Blood for Lover, Tears for Luna

Chapter 4: The Door That Wasn’t Mine

I looked at his face and felt the joke land on me. He wore that tender look again, the one that used to make my ribs relax. If I had not heard him with Eve, I would have trusted that look like a warm coat. Now I knew better. That face was a mask. Behind it was the man who married me for my blood. Behind it was the plan to save his first love. Behind it was a husband who made me into a tool.

He stepped into the café and covered me with his coat as if I might break. He spoke softly so the barista would not stare. “Emma," he said, close to my ear, “you shouldn't wander off. You scared me."

I did not argue. I did not explain. I stood, let him guide me outside, and got into the SUV. The seatbelt clicked. His hand brushed my sleeve. Once that touch felt like safety. Tonight it felt like a leash.

“You need rest," he said as the city slid by. His voice was warm. His eyes stayed on the road. “The baby needs calm."

“The baby needs truth," I thought, but I said nothing.

At the hospital doors, he took my elbow. He moved with calm authority. Nurses looked up and then looked away. Guards straightened. He did what he always does: he arranged the world so it would not argue with him. He walked me to the room and spoke to the nurse in that low tone that makes people nod. “No visitors without my permission," he said. “Call me if anything changes."

He turned to me. “I'll be outside. Press the button if you feel dizzy."

“I'll breathe," I said. He heard care. I meant control.

He kissed my forehead in the old ritual and left. The room settled into machine sounds and the soft hush of the vent. I lay back and placed both palms over the small curve under the blanket. “We are not a plan," I told the child. “We are not a cure. We are ours."

The door opened without a knock. Eve walked in like she belonged to the air here. Cardigan neat. Hair pinned. Band on her wrist catching the light.

“I heard you came back," she said, voice mild. “I wanted to see how you are."

“You didn't have to," I answered.

“I wanted to," she said, as if that solved everything. She stopped at the foot of the bed and set two fingers on the rail. The touch was light. The intent was not. “Leaving like that causes trouble for everyone."

“Some trouble is honest," I said. “Some peace is fake."

Her gaze moved to my stomach and warmed like a lamp turned up a notch. “How far along?"

“Four months."

“You carry small," she said with a practiced smile. “Lucky." She looked at the door, then back at me. “We can talk plainly. He isn't here."

“I prefer plain."

“Good." She tilted her head. “Then I'll be simple. You should leave him."

The words cut the room in a clean line. The monitor kept its slow beat. My fingers pressed a little harder against the blanket.

“You should leave," she repeated, gentle and sharp at once. “Sooner is kinder. For you. For him. For the pack. For the numbers that matter."

“What numbers?" I asked. I wanted to hear her say it.

“The numbers that keep me alive," she said. No blush. No shame. “He solves problems. You became his cleanest path. That is the shape of him. He will not change shape because you want him to."

“I know the shape," I said.

“Then you know what's next," she said. “Control dressed as care. 'Rest,' when he means 'Obey.' 'Safe,' when he means 'Still.' If you stay, he will keep you very still. He will mean well. That will make it worse."

“I remember how he means well," I said, thinking of the kiss on my forehead, the blanket tugged to my waist, the soft words that hid hard facts.

“Keep remembering," she said. Her eyes flicked to the call remote. “Use that for nurses. For yourself. Not for him."

“You came to give advice?"

“I came to give you the kindest ending," she said. “The other ending bleeds more."

“You speak like this has happened before."

“It has," she said simply. “I lay in that bed last winter. He stood where your guard stands now. He told me the world would not take me from him. He meant it. He pushed until everything else moved. I was grateful. I was also smaller every day."

“You're afraid of him," I said.

“I'm afraid of the part of him that thinks love is a weapon and duty is a good excuse," she said. A tiny line appeared between her brows and then smoothed away. “Brave men with a mission hold you too tight when their softer tools fail."

“And you?" I asked. “Are you here to be soft?"

She smiled without warmth. “I don't need to hurt you," she said. “He will do it and call it protection. He will do it and think it's love."

We held each other's eyes. The room shrank to the space between the bedrail and her cardigan. The monitor counted seconds I would never get back.

“Leave him," she said again, as if placing a card on the table. “Not for me. For you. Because you deserve a life that is not built out of someone else's emergency."

I let the sentence sit in the chair beside the bed like a folded coat. I did not try it on. “What do you get if I go?" I asked.

“Less noise," she said. “Fewer lies. A man who is not split in half every morning." Her gaze slid to my hands. “And fewer chances for you to make him choose badly."

“Badly for whom?"

“For the results," she said. “He is a man of results."

Silence again. The vent sighed. A cart squeaked past the nurses' station. She stood very still. I lay very still. Only the baby moved. A small turn. A small life. Mine.

“Here's the part you may not like," she said at last. Her voice softened into something that tried to sound kind. “He will not let you go easily. He needs your blood for tests. He needs your body for birth. He needs your quiet to reach the date on the chart. If you stay, he will get all three. If you run, he will chase."

“I know," I said. The knowledge sat heavy, but it was honest.

“So plan now," she said. “Don't wait for his plan to press against yours until you forget which voice is yours."

“You sound almost helpful," I said.

“I am," she said, and for a blink I saw the tired girl under the perfect hair. “Helpful to me. Helpful to you. Both can be true if we are careful."

She glanced at the door again. The guard's shadow eased along the hall. She lowered her voice. “He thinks the word 'calm' is a blanket he can pull over any mess. Don't let him tuck you in with it. Calm is a choice you get to make. Not a leash he gets to pull."

“My calm is mine," I said. Saying it out loud steadied me.

“Good," she said. “Hold on to that sentence." She looked back at my face. “Hold on to your name, too. He is very good at saying it until it sounds like he owns it."

I held her stare. “You think I am weak."

“I think you are strong," she said, and this time it didn't sound like a trick. “I also think you are loyal. He will use that against you. Loyal women follow orders that were sold to them as love."

A beat passed. My breath evened. The monitor kept its pace. The room smelled like lemon and paper and a small life trying to grow in peace.

She smoothed her cardigan. The gesture was precise. It reset something in her face. When she spoke again, the softness was gone. The provocation arrived in its place.

“You are a temporary door," she said, each word slow. “He walks through you to reach me. That is all. You can stand open, or you can close. Either way, the hallway still leads to me."

The words struck like cold water. I did not flinch. I did not give her the sound she wanted.

She leaned in a fraction, voice almost a whisper. “You should leave, Emma. If you don't, he will choose for you. And when he chooses, he will do it with that same tender face you love. He will break you with it. You won't even know you are broken until you try to stand up."

She straightened, eyes bright and calm, hand still resting on the rail like she had just delivered good news. She didn't move toward the door. She didn't move at all. She stayed in my room, in my air, inside the clean white line of the monitor's sound, and waited to see what I would do with the knife she had set on my blanket.

I did not touch it. I did not argue. I pressed my palms over the small curve of my stomach and made my vow in simple words that belonged only to me.

“I will choose," I said. “Before he does."

The monitor answered with one quiet beep, steady as a promise. Eve's gaze flicked to the green line, then back to my face. Her mouth held a small, satisfied smile that pretended to be polite.

She stayed where she was. I stayed where I was. The room held the moment like a breath held in the chest.