I Became a Kindergarten Teacher for Monster Babies!

Chapter 639 639: Baby on the way (2)

Nine months.

Alina had heard women say that pregnancy felt like forever. She hadn't believed them. Not until she was living it.

The first trimester had been gentle. A little nausea here, a little tiredness there. Dante had been attentive, bringing her tea, rubbing her feet, reading books about pregnancy that he pretended not to be reading. She had caught him once, late at night, hunched over a book titled Expecting the Unexpected: A Guide for Supernatural Fathers. He had hidden it behind a war strategy manual when he saw her watching. She hadn't said anything. But she had smiled to herself for the rest of the night.

The second trimester had been easier. Her energy had returned. She had felt the baby move for the first time, a small flutter like butterfly wings. Dante had been in a meeting when it happened. She had called him immediately. He had arrived in her room within seconds, his shadows still swirling around him, his crimson eyes wide.

"What's wrong?" he had demanded.

She had taken his hand and placed it on her belly. The baby had kicked. Dante had frozen. His expression had shifted from panic to wonder to something she couldn't name. He had knelt beside her and pressed his forehead to her stomach.

"Hello," he had whispered. "I'm your father."

The baby had kicked again. Dante had wept. Just a little. Just enough for Alina to notice. She hadn't said anything about that either.

The third trimester had been hard.

Her back ached. Her feet were swollen. She couldn't sleep. The baby kicked at odd hours, sometimes gently, sometimes like it was trying to escape. Sable talked to her belly every day, pressing his cheek against it and whispering secrets. Lucien read aloud to it, his calm voice filling the room with stories about brave knights and clever foxes.

Dante had become unbearable.

Not in a bad way. In a hovering, anxious, terrified way.

He followed her everywhere. He carried things for her. He asked if she was comfortable every five minutes. He had banned her from lifting anything heavier than a book. He had banned her from walking too fast. He had tried to ban her from teaching, but Alina had refused.

"You're carrying our child," he had said.

She had crossed her arms. "I'm also carrying a lesson plan."

"That's not the same."

She had raised an eyebrow. "It's equally important."

He had not agreed. But he had also not stopped her. He just stationed extra shadows outside her classroom and checked on her between every period.

Now she was in labor.

Aaron and Dante stood outside the room. Dante was pacing. Back and forth. Back and forth. His crimson eyes were wild. His hands kept clenching and unclenching. His shadows swirled around his feet like restless snakes.

Aaron leaned against the wall, watching him. "Shouldn't you be holding her hand or something?" he asked.

Dante stopped pacing. His eyes widened. He didn't answer. He just turned and quickly went inside.

The door swung shut behind him.

Georgia and the others were already in the room. Aunt Lyla was fanning herself. Amelia was holding Alina's other hand. The healer was preparing everything.

Everyone looked up when Dante entered.

Georgia frowned. "What are you doing here?" she asked.

Dante didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on Alina.

She was breathing hard, her face flushed, her hair stuck to her forehead. She looked exhausted and beautiful and absolutely done with everything.

"Alina," Dante said, his voice soft.

She turned her head toward him. Her eyes were tired but sharp. "Don't," she warned.

He stepped closer. "How are you feeling?"

Her voice came out through gritted teeth. "How do you think I'm feeling?"

"Are you in pain?"

"YES, DANTE, I'M IN PAIN."

He flinched but didn't step back. "Can I do something?"

She glared at him. "You can stop asking questions."

He stopped asking questions.

He started pacing again.

The healer glanced up at him. "My lord, perhaps you should sit down."

Dante shook his head. "I can't sit."

"Then perhaps stand still."

His voice was strained. "I can't stand still."

"Then perhaps—"

Another contraction hit.

Alina groaned. A deep, guttural sound that cut through the room like a knife.

Dante was at her side instantly. His hand found hers. His shadows wrapped around her like a protective blanket, warm and gentle and solid.

"I'm here," he said. "I'm here. Breathe. Just breathe."

She squeezed his hand so hard his bones creaked.

He didn't flinch. He didn't pull away. He just held on.

"Push," the healer said.

Alina pushed.

Dante's face was pale. His eyes were wet. He looked like he was the one giving birth. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His breathing was almost as ragged as hers.

"Push," the healer said again.

Alina pushed again.

A small and angry cry rang out through the whole room.

Dante's breath stopped.

The healer lifted the baby, tiny and red-faced and screaming, and placed her on Alina's chest.

She was a girl.

Sable had been right. Lucien had been right. They had known all along.

Alina looked down at her daughter. Tears streamed down her face, falling onto the baby's tiny forehead. "Hello," she whispered. "Hello, little one."

The baby stopped crying.

She opened her eyes.

They were dark crimson. Deep and rich, like her father's. Like burning embers in the dark.

Dante made a sound. Something between a laugh and a sob. His hand trembled as he reached out and touched the baby's cheek with one finger. So gently. Like she might break.

"She has your eyes," Alina said, her voice hoarse.

Dante's voice cracked. "She has your everything else."

The baby yawned. A tiny, perfect yawn that made her little face scrunch up.

Dante cried openly.

Tears streamed down his face. His shoulders shook. His hand was still pressed against his daughter's cheek, and he was crying like a man who had never known joy before this moment.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice thick and broken. "I'm not—I don't—"

Alina smiled through her own tears. "It's okay."

He wiped his eyes with his free hand. "I'm the Shadow Lord."

"I know."

His voice dropped to a whisper. "I shouldn't—"

She reached up and touched his face. "You're a father. Again. You're allowed to cry."

Dante wiped his eyes again.

Then he cried some more.

Georgia quietly handed him a handkerchief. He took it without looking, pressed it to his face, and kept crying.

Amelia was crying too. Aunt Lyla was sobbing into her hands. Even Aaron, standing in the doorway, looked suspiciously misty-eyed.

The healer cleaned up quietly, her movements efficient and gentle. She wrapped the baby in a soft white blanket and stepped back.

Dante looked at his daughter. At his wife. At his daughter again.

"Can I hold her?" he asked. His voice was small. Almost shy.