Captive (The Survival Race)

by K. M. Fawcett

  “I’ll be right back.” He moved off and scrambled out of the tent to find the umiak had collided with ice. “Hell.”

  He leaned his head over the side and found a small tear in the boat’s animal skin covering about two feet above the waterline. The damage wasn’t bad, but he couldn’t let the boat drift, bouncing off icebergs like a pinball. He had to stay out here and maneuver through this frozen obstacle course.

  The woman cried with pain. Another contraction?

  She needed him, but there were miles of these ice hazards. If he didn’t fight through the icebergs, they’d either be crushed to death or ripped to shreds.

  * * *

  “Hee, hee, hoo. Hee, hee, hoo. I don’t know if I’m breathing right,” Addy managed to say when Max returned. He looked ill. Defeated. Her heart pounded. “What happened? Is it the Hyboreans?”

  “No. We hit ice.”

  Titanic’s iceberg scene played in her mind then skipped to the people bobbing in the water, frozen to death. “Are we sinking?”

  “No.” He seemed hesitant to say something.

  “What is it? What aren’t you telling me?”

  “Can you deliver this kid by yourself?”

  By herself? She didn’t even know if she could deliver the baby with Max’s help. She started to hyperventilate. “I-I can’t.”

  “If I don’t navigate us through the passage, we’ll keep smashing into the ice until there’s nothing left of the boat.”

  “Can’t we dock?”

  He shook his head. “Even if there was something to tie us off to, nothing is stable out here. We’d float with the ice until we crashed again.”

  “Can you pull the boat onto an iceberg?”

  “I wouldn’t be able to lift the umiak out of the water. Plus there’s a risk of the ice rolling. I’m sorry. If I don’t get us through the ice breakups, we’ll be killed.”

  Crack. Scrape. The umiak rocked back into an upright position. Water lapped against the sides. She could feel the boat moving in the current that had freed them.

  “I’ve got to get out there.” The tent’s flap closed behind him; leaving her alone to birth a premature baby she feared wouldn’t survive. If it wasn’t already dead.

  She squeezed her eyes shut. Ferly Mor, if you’re the dark hunter from my nightmare, please catch me before it’s too late.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  We shouldn’t have traded the whiskey,” Addy said, when Max crawled into the tent, rushing to her side. His arm encircled her back, supporting her.

  Heat radiated from him, and she was thankful for the added warmth. Without the thermal pants, a chill penetrated her legs even though she had rubbed in more thermal cream and put on her boots. Though it was no epidural, she hoped the cold air would help numb the birthing region.

  He breathed heavily in her ear. The poor guy had been winded since the contractions started. He’d been rowing, fighting through icebergs, and checking on her.

  The scent of sweat and fresh sea air clinging to his clothes comforted her until she held her breath and bore down again. And again.

  Fatigue owned her.

  “Hell, woman. Push.”

  With what little energy she had, she grabbed a piece of his smilidon-shredded thermal suit, fisting it along with lacerated skin underneath and pulled him to her. “I’m having...your baby...you bastard. The least you can do...is call me...by my name.” She released him and drooped against his arm as the contraction lessened.

  He eased her down on the pelt before again crawling out the door flap. She heard him swear, and then a splash from the oars. The umiak pitched and bobbed and changed direction before everything stilled and everything contracted inside her.

  Max didn’t return for the next few contractions. She was too tired to be upset about that. Besides, she reached many milestones on her own, so what was one more?

  Even before her emergency training, she’d learned how to push her emotions aside and focus on her tasks.

  But then Max was there beside her again, holding a small chunk of ice to her lips. She sucked on it, grateful to wet her dry mouth. And relieved she wasn’t alone. She really didn’t want to do this without him.

  Hot, white pain ripped her body as she bore down again and pushed with what little energy she had left.

  Finally, the baby slid free. A moment of silence followed before the tent exploded with a tiny high-pitched wail.

  The baby was alive. Thank God.

