Fern's Decision_A reverse harem novel Read online

  Fern’s Decision

  Sisters of Hex: Fern – book one

  Copyright ©: Kelly Stock writing as Bea Paige

  First Published: 2nd May 2018

  Publisher: Kelly Stock

  Cover by: Arizona Tape

  Kelly Stock writing as Bea Paige to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Fern’s Decision

  Bea Paige

  Sisters of Hex: Fern - Book One

  Contents

  Other books by Bea Paige:

  Books by Kelly Stock

  The Prophecy

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Epilogue

  Accacia’s Curse

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Author’s Note

  Other books by Bea Paige:

  Sisters of Hex

  Paranormal Romance / Reverse Harem

  Sisters of Hex: Accacia

  OUT NOW

  Book one - Accacia’s Curse

  https://books2read.com/AccaciasCurse

  Book two - Accacia’s Blood

  https://books2read.com/AccaciasBlood

  Book three - Accacia’s Bite

  https://books2read.com/AccaciasBite

  Sisters of Hex: Fern

  Book one - Fern’s Decision

  https://books2read.com/FernsDecision

  Book two - Fern’s Wings

  COMING SOON

  Book three - Fern’s Flight

  COMING SOON

  Brothers Freed Series

  Contemporary Romance / Reverse Harem

  Book one - Avalanche of Desire

  https://books2read.com/AvalancheOfDesire

  Book two - Storm of Seduction

  https://books2read.com/StormSeduction

  Book three - Dawn of Love

  https://books2read.com/DawnOfLove

  For an up-to-date list of books by Bea Paige please visit:

  https://kellystockauthor.wordpress.com/books-galore/

  Books by Kelly Stock

  Who is Kelly Stock, I hear you ask? Well she is me! Bea Paige is in fact my not so secret pen name. If you like the Sisters of Hex series and want to give my urban fantasy series a read, then why not check them out?

  The Soul Guide Series

  Prequel to The Soul Guide - Secrets & Souls https://books2read.com/SecretsSouls

  Book One - The Soul Guidehttps://books2read.com/TheSoulGuide

  Book Two – Tortured Soulshttps://books2read.com/TorturedSouls

  For an up-to-date list of books by Kelly Stock / Bea Paige please visit: https://kellystockauthor.wordpress.com/books-galore/

  To my oldest, dearest friend, Alice. This one’s for you x

  Five sisters born beneath the stars

  Neither bound by blood nor kin

  Must unify the warring clans

  And rid the land of sin

  Their lives they are beholden

  A curse atop their heads

  Broken only by a love divided

  Betwixt three allied men

  There will be opposition

  To peace and harmony

  A plan to cause division

  Must never come to be

  In great danger they will find themselves

  Amongst divided lands

  Their fate held in the balance

  Of their lovers’ hands

  A gold band, it will signify

  The unity of the clan

  And once each ring is worn in place

  Five sisters will take command

  Prologue

  The first time I heard the singing, I was five years old. It drew me to my parents’ room in the middle of the night. In my own dreamlike state, I remember feeling strangely comforted by the sound, even though it was mournful and full of sadness. For a child born without the ability to hear, it was a gift. One so precious that I didn’t think to be frightened of it. In my childhood innocence I believed that my fairy godmother had finally granted me my one and only wish.

  The wish to hear.

  I didn’t understand the words, but the melody called to me, and I obeyed.

  When I pushed open the door to my parents’ private sanctuary, only stillness and their slow breaths greeted me. I stood at the end of their bed with my head cocked to the side and waited. Somewhere deep inside I knew the singing would return, despite my intrusion.

  And it did.

  My little feet padded across the soft carpet to stand by my father’s side. For some inexplicable reason, I knew the singing was for him, that I was a bystander in his own private concert.

  Pressing my eyes shut, I slipped my hand into his, allowing the sound to wash over me, my tiny body swaying as the haunting melody wrapped around us both.

  Then my father’s hand tightened around my own, and just as the singing reached its crescendo his body shuddered with his last breath.

  Even as young as I was, I knew it would be his last but I still climbed onto the bed, refusing to believe such purity could cause such destruction. I wrapped my tiny body around his, trying in vain to keep him alive just by my touch. But death had slayed him with beautiful music and sweet words.

  And by morning he was cold.

  Ever since that night, my mother has secretly referred to me as the harbinger of death. She thinks I do not know, that I am oblivious to the whispered conversations she has had about me over the years. But I am not who she believes me to be.

