Avenging Luna
Chapter 92: Hope

Chapter 92: Hope

Drake POV:

The doctor looked at me, his eyes serious. "Leila is stable," he said slowly, "but it was close. Her body was struggling to fight off the wolfbane, but now that we’ve removed the baby, she has a better chance of healing."

I felt a wave of relief wash over me, but it was short-lived. The doctor’s tone shifted, and I knew there was more.

"And the baby?" I forced myself to ask, even though I wasn’t sure I was ready to hear the answer.

He hesitated for a moment, then spoke. "The baby was affected by the wolfbane, but we managed to stabilize them for now. It’s going to be touch and go for the next few days. The baby is premature, and with the wolfbane in their system, we’ll have to monitor them closely."

The weight of his words hit me like a punch to the gut. My child—our baby—was alive, but barely. The relief I felt for Leila was quickly overshadowed by the fear for our newborn.

I ran a hand through my hair, trying to keep myself together. "Can I see them?" I asked, my voice cracking.

The doctor nodded. "Of course. The baby is in the neonatal unit, and Leila will be moved to recovery shortly."

He left me to process everything, and I stood there, feeling a mix of emotions that I couldn’t even begin to untangle. Relief that Leila was alive. Fear for my child’s future. Guilt for everything that had led us to this moment.

I stood there, my hand pressed against the cold glass, watching the fragile form of my son in the incubator. He was so tiny, wrapped in tubes and wires, fighting for every breath in a world he wasn’t ready to enter yet. My heart ached, torn between relief that he wasn’t affected by the wolfbane and the terror that he was still so vulnerable. My son—our son—had barely begun his life, and already, he was battling for it.

The machines beeped softly around him, their steady rhythm both reassuring and nerve-wracking. He was stable, but that word did little to comfort me. "Stable" wasn’t the same as "safe." It wasn’t the same as "healthy." It was a temporary reprieve, a fragile balance that could tip at any moment.

I ran my fingers through my hair, frustration and guilt gnawing at me. How had it come to this? How had I let things get so far out of control? I should have acted sooner. I should have taken Leila to the hospital the moment I saw something was wrong, not let my anger cloud my judgment. The memory of her, clutching that bottle of wolfbane, flashed through my mind, and I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to shake the image away. She didn’t deserve this. Neither did our son.

The doctor had said Leila was stable, but I couldn’t let myself relax. Not until I saw her for myself. I needed to know she was okay. I needed to tell her I was sorry—for doubting her, for walking away when she needed me most, for everything. But I also knew that even if I said the words, they might not be enough. This wasn’t the first time I’d failed to believe in her, and now, it had almost cost us both her life and our child’s.

I leaned my forehead against the glass, trying to steady my breathing, trying to find some clarity in the midst of the storm of emotions swirling inside me. I had to be strong, not just for Leila, but for our son. They needed me now more than ever, and I couldn’t afford to fall apart.

As I stood there, staring at the tiny life we had created, I realized just how fragile everything was. It could all be taken away in an instant.

But they hadn’t. Not yet, at least.

A nurse passed by, glancing at me with a look of sympathy before she disappeared down the hall. I took a deep breath and stepped away from the window, my legs feeling like they might give out at any moment. I had to check on Leila. I had to see her, to hold her hand and tell her I was sorry, that I would never doubt her again.

As I walked toward her room, my heart pounded in my chest. I didn’t know what I would find, or how she would react when she woke up.

Whatever came next—whether it was more battles, more fear, or, hopefully, healing—I wasn’t going to let go. Not of her, not of our baby. I’d already come too close to losing them both.

Now, it was time to fight for them with everything I had.

**Leila’s POV:**

I woke slowly, my body heavy and unresponsive, like I was trapped in a dream. My eyes fluttered open, taking in the sterile white walls and the soft beeping of machines around me. The hospital. Confusion swirled in my mind—how had I ended up here? I tried to shift, but a wave of exhaustion pulled at me, weighing me down.

Then it hit me. My baby.

Panic shot through me, my heart racing as I instinctively reached for my belly. But it didn’t feel right. The familiar weight, the life I had carried inside me for months—it was gone. My hand pressed against my stomach, but I couldn’t feel anything. No movement. No connection.

My baby.

A strangled cry tore from my throat as I frantically touched my abdomen, willing it to move, to give me some sign that my baby was still there, still safe. But there was nothing.

I screamed. "No, no, no! Where’s my baby? Where’s my baby?!"

I tried to sit up, but my body betrayed me, weak and sluggish from whatever they had pumped into my veins. Tears blurred my vision, and my hands trembled uncontrollably as I struggled against the sheets.

A nurse rushed into the room, followed closely by a doctor. "Leila, calm down, please," the nurse said gently, her voice soothing but distant. "You need to rest. You’ve been through a lot."

"No!" I cried, my voice breaking. "Where’s my baby? Why can’t I feel him?!"

My heart pounded in my chest as terror gripped me. Had something happened? Had I lost him? My mind spiraled, flooded with every worst-case scenario. I couldn’t breathe. It was like the air had been sucked out of the room, and all I could feel was the empty space where my baby should have been.

The doctor stepped forward, his expression calm but serious. "Leila, listen to me," he said, his voice firm but gentle. "Your baby is alive. He’s in the neonatal unit, being cared for. He’s very small, but he’s stable."

"Why can’t I feel him?" I choked out between sobs, clutching my stomach like I could somehow pull him back to me. "I can’t feel him."

The doctor placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "We had to perform an emergency C-section. Your body was struggling with the wolfbane, and we needed to act quickly to save both you and the baby. That’s why you can’t feel him inside you anymore—he’s been delivered, and he’s in the best hands now."

His words slowly sank in, but the panic didn’t leave. "Is he okay?" I whispered, my voice shaking. "Is my baby okay?"

The nurse stepped closer, her eyes soft with understanding. "He’s a fighter, Leila. He’s premature, but we’ve stabilized him. The next few days will be critical, but we’re doing everything we can to keep him safe."

I couldn’t stop the tears from falling, my chest heaving with sobs as I tried to process everything. My baby wasn’t in me anymore. He was out there, in some cold, sterile unit, hooked up to machines, fighting for his life. And I couldn’t do anything to protect him.

The doctor spoke again, his voice calm but filled with a weight I couldn’t ignore. "We had to remove him to give you both the best chance. Your body needs time to heal, Leila, and now that it’s not fighting the wolfbane and carrying the baby, you’ll have a better chance at recovery."

I nodded, but the fear still gripped me tightly. "Can I see him?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. "Please, I need to see him."

The nurse smiled softly. "Soon, I promise. We just need to make sure you’re stable first. But he’s right here, Leila. He’s close."

The thought of him being just a few rooms away brought some small comfort, but it didn’t stop the ache in my chest. I had carried him for months, felt his every kick, every tiny movement—and now, I was empty. I felt hollow.

"I need him," I whispered, more to myself than to anyone else. "I need my baby."

The nurse squeezed my hand gently. "You’ll see him soon. Just focus on getting better for him, okay? He needs his mom to be strong."

I nodded weakly, wiping at the tears on my face. But the emptiness remained, a constant reminder that my baby was no longer with me, that his little life was hanging by a thread. All I could do now was wait—wait and pray that he would survive, that we both would.

As the nurse and doctor left the room, I lay back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling. My mind raced with worry, guilt, and fear. How had everything gone so wrong? How had we ended up here?

But one thought kept echoing in my mind, over and over: My baby needs me. I have to be strong.