  “You did it.” There was awe and raw emotion in his voice that she’d never heard before. Her heart broke. She couldn’t be happier that he was here to share this moment together. But she couldn’t stop sobbing. At nine weeks, how long could it survive? A premature baby wouldn’t last long without proper medical care.

  The tears came faster.

  “What the hell did Ferly Mor put into that prenatal injector?”

  “Why, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong. He’s perfect.”

  The effort to sit up was great. Max’s arm slid behind her shoulder and did most of the lifting. In the mess between her legs lay her precious baby boy. She scooped him up into her arms. Relief washed over her like an ocean wave. And she sobbed uncontrollably as the tension and the worry and the fear ebbed.

  She didn’t know what she’d expected a preemie to look like, but she didn’t expect him to look so fully developed. God willing, his lungs and heart and brain were fully developed, too. Her tears spilled down her cheeks faster than she could wipe them away. They dropped onto his scrawny, wrinkled, slime-covered body.

  “He’s so beautiful,” she whispered, not recognizing the sound of her own voice.

  “And loud,” Max said. The baby’s entire body shook with each ear-piercing cry.

  “It’s okay, baby. Let me hold you.” She wiped clean the slime with the baby blanket she had brought. Though tiny—he couldn’t have weighed more than five or six pounds—he really did appear to be a fully developed newborn. How could that be? “Nine weeks is a little more than the first trimester. Does he look premature to you?”

  “He looks like a baby to me.”

  “Thanks for stating the obvious.”

  “I mean he looks normal.” He uncapped the thermal cream and squeezed it onto the baby.

  She rubbed it into his little body. This would warm him up quickly. “They must have given me some new kind of acceleroid drug.”

  The boat pitched. Addy clutched the baby, and Max caught her before she fell over.

  “I’ve got to get out there,” he said. His goofy, proud smile had vanished. His eyes flashed with purpose.

  “Go. We’ll be fine.”

  He studied her a moment with longing in his eyes. He seemed to want to say something. Finally he settled on “You did it.” And then he scrambled out of the tent.

  From outside she heard him cursing, the gladimort chopping ice, and then a large splash. The boat rocked. Oddly enough, she wasn’t afraid. She knew Max would handle it. He’d protect them. They were going to be okay. Now she had to take care of things in here.

  She needed to cut the umbilical cord. She needed Max’s knife. But his pack was outside with him, and from the sounds beyond the tent flap, he was too busy saving them. The knife she’d taken from Duncan’s house would have to do.

  She found it in her backpack, and cut a long, thin thong from a pelt, which she used to tie off the cord an inch or so above the navel. Hoping she did that right, Addy took a deep breath and cut through the rubbery umbilical cord. Queasiness rolled her stomach.

  Once he was free, she swaddled him in her discarded thermal pants. He stopped wailing. Now what? Was it too early to feed him?

  With one hand, she unzipped and opened her thermal jacket, placed her baby boy to her breast, and gave him her nipple.

  “Ow, ow, ow.” She broke the suction and tried again. And again. Why didn’t this work like it did in the movies?

  Cramps started again, gripping and tightening and squeezing he
r muscles. “Oh, no way,” she cried between pants. “Not twins.” She couldn’t go through another day of this.

  Tolerating the cramps as best she could, she tried nursing the baby, but his sucking hurt too much. She must have been doing something wrong. What if she wasn’t able to feed him? What if he starved to death? Her nose ran and she sniffled. If Ferly Mor were here, he’d know how to feed her son and keep him healthy. But then he’d take him away and—.

  Please don’t let him be looking for us. She wiped her tears and sweat.

  The baby’s eyes closed and the painful sucking stopped. Addy placed her sleeping boy by her side in a coiled nest of bedsheet rope. Then, unable to stand the cramps any longer, bore down and pushed.

  Damn, she was hot. Burning. Dizzy. Not to mention fatigued and exhausted. At least the pain had lessened. She barely felt it now. She barely felt anything. She panted and sucked in air.

  Another push. The placenta slid out and dizziness overtook her. Darkness clouded her vision. She collapsed on her back, felt for the baby nestled safe at her side, and passed out.

