The Unwanted Wife and Her Secret Twins (Mia and Kyle) novel Chapter 506

Mia's POV

The world outside is holding its breath. No cars. No voices. Just the hum of the refrigerator and the soft, ragged sounds of Gas panting beside me.

I've been sitting on this floor for so long that my tailbone has gone numb. My back aches. My eyes burn from not blinking enough, from staring at Gas's swollen belly like I can will the puppies out through sheer concentration.

Gas whines again.

Not her usual whine—not the one she uses when Alexander steals the last bite of my toast, or when Ethan accidentally steps on her tail. This sound comes from somewhere deeper.

"I know, girl." My voice is barely a whisper. "I know."

I press my palm against her side and feel another contraction ripple beneath her fur. The muscles tighten, hold, release. Her back legs scrabble against the towels I've laid out. Her eyes find mine.

Dogs can't speak, but right now, in this moment, Gas is telling me something with every fiber of her being.

"I'm here." I stroke the space between her ears. "I'm right here, baby. I'm not going anywhere."

Another contraction.

Gas's whine climbs higher, becomes something I've never heard from her before. A sound that bypasses my brain entirely and goes straight to my gut.

I see it. Emerging. Wrapped in membrane, slick and glistening in the dim light of the living room lamp.

The first puppy.

I catch it—God, it's so small, how can anything be this small—and lay it on the clean towel beside me. The amniotic sac clings to its face like a second skin, and through it I can see the tiny sealed eyes, the folded ears, the legs that should be kicking.

They're not kicking.

"Gas." I look at her. "Gas, you need to clean it, you need to—"

But Gas isn't paying attention. Her body is already contracting again, her sides heaving, another cry tearing from her throat. She's shaking.

My fingers find the edge of the membrane. The plastic-like surface slides away from me, mocking my attempts.

Come on. Come on—

I finally catch it. Tear it open. The puppy's face is there—so small, so perfect, so still.

I clear its nose with my pinky finger. Its mouth. I rub its chest with the towel the way the vet showed me, the way every website said to do. Firm strokes. Stimulating. Encouraging.

Nothing.

"Breathe." The word comes out broken. "Please breathe. "

The lock clicks.

I clear its nose. Its mouth. Rub it with the towel—firm strokes, like the books said, like the vet showed me in that video she sent last week that I watched seventeen times. It cries louder. Stronger.

I place it near Gas's belly. It immediately begins rooting, searching for warmth, for milk, for its mother. Gas's head lifts weakly. Her tongue finds the puppy's fur. She starts to clean it, finally, her instincts kicking in now that the pain has passed.

One alive.

I turn to look at Kyle.

He's still rubbing the first puppy. His movements haven't slowed. The towel in his hands is damp now, the gray fabric darker where it's absorbed fluid. His jaw is tight. His eyes are fixed on the small form between his palms with an intensity that makes my chest ache.

"Kyle."

He doesn't look up.

"Kyle, is it—"

"Not yet." His voice is rough. Barely a whisper. "Not yet."

I watch his hands. The rhythm. The steady, relentless motion of someone who refuses to give up. Rub, rub, rub. Turn. Rub, rub, rub. He cups the puppy against his chest, using his body heat, trying to warm what has already grown so cold.

"Come on." He's talking to it now. To this tiny creature that might already be gone. "Come on, little one. Your mom is right here. Your siblings are going to need you. You don't get to quit. Not yet."