  Death doesn’t call to me, life does.

  It is why I chose to be a midwife. To hold a newborn baby in my arms, to bring life into the world with their bleating cries. That’s the kind of music I wish to hear. That is who I am. Their cries drown out the singing that haunts me still.

  Chapter One

  Fern

  “That’s it, Natasha, you’re doing great. Just breathe through the pain. Use the gas and air, it’s there to help. The contraction is almost over,” I say, trying to calm this mum-to-be with reassurances and confidence. She looks at me, wild eyed. Her lips are pulled in a feral snarl, her guttural cry of pain sounds muffled through the mouthpiece clamped between her teeth.

  Scream, inhale, scream, inhale, scream, inhale.

  The violent act of birth rings loudly in my ears. So loud, my hearing aids whistle in protest. They’ve been playing up all day, but right now I don’t have time to figure out what’s wrong with them. Getting this mum through the most demanding hours of her life is my priority. My shift will be over soon. In another hour
I’m due to go home but I am determined to help Natasha deliver this baby first. We’ve come this far together, I’m not going to leave her now.

  As the contraction subsides, Natasha’s face relaxes slightly. The mouthpiece drops from her lips and her head falls back in exhaustion. A single mum already, Natasha has no one here bar me to support her. Estranged from her family, I am, for all intents and purposes, her only comfort. I am the person she needs to ground her in this room whilst the pain takes her mind to another place.

  Scream, inhale, scream, inhale, scream, inhale.

  “You can do this, Natasha, don’t fight the pain, use it.”

  I love my job. To have the privilege of being the first person to hold such precious life in my hands, however fleeting, is by far the most rewarding feeling. For those few seconds as the newborn is finally released from the safety of its mother’s womb, covered in blood and still attached by its umbilical cord, I feel a peace unlike any other. In those moments there is no singing, no lingering darkness just around the corner.

  There is no death.

  Just life.

  “I can’t do this anymore,” Natasha says, her face crumpling under the weight of her fear and pain. I take hold of her hand, squeezing it gently. Grounding her with my touch.

  “You can, and you will. You’ve got this, Natasha. Trust me, okay. This baby will be born in the next few minutes. You’re almost there. Next contraction, I want you to push right into your bottom. Can you do that for me?”

  Glancing at my wristwatch, I know that in less than a minute Natasha’s next contraction will start, and she will be thrown back into a world of pain once more. I’ve been told by mothers I’ve cared for before that the pain of labour is unlike anything they’ve ever felt, that it’s like death has reached up and ripped out their insides. It is wonderous to me that a human being can sustain such prolonged and agonising pain and survive it.

  On the surface, some mothers appear to cope with labour better than others, barely making a sound as the contractions take over their physical and mental self. Others scream as though they are being murdered, and no amount of gentle persuasion can get them to breathe through the pain. In those moments, with those mothers, I let them scream and shout. I let them ride the agony of body-splitting torture in whatever way they choose. So long as the baby is not distressed, what does it matter if she is swearing like a fishwife, or screaming loud and true?

  Natasha is somewhere in between these two extremes. Right now, she is at the stage of defeat and I know that in a few more minutes her baby will be born. Glancing at the CTG monitor I can see from the baby’s heartrate that all is well, the little one isn’t distressed. But honestly, although I always strap the Toco and Transducer to each mother to record the heartrate and contractions, I really have no use for either. Call it intuition, call it a gift. Whatever it is, I am in tune with both baby and mother, knowing instinctively what they need, when they need it the most.

  My colleagues tell me that I am a gifted midwife, that there is something different about me and the way I can pre-empt what a mother and her unborn child needs. I don’t know if I am any more gifted than they are, but they are right in thinking I am different. That difference is not something I ever wish to reveal.

  “It’s coming. Oh God, it’s COMING!” Natasha yells in fear, knowing what’s about to happen and knowing there is nothing she can do but ride the wave of agony as best she can.

  “You can do this, Natasha. Listen to my voice, you need to push. It won’t be long now; the contraction will be over soon.”

  Natasha grips my hand as another surge of pain batters against the last, like the waves of a storm against the hull of a ship. I can see the muscles of her stomach tighten as the vice-like grip of her contraction squeezes. Her cry is animalistic. Brutal. But it doesn’t frighten me. This is mother nature at its most barbaric, and its most beautiful.

  Natasha squeezes her eyes shut, her face bright red. A thick vein stands out on her forehead as sweat slides down her cheek, mingling with the silent tears that fall. Some people would find it terrifying to see a woman in so much distress. But not me. Pain means life, that’s what I hang onto, even though death follows me around with its siren’s call.