  * * *

  Max stared out at the wide-open sea and breathed a sigh of relief. After a day and sleepless night, it was finally over. He had maneuvered the craft through the iceberg gauntlet of the Southwest Passage with minimal damage. There would still be scattered icebergs ahead, but the hardest part was behind him.

  He pulled in the oars giving the mighty South Arctic Current free rein to carry them to Southland.

  The hardest part was over for the woman, too. After giving birth, the tent had turned silent the rest of the night, as momma and baby slept.

  He threw the oars to the side and, without rotating his stiff shoulders or stretching out his back, crawled into the dimly lit tent, righted the lightstick at the woman’s side. Fatigue and soreness jumped ship when he saw her grayish-blue body. Blood and placenta covered her thighs, boots, and the bearskin bedding.

  In an instant, he was at her side. “Woman?” His heart pounded as if he’d been running in the survival race. He shook her shoulder. “Can you hear me?”

  No answer.

  He threw back his hood and dropped his ear to her chest, trying to control his ragged breaths so he could listen. No warmth seeped into his ear or cheek. She felt cold.

  Cadaver cold.

  What the hell happened? Had he been fighting his way through the ice gauntlet imaging they were asleep all this time when in reality she was dying? No. She was too strong. He’d been so proud of her for giving birth on her own. He’d wished he’d been able to do something to help her. He had no clue what to do, so he’d just held her and told her to push. As if she hadn’t already known that.

  Shutting out his thoughts and all outside sounds, he concentrated on a heartbeat. It was slow—very slow—but stable. His ear lingered, making sure he hadn’t imagined it. Realizing the rise and fall had come from her chest and not the rocking boat, relief crashed over him. He knew she was a survivor. She’d probably be up and around tomorrow asking to take the next watch.

  He found the baby asleep on her right side between her waist and arm. “You sure are an ugly little chicken.” Jaw muscles he hadn’t used in years ached from the stupid grin he couldn’t wipe from his face. After all the breeding he had done, this was the first time he had actually seen the baby.

  His baby. His responsibility. His to protect.

  And so was its mother.

  Max cracked his neck and rubbed the stiffness from his shoulders as he glanced around for something to cover her with.

  The top half of her thermal suit would have to do. He gently pulled it off her, covered her from upper thigh to breasts, then, with a generous amount of thermal cream, worked the warming balm into her arms, neck, shoulders, and swell of her breasts.

  Her eyelid half opened.

  “You did it,” he said. Only because there were no words to express what he was feeling. He’d brought so much death into this world. But she brought life. He’d never witnessed such an amazing thing.

  Smiling weakly, she opened drunken eyes and lifted her head a few inches before dropping it again. Her breaths came fast and shallow as if she exerted too much energy.

  “Does he have a name?”

  Her eyes closed. She managed to whisper “Noah” before losing consciousness.

  Max watched her sleep for some time, making certain she kept breathing. She was alive, and so was the kid.

  It was a miracle.

  As he watched his baby sleeping, he couldn’t stop himself from wondering about the others. How many of his children were out there? Where were they? What were they?

  Why ask the questions when he’d never learn the answers? To think about it was too painful. He needed to focus on this child. His son. Noah.

  Max yawned, envying their sleep. He had been going on pure adrenaline for the past few days and wanted nothing more than to curl up next to the woman and drift into oblivion.

  But there was still work to do.

  * * *

  “Max?” The faint whisper might have been the wind or a dream, yet years of light sleeping made him wake. He stretched. How long had he been out?

  “Cold,” the whisper lying next to him said.

  Max sat up at her side. Her body trembled, yet sweat beaded on her face. He touched his lips to her forehead like his mother had done when he was a child. Heat scorched him and he pulled back. “You’ve got a fever.” A damn high fever.

  “Dying.”

  “Don’t talk like that.” She didn’t really believe that, did she? The only thing worse than defeat was accepting it.

