Chapter 2 - The First BreathThe silence in the room hit harder than the thunder outside.
Emily slumped back against the pillows, her breath coming in shallow gasps. "Why... why isn't he crying? Amelia, why isn't he crying?"
Amelia didn't answer. She couldn't. Every millisecond mattered. She laid the baby boy on Emily’s chest, grabbed the suction bulb, and immediately cleared his airway—first the mouth, then the nostrils. Cold fluid spat out onto the towel.
Nothing. No movement. No gasp.
"Sarah, tactile stimulation," Amelia ordered, rubbing the newborn’s back vigorously with a warm towel while keeping her thumb on his tiny umbilical stump to feel for a pulse. It was faint—sluggish, barely a flutter. "He’s hypoxic. Give me the infant bag-valve mask."
Dr. Vance sneered from the corner, guarded by Damon’s men. "I told you. The brain damage will be—"
"Shut his mouth," Damon commanded, his voice dropping to a terrifying whisper. One of the guards clamped a heavy hand over Vance’s shoulder, forcing him into a chair in the corner.
Damon stepped closer to the bed. For all his power, his wealth, and his reputation as a ruthless kingpin of the Maine coast, he looked completely helpless staring down at the tiny, purple infant.
"Amelia," Damon said softly. It wasn't an order. It was a plea.
Amelia placed the tiny mask over the baby's face and delivered two small, controlled puffs of air. One, two. She checked the chest rise. Minimal. She repositioned the jaw, aligning the microscopic airway, and delivered two more puffs.
Come on, she thought fiercely. Come on, little one. Your dad is out in that ocean waiting for you.
One, two.
A tiny, involuntary twitch rippled through the infant’s fingers.
Amelia rubbed his chest again, her hand completely covering his miniature ribcage. One, two.
Suddenly, the infant’s chest heaved. A shuddering gasp rattled through his tiny throat, followed instantly by a high-pitched, indignant squall.
Waaaaah!
The sound broke through the room like sunshine slicing through fog. The blue hue flushed away, replaced in seconds by a healthy, vibrant pink.
Emily burst into hysterical tears of joy, wrapping her arms around her son as Amelia gently laid him properly against her skin. "Oh God... oh God, my baby. My baby boy..."
Amelia let out a long, ragged breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She clamped and cut the cord, then carefully checked the baby’s Apgar score. "Nine out of ten," she whispered, a sudden, warm smile breaking across her face. "He’s strong, Emily. He’s perfectly fine."
Damon stood frozen for a beat, staring at the squirming, crying child. Slowly, he looked up at Amelia. The intense, razor-sharp edge in his eyes softened into something raw, something dangerous in an entirely different way. He looked at her not just as a doctor who had done her job, but as a woman who had performed a miracle in his domain.
"You did it," Damon said quietly.
"We did it," Amelia corrected, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face. "Now I need to deliver the placenta and monitor Emily for post-partum hemorrhage. And we still need proper medical power."
As if on cue, a loud mechanical thrum roared from the depths of the mansion. The halogen lights flickered back on, flooding the room with bright light.
"Primary generator bypassed," a guard reported from the doorway. "We've got full power back, boss."
"Good," Damon said, never taking his eyes off Amelia. He walked over to Dr. Vance, who was staring in disbelief at the healthy baby.
"Get him out of my sight," Damon ordered casually. "Pay him his agreed fee, cut his retainer, and ensure he never practices medicine within two hundred miles of this coast again."
"Blackwell, you can't just—" Vance began, but the two guards yanked him out of his chair and hauled him down the corridor.
Amelia efficiently completed the delivery procedures, stabilizing Emily and ensuring the infant, whom Emily promptly named Leo, was nursing comfortably. Within an hour, the room settled into a warm, quiet exhaustion. Emily fell into a deep, well-deserved sleep with baby Leo wrapped tightly beside her.
Amelia stepped out into the hallway, pulling off her surgical gown and rolling her sore shoulders. The adrenaline rush was finally draining from her system, leaving her limbs feeling like lead.
"You're exhausted," a voice said from the shadows of the hall.
Damon was leaning against the wood paneling, holding two crystal glasses filled with amber liquid. He walked toward her, offering one.
"I don't drink on duty," Amelia said, though her voice lacked bite.
"You're off duty, Dr. Brooks," Damon replied softly. "You saved my family tonight. Take it."
Amelia accepted the glass. The bourbon was smooth, warming her throat and settling the remaining tremors in her hands. She looked down the long, luxurious corridor, then at the man standing beside her. He was imposing—broad-shouldered, sharp-featured, with dark hair tossed by the chaos of the night.
"Why didn't you take her to a hospital in Portland before the storm hit?" Amelia asked softly. "You have the resources. Why keep her trapped in a fortress?"
Damon’s expression hardened slightly, the wall slamming back down. "Because Portland wasn't safe for her."
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"Safe from what? The storm?"
Damon took a slow sip from his glass, his dark eyes fixing on hers with intense gravitas. "No. Safe from the people who want to tear down everything I built."
