I reply mechanically. “It’ll all be okay.”

She shakes her head, pulling away from me, and I suddenly wonder if our son has died. “He’s too early,” she tells me. “They don’t know if he’s strong enough and I can’t get anybody to tell me what’s going on.”

I’m relieved to hear her talking about the baby in the present tense, but I hate seeing her in so much pain. “I’ll find out,” I promise her. “And any child of yours is going to be too strong for his own good. Got that?”

She gives me a shaky, watery smile and I return one of my own, pleased that even in such dire moments, I can still make her smile.

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