  Her glassy eyes looked up at him. “Promise,” she said, her voice barely audible. “Take care of him.”

  His gut clenched. That sounded like an acceptance speech if he ever heard one. “Stop it. You hear me?”

  “He needs you.”

  “He needs a mother, not a beast.”

  “Promise.”

  “No. Don’t you dare give up, woman. If you die, the kid’s fish bait. I swear it.”

  “Tell him.” Her breaths were labored. “I love him.” Her eyes rolled back before closing.

  A vise gripped and squeezed his heart. Angry heat exploded within. “I’m not your messenger boy. If you’ve got something to say to the kid, you tell him. You hear me, woman? If you want him to survive, then fight. Fight for him, goddammit!”

  A tear slipped from her eye and ran down her temple like the first night they had met in the breeding box. He remembered wiping it away with his thumb. I won’t hurt you, he had said.

  What a load of crap.

  He didn’t just hurt her; he had escorted her to death’s front door.

  He covered his mouth with his hand and closed his eyes. This was his fault. Hadn’t he told her she wouldn’t make it to the equator? If he hadn’t escaped with her, she’d be in HuBReC. Safe.

  Well, as safe as any woman could be with a Yard full of lusting gladiators waiting to attack and assault her. Just like the day she came to him after Regan's abuse. Max’s blood boiled. He hated himself just as much as that bastard.

  Max had been so cold to her then, refusing to help her escape and blaming the pregnancy. But she didn’t give up. She poisoned her tormentor, and wound up in the infirmary, almost getting killed by Xanthrag’s shock treatment. Yet she’d survived.

  Then Regan had come to her kennel exciting himself with taunts of breaking her. Only they weren’t merely taunts. He’d rape her again, no question. She’d fight, of course, and he’d relish the sport. And the game would continue until she no longer fought. Until her spirit died. Until Regan tired of her. Or until a new alpha leader took over the Yard. But then, another game would begin, for what alpha would deny himself the pleasure of this woman?

  Max knew staying at HuBReC would have tortured and killed her spirit. So he'd helped her escape, only to torture and kill her body.

  Which fate was worse?

  I’d rather die free, she had said. Max knew the
woman would indeed die free.

  But not today.

  He wiped her tear. “You’re going to live. You know why? Because you’re a survivor. Do you hear me? You will fight death and you will win.” He picked up her chilled hand and held it firmly in his as he pressed his lips to her palm.

  “Fight for me...Addy.”

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  B eep beep beep beep.

  Max stopped rowing. Addy’s running watch had been set to sound every fifteen hours for her prenatal injections. Though she hadn’t needed the shots since giving birth yesterday, he hadn’t shut it off.

  He looked forward to the sound just as he looked forward to Noah’s feeding cries. It gave him another reason to go to Addy’s side. Though touching her arm when turning off the alarm didn’t hold as much pleasure as touching her breasts when feeding the kid.

  Of course, her breasts inevitably triggered intimate memories of the breeding box...or the ice cave...or the shower.

  Hell, yeah, the shower.

  Hot water and steam and her naked body inches from his in a tight space. When she had turned from him to lather, he would have killed to be the soap sliding up and down her wet, tempting skin.

  He’d had to recall every bloody battle and savage gladiator death he could to prevent slamming her against the wall and forcing himself deep inside her.

  Blood rushed to his groin. Again.

  Hell.

  The woman was one-day postpartum, fever sick and unconscious, and he still couldn’t stop thinking about sex with her. “Damn beast. Control your urges.”

  Peering into the ocean, he knew five—maybe ten—seconds in the ice-cold water would quell his lust.

  Beep beep beep beep.

  Right. The watch. His swim would have to wait.

  He dropped the oars on the umiak floor before crawling into the tent and turning off the alarm.

  Still burning with fever and breathing shallow, Addy was weaker than a newborn lemming. The rise and fall of her chest was barely noticeable. She was getting worse.

  He rubbed the heel of his palm against his chest, but it didn’t help the ache in his heart. He knew he was no damn provider. There was nothing more he could do.