Chapter 8 - The Breath of Life
The door opened softly.
I lay in the bed, tears streaming down my face, my hand pressing against my bandaged abdomen.
Julian walked in. He didn't look at the monitors, he didn't look at the pristine private suite. He fell to his knees beside my bed, dropping his face into the white sheets, his fingers scrambling to find mine.
He wept.
Great, racking sobs tore through his chest, shaking the heavy frame of the bed.
"Clara," he choked out, his voice raw, stripped of all power and authority. "Clara, I'm sorry... I'm so sorry... I should have protected you... I should have burned that house down months ago..."
I reached out with my weak, trembling hand, burying my fingers in his dark hair.
"Julian," I whispered.
He lifted his head. His eyes were red, wet with tears, filled with an agony so deep it tore at my heart. He grabbed my bandaged hand and pressed it against his cheek, kissing my knuckles over and over again.
"I hid it from you," he sobbed, his voice trembling. "I hid who I was because I was ashamed of them. I was ashamed of the money, ashamed of her, ashamed of everything that bore my name. I wanted to give you a simple life, Clara. I wanted to be just Julian."
"I know," I murmured, my thumb stroking his cheek. "I know who you are."
"She touched you," he whispered, his jaw clenching as fresh rage flickered in his eyes. "She put her hands on you in my house. I will never forgive myself."
Before I could answer, a soft chime sounded from the small adjoining room.
A glass door pushed open. A pediatric nurse stepped through, pushing a small, clear acrylic bassinet wrapped in blue blankets.
Julian stood up immediately, his breath catching in his throat.
"Mrs. Armitage? Mr. Armitage?" the nurse said softly, a gentle smile on her face. "His oxygen levels have stabilized. He wants to meet his mother."
My heart stopped.
Julian reached into the bassinet with hands that had just signed execution orders for a multi-million-dollar empire. His hands were trembling violently as he lifted the tiny, pale bundle into his arms.
He brought our son to the side of my bed.
The baby was small—so small he seemed almost weightless inside the soft fleece blanket. A tiny tuft of dark hair stood up on his head, and his eyes, dark blue and wide with wonder, blinked up at the hospital lights.
He let out a small, squeaking sound, his tiny fist punching the air before landing against Julian's thumb.
Julian dropped to his knees again, holding the baby between us, resting his forehead against mine as tears fell from his eyes onto the blanket.
"He's strong, Clara," Julian whispered, his voice shaking with a quiet, fierce joy. "He has your strength."
"What are we going to name him?" I whispered, touching my baby's soft, warm cheek.
May you like
Julian looked at our son, then up at me, his eyes shining with a love so bright it drowned out every memory of the stairs, the blood, and the cruelty.
"Leo," Julian said softly. "Leo Bellamy Armitage. Because he survived a lion's den."
