The shower is running in our bathroom. It’s my mate’s signal that I’ve been locked away in my shed for far too long, trying to find a vulnerability in a new app that’s not yet been released to the public.

I’ve been in focus mode for nine hours straight, but the moment Claire begins shedding her clothes, my eyes latch onto the feed.

My mate is eight and a half months pregnant, and she’s never been more beautiful. Her breasts spill over her skimpy lace bra as she tugs her hair out of its ponytail. Golden waves meet porcelain skin as the locks fall down her back.

She wiggles her hips to shimmy out of her leggings, revealing inch after glorious inch of thick, creamy thighs. Her belly hangs low over her pelvis, so I can’t see much, but when she turns her back to the camera, all the blood rushes to my cock.

She’s wearing a pretty ivory lace thong that accents her juicy ass. And when she hooks her fingers in the waistband and pulls it down, I catapult myself out of my chair.

It’s a good thing I don’t have any close neighbors, because I cross the short distance between the shed and our house with preternatural speed.

The bathroom is already steaming up as I burst into our suite. Claire stands behind the glass door of the shower, eyes closed as water cascades down her gorgeous tits and over the swell of her belly. She’s preoccupied with washing her hair, chin tilted back to reveal the long column of her neck.

Fuck. Does this woman have any idea what she does to me?

“You’re not playing fair,” I growl, ripping my shirt over my head and stepping out of the rest of my clothes.

“You work too hard,” Claire replies, smiling but not opening her eyes.

“I’m industrious,” I argue, stepping into the shower and palming her slippery breasts. “In more ways than one.”

Her smile widens as I tweak her nipple, working my thumb in slow circles as I massage her other breast with my whole hand.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous.” Bending my head, I replace my thumb with my tongue, tracing around the stiffened peak of her nipple until I drag a moan from her lips.

Grinning, I kiss a trail down between her breasts and over the hump of her belly. Water pelts my face as I kneel on the shower floor, parting her blushing folds and licking up her center.

Claire’s knees wobble as I insert a finger and start to work her swollen nub. Her soft groans echo off the shower walls, and my erection grows painfully stiff. 

These last few months, she hasn’t been able to see past her bump, and she’s let her hair grow wild down there. The beast in me loves it, seeing my mate all wild and untamed. I might just ask her to leave it this way.

Claire’s pussy clenches around my finger as I thrust into her faster. Harder. Her body goes boneless as she finds her release, her slippery wetness coating my fingers.

I take my time admiring her from this angle before reaching up to turn off the shower. I need to lay her out on the bed to fuck her properly. We can clean up later.

Grabbing a towel from the hook on the wall, I pull it over my mate’s shoulders and take my time patting her dry.

I fucking love the way her body responds — each pass over her breasts eliciting a soft gasp. I press a kiss to each delicate pink bud before toweling off her hips and legs, stroking up her slick seam on the pretense of drying her thighs.

Tossing the towel on the floor, I tug her toward the bed, but Claire’s arms come around me. She brushes her soft lips against my own, and I pull her closer, though her stomach makes it difficult.

I fist her beautiful hair as I ravage her with a kiss, my wolf slipping to the fore the way he always does when I’m this aroused.

Gripping her hips, I contemplate bending her over the bathroom counter and taking her from behind, but then I hear a soft splash, and warm liquid cascades over my feet.

We break apart with a smack of lips, and I stare in shock at my mate. 

“Why am I all wet?” I ask as Claire’s eyes widen in horror.

Slowly, we both look down at the ground to find that we’re standing in a puddle.

I look back at Claire, whose face is scrunched in concentration. Concentration or . . . pain.

“I think —” She winces. “I think my water just broke.”

“Are you fucking with me?”

“Ooh.” She squeezes her eyes shut and bends forward, and I’m gripped by a feeling of helplessness and panic. 

My mate is in pain. She’s in labor, which means we’re about to have a baby.

Fuck.

“Right. No problem,” I say, dragging a hand through my hair and trying to recall everything I’ve read in the baby books. “First-time mothers average twelve to eighteen hours of labor, so we’ve got plenty of time.”

I don’t think Claire is listening to me, but I snap into action. Crossing to the closet, I open it up and pull out two overnight bags I’ve had packed for weeks. I fling them into the hallway, racking my brain for what to do next.

