Ethan reached me a heartbeat later.
He dropped to his knees on the floor in front of me, one hand sliding behind my neck, the other cupping my face with astonishing gentleness. His eyes moved over me once—dress soaked, hair stuck to my forehead, skin flushed, terror naked in every line of me—and something fierce flashed behind his control.
“Amelia,” he said, low and steady. “Look at me.”
I did.
The room stopped spinning.
“I’m here.”
And for the first time since the pain began, I believed I might survive it.
He brushed damp hair away from my temple. “Can you tell me where it hurts most?”
“Everywhere.”
His mouth tightened, but his voice stayed even. “Good. That means you’re still mean enough to answer properly.”
A laugh broke out of me and turned into a sob.
He kissed my forehead once, quickly. Then he shifted seamlessly into action.
“GCS fifteen,” he told the medics as they knelt beside us. “Premature labor, thirty-five weeks. Water broke less than fifteen minutes ago. Mild spotting. No known placenta issues. Blood pressure ran borderline high last week but stabilized. Group B negative. No preeclampsia symptoms as of forty-eight hours ago.”