  I am sick of death.

  I am sick to death of death.

  “Please it hurts, oh God, it hurts.” Natasha digs her nails into the palm of my hand hard enough to make me wince, but I don’t let go. She makes a guttural sound and my hearing aid whistles again, loud enough this time for me to be more than a little irritated by it. With my free hand I adjust the levels, hoping that will help. It only seems to make it worse. Ignoring the squeal in my ear, I concentrate on my mum-to-be.

  “Push, Natasha. You must push,” I remind her, pulling her back from the place she has disappeared to. She seems to hear me and bears down with all her might. Her fingers grip onto the bedsheets, her knuckles turn white whilst her face turns a darker shade of red. Contractions contort her pretty face into something infinitely more beautiful. Her body is instinctively doing what it was made to do. Angry red stretchmarks rise up from her pubic bone, a line of flames that mark her skin. Most women hate them but to me they are the scars of motherhood. A branding of strength, love and beauty.

  I place my hands on her lower belly, feeling the slight ridges of her scars through the latex gloves I’m wearing, and close my eyes. This baby, it wants to be born. It’s as though he is talking to me through skin and muscle, blood and bone.

  “I’m ready to be born, I’m want to live,” he whispers.

  “Natasha, it’s time. Your little boy is almost here.” I press my mouth shut quickly, annoyed at myself for letting slip the sex of the baby. That’s the other gift I have, I always know the sex. I’m never wrong. I glance at Natasha, who is too far lost to her own mind to hear my slip.

  “The baby’s head is crowning, I want you to slow down. Pant for me, Natasha.”

  Her eyes flutter open and she locks her gaze on mine. Good. I want her to use me as her anchor, someone to hold onto during this incredible moment. Normally it is a husband, partner or family member who gets that responsibility, that gift. Today it’s just me, and I will take on that role and give this mum what she needs.

  “That’s it, Natasha, concentrate on me. Concentrate on my voice, okay. You’re almost there.”

  Natasha grits her teeth and pushes her chin against her chest. She just needs to ride this out whilst the baby’s head crowns and then she can push.

  She is on the cusp of losing herself to the act of giving birth. I’ve seen it countless times. No matter the woman, or the labour, the moment it’s time to give that last push they all act on instinct. It’s as if mother nature has risen like a phoenix within their chest, taking over their bodies and giving them the power and strength to do what needs to be done.

  “Your baby’s head is coming. Don’t push. Just pant, like you’re blowing out a candle.”

  Natasha follows my instructions, blowing air out of her mouth in quick succession, her mouth forming a perfect O. It’s enough to prevent her from pushing when her body isn’t quite ready.

  I look down at the baby’s thatch of dark hair mingled with white, gloopy vernix and blood as it slowly emerges. Natasha lets out a gut-wrenching scream. I call it the soul cry. The sound is inhuman, as though a part of her soul is being shorn away at the same time her baby is born. A little piece of her leaving with him.

  “Well done, Natasha, your baby’s head is out,” I say, choking on the emotion I always feel at this point. I reach over to take her hand, squeezing it gently. A strand of my silver-blonde hair falls forward and I swipe it out of the way with the back of my hand. Below me, her little boy’s eyes are pressed shut, his tiny mouth puckered as though annoyed with his emergence into the world. A feeling of peace washes over me, and just for a moment I can forget the stench of death that lingers over me always.

  “Do you want to feel his head?” I ask, snapping out of my morbid thoughts. I gl
ance up at Natasha, who is both exhausted and utterly awake. Adrenaline is keeping her body going, that and her need to see her baby after months of waiting.

  “Can I do that?” she asks, lifting her shaking hands.

  “Yes, of course you can.” I help her to move forward slightly and guide her hand to her baby’s head. She lets out a little cry of shock and wonder as her fingers gently flutter across his forehead.

  “Next contraction your baby will be here, just one last push.” I squeeze her hand briefly.

  “Okay,” she says as I settle her back down. There is relief in her eyes, combined with a huge dose of fear. As the contraction begins to swell once more and Natasha’s body prepares for the final push, another high-pitched squealing pierces my ears and stabs at my brain. My hands fly upwards, and in one quick motion I rip the malfunctioning hearing aids from my head, casting them aside.

  “Goddamn it,” I mutter under my breath as I shake the pain away. I don’t need to hear Natasha to know what’s going on. I’ll manage without them.