“Let’s get you dressed,” I say as gently as I can, grabbing one of my T-shirts and a pair of sweatpants from my dresser. 

Claire moans, but she lets me help her into them and guide her into the hallway. I blaze down the stairs with our bags and double back for her, but we don’t make it halfway down before another contraction hits her.

“Oh, shit,” she grits out, squeezing the railing and rocking her hips.

“Just breathe,” I say, placing a hand along the small of her back as the contraction rolls through her. 

We took one of those hypnobirthing classes at Claire’s insistence, and I spent all eight sessions wishing I could blow my brains out. And yet, in this moment, I’m wildly grateful that we did something to prepare.

Claire lets out her breath in a slow, steady stream, rotating her hips all the while. A moment passes before the wave of sensation leaves her, and I don’t waste any time getting her downstairs.

Another contraction takes her focus, and I scurry around filling up water dishes and leaving food for the cats.

When she comes back to herself, I hustle her toward the garage, but Claire pins me with a funny look. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“What?” I mutter. “Oh, snacks!” I vaguely recall one of the birthing books saying to keep the laboring mother fed and hydrated.

“No . . .” Claire snorts and casts a pointed look at my cock. That’s when I remember I’m naked.

“Right,” I say with a nod, turning and dashing back up the stairs with supernatural quickness. I don’t pause to consider what clothes I yank on. I just dress as quickly as I can.

When I come back down, Claire is bent over the kitchen island, swaying through another contraction.

As soon as it’s over, I get her in the car, pull out my phone, and hit a number I have on speed dial.

“Labor and Delivery,” answers the chipper nurse on the other end of the line.

“This is Sebastian Doyle. My mate — er, wife — has gone into labor. We’re headed your way now.” I glance at Claire, who’s moaning through yet another contraction.

“Is that her?” the nurse asks in alarm.

Fuck that blasted hypnobirthing instructor who said we’d have fifteen minutes between contractions at the start.

“Yes,” I say, backing out of the garage. “And we’d like the deck doctor this evening, not Dr. Michaels.”

Claire jerks her head up to look at me, concern creasing her brow.

I grit my teeth as the nurse argues with me, willing my snarling wolf to let me deal with this the human way.

“Yes, I realize Dr. Michaels is the obstetrician on call from our practice, but we’re going with Dr. Burton.” I hang up before the nurse can give me any more lip and throw the vehicle into drive.

“What are you doing?” Claire asks faintly, sinking back into the seat now that the contraction has passed. “Why are you asking for another doctor when Dr. Michaels —”

“Dr. Michaels was celebrating her fortieth birthday last night,” I say tersely. “She went on call at eight this morning and has been running on roughly two hours of sleep.”

“And how would you know that?” my mate asks, lifting a judgmental eyebrow. “Have you been hunting again?”

“Just doing what any reasonable soon-to-be-father would,” I mumble.

“Which is?”

“Background research.”

My mate doesn’t need to know that I’ve been keeping tabs on all the obstetricians at her practice, though the look Claire’s giving me tells me she’s guessed the truth.

I won’t apologize for it. This is one situation where me and my wolf are no use. I need to know my mate is in capable hands — preferably hands that weren’t throwing back tequila shots less than fourteen hours ago.

“Dr. Burton the deck doctor graduated at the top of his class, and I happen to know he got a solid eight hours last night.”

Claire starts to roll her eyes, but then another contraction hits her. “Ugh,” she groans, her face clenching with pain. “Why are they so close together?”

“I don’t know, love,” I say, whipping around the hairpin turns faster than I ever have in my life.

My skin itches with the urge to shift. It’s a natural reaction to stress — natural and unhelpful. But I shove my wolf back down and focus on the road, trying to remember some of those calming techniques we learned in our birthing class.

I merge onto the motorway, and Claire’s moans change. Her tone gets lower. More guttural.

“I can’t do this,” she whimpers.

“Yes, you can. You grew this baby. You can birth —”

“No, I mean —” Claire winces. “I can’t do this in a moving car.”

My stomach clenches with terror and helplessness, but I force out an incredulous laugh. “Well, the moving bit is crucial, I’m afraid, seeing as how we’re about to have a baby.”

