I knelt beside him, my hand resting on his shoulder.

He stopped working and placed his palm against my stomach.

The baby kicked, a strong, rhythmic thud against his hand.

Dante’s eyes widened slightly.

“He is strong,” Dante murmured.

“Or she,” I reminded him.

“We decided to wait and see.”

“Whoever they are, they will never have to worry about the dark,” Dante said softly.

The promise in his voice was absolute.

Three weeks later, the pains began.

It was a Tuesday morning, and the fog was lifting off the lawn.

I was standing in the kitchen, pouring a glass of water, when the sharp ache hit my lower back.

The glass shattered on the tile floor.

Dante was in the room within seconds.

He did not panic.

He lifted me carefully, avoiding the broken glass, and carried me to the waiting car.

The drive to the private clinic was a blur of gray trees and Dante’s calm voice.

He held my hand the entire time, his grip firm and steady.

“Focus on me, Alessia,” he said.

“You are doing fine.”