I’ve seen women giving birth before, but none of those were women I love. Even the sight of Verity in pain cleaves through my chest like a hot knife, she looks like a force of nature as her body clenches in a push, a spray of rabid spittle flying out through gritted teeth. Wild tendrils of her red hair are plastered with sweat to her forehead, the capillaries closest to her skin already blooming, breaking. She looks like a warrior. A creator.