But my mate just closes her eyes, pressing her lips together and shaking her head. “You have to pull over,” she bites out, reaching over and gripping my arm so hard I can feel it bruising.

“Angel, I can’t —”

“Pull — over!”

My beautiful girl might be human, but in this moment, she is all alpha. My wolf whines, urging me to obey, and I reluctantly take the next exit. I pull off onto the shoulder of the frontage road but leave the engine running.

Claire’s low moans fill the inside of my Mercedes, and another surge of panic hits me. 

What if we don’t make it?

This baby may be half shifter, but my precious angel is human. She doesn’t have a shifter’s strength or preternatural healing capabilities.

“Breathe,” I tell her, throwing off my seat belt and turning in my seat to face her. “You need to breathe, love. And I need to get us to —”

But Claire is already unbuckling, shifting her weight onto her knees and gripping the back of her seat. The sound that comes out of her mouth makes my blood curdle, and my animal whimpers at seeing her distress.

“Are you pushing?” I splutter.

Claire doesn’t answer — at least not with words. She makes a sound that is part moo, part scream, and then her eyes fly open.

“I think —” She moans again, her hand going to her crotch. “Sebastian, he’s —”

“Is it the baby?” I rasp. “Is he all right?”

“I think he’s in my sweatpants,” she whimpers, squeezing her eyes shut as she groans.

I glance down at the baggy sweatpants I helped her into earlier, and my head spins dangerously. I’ve never fainted, but if I ever were going to pass out, now would be the time.

The sweatpants are soaked in . . . I don’t even want to think about it. But my mate and our baby need me right now, so I force in a shaky breath and climb out of the car.

Going around to Claire’s side, I open the door. Cars speed by on the motorway above, but we’re semi-sheltered on the narrow road below with a mountain rising sharply on one side.

Gripping the sweatpants at their seams, I rip them off my mate. An unmanly shriek erupts from my mouth at the sight, and I fend off the urge to be sick. 

“Holy fuck,” I croak. “That’s a head. That’s definitely a head.”

“Catch him!” Claire roars, her face turning splotchy as she grips the back of the leather seat and pushes with all her might.

Swallowing down my own panic, I reach between her legs. There’s a warm gush of liquid,  the tang of blood, and then he slides into my waiting palms — hot and slippery and covered in goo.

“It’s a baby,” I croak as I catch our son. “It’s a baby.”

I sound like an idiot, but I don’t care. This is fucking surreal.

“It’s a baby,” I whisper again, as if repeating the words will somehow make them sink in.

Claire slumps against the seat, and I bring the wet little human to my chest.

“Is he all right?”

“I dunno, he’s —”

Shit. Is he breathing? 

Carefully, I move our son away from my chest, and that tiny mouth opens in a lusty cry.

A lump rises in my throat, and my hands start to tremble. “He’s fine,” I manage, staring down at our baby. He’s got a ton of wild black hair and big sea-glass eyes. Claire’s eyes.

“Shit. He’s probably cold,” I say, grabbing my leather jacket off the floor board and tossing it at Claire.

Gingerly she settles into the seat, and I hand her our son. Her eyes are wide, but her frantic energy has calmed. She looks exhausted and . . . stunned.

Closing her door, I hurry back to the driver’s side, turning on Claire’s seat warmer and cranking the heat as high as it will go.

Hands still shaking, I dial nine one one and listen numbly to the operator’s instructions. I’m supposed to leave the cord attached and keep mum and baby warm. Done and done.

When I hang up the phone, I reach over and cup the back of Claire’s head. Her hair is still wet from our shower. She’s flushed and sweaty and covered in blood, but she has never looked more beautiful than she does holding our newborn son.

“Well done,” I murmur, leaning over to brush my lips along her temple as we both stare down at our boy.

“He’s perfect,” she whispers, her voice nasally as a few tears spill from her eyes.

“You both are,” I agree, pulling my jacket more tightly around him and tucking a strand of hair behind Claire’s ear. “Thank you.”

“For what?” Claire lets out a shaky laugh. “I’m pretty sure the Mercedes will never be the same.”

“I don’t give a shit about the car,” I say gruffly, pressing another kiss to her temple. “Thank you for giving me everything I never knew I wanted.”