"She’s contracting," Silas reports, his eyes fixed on Aris. "Her water broke. The fluid is clear."
Aris nods, moving quickly to wash his hands. "Heart rate?"
"Elevated," Silas says, checking his phone reflexively. "110 BPM."
"That’s normal for labor," Aris assures him. He snaps on latex gloves. "Silas, I need you to step back. I need to examine her."
Silas hesitates. He looks at me. He looks at the doctor. The old instinct to control, to dominate the space, is warring with the terrifying reality that he cannot fight this enemy with a gun.
"Silas," I whisper, reaching for his hand.
He grabs it. His grip is crushing.
"Stay," I say. "Just... hold me."
He nods. He doesn't step back. He stands by my head, anchoring me.
Aris checks me. His face is serious.
"She’s fully effaced," Aris says. "Five centimeters dilated. It’s happening fast, Silas. The baby is coming now."
"Is she safe?" Silas demands. "Is the baby safe?"
"Everything looks perfect," Aris says. "But we need to monitor the blood pressure. Ivy, I need you to focus on your breathing."
Another contraction hits.
It rips through me like a serrated knife. I scream. It’s a raw, animalistic sound that tears at my throat.
Silas flinches. I feel his hand tremble in mine. He looks pale, his eyes wide with a terror I have never seen in him. He has watched men die. He has tortured people. But watching me in pain—pain he didn't cause and can't stop—is breaking him.
"Fix it," he snarls at Aris. "Give her something. Stop the pain."
"We can do an epidural," Aris suggests.
"No," I gasp, shaking my head. "No needles. I want to feel it. I want to know when to push."
"Ivy," Silas pleads, brushing the wet hair from my forehead. "You don't have to be a martyr."
"I’m not a martyr," I grit out through clenched teeth. "I’m a mother."
POV: SILAS
The hours bleed into each other, a blur of screaming, beeping monitors, and the metallic smell of blood.
I am useless.
I am the King of New York. I control the ports, the unions, the streets. I can end a life with a phone call.
But here, in this white room, I am nothing. I am a spectator to my wife’s agony.
Ivy is fighting a war I can't join. She is sweating, thrashing, cursing. She looks feral. She looks magnificent.
"I can't!" she sobs, her head falling back against the pillow. "Silas, I can't do it anymore."
"You can," I urge her, squeezing her hand. "You are the strongest thing I know. You killed a king, Ivy. You can do this."
"It hurts," she whimpers.
