His Prisoner Bride

Chapter2

Lucy's P.O.V

The clock on the wall read 3:17 a.m. when I woke up.

My spine protested as I shifted on the two-seater sofa, a piece of furniture clearly designed by someone who had never been forced to sleep on it. The vinyl squeaked beneath me, and I froze, listening.

Lisa's monitor beeped its steady rhythm. Beep. Beep. Beep. The sound had become my lullaby these past eleven days, the only proof that my little sister was still fighting.

I exhaled and sat up, rubbing the ache from my neck. The hospital ward smelled of antiseptic and something else, something metallic and wrong that I tried not to think about. Moonlight bled through the blinds, striping the linoleum in pale silver.

Lisa's tiny frame shifted beneath the thin hospital blanket. Seven years old, and she looked even smaller than that, swallowed whole by tubes and wires and machines that beeped and hummed and kept her alive.

I couldn't look away from her. Every time I did, even for a second, I feared she might slip away between one breath and the next. Like Mom had. Like…

No. I couldn't think about that. Not now.

My bladder reminded me that I'd finished the vending machine coffee hours ago. I glanced at Lisa, still sleeping, still breathing, and padded quietly to the restroom in the corner of the room.

The fluorescent light flickered when I hit the switch, and I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Dark circles carved hollows beneath my eyes. My hair, once carefully braided, had escaped into a mess of tangles. I looked like a ghost haunting my own life.

You're twenty-one, I reminded myself. You shouldn't look forty.

When I emerged, my heart nearly stopped.

Lisa was sitting up.

"Sister Lucy?"

I crossed the room in three strides, my bare feet slapping against the cold floor. "Hey, angel." I cupped her face in my palms, tilting it toward the dim light to study her eyes. They were clear, no fever-glaze, no confusion. Just Lisa. "What's the matter? Did you have a bad dream?"

She shook her head slowly, her dark curls rustling against the pillow. "How long have I been asleep?"

"Not long." The lie tasted bitter on my tongue. She'd been unconscious for nearly fourteen hours. "You needed the rest."

Her eyes drifted past me, scanning the room. "Where's Daddy?"

The question hit me somewhere soft and vulnerable. "He went home to get some things," I said, keeping my voice light. "He'll be back soon."

Lisa nodded, but her small fingers picked at the blanket, a nervous habit she'd had since she was a toddler. Mom used to say it meant she was thinking too hard for such a little person.

"Sister?"

"Yes, my angel?"

"Do I have bad sickness?"

The words landed like a physical blow. I forced my expression to stay neutral, even as my heart sprinted in my chest. "What? No. You're going to be fine. The doctors are taking great care of you."

"But I heard them." Her voice dropped to a whisper, as if sharing a terrible secret. "When they thought I was sleeping. They said things."

"Lisa, they were probably talking about something else…"

"I don't like being poked all the time." Her lower lip trembled. "I hate needles. They hurt."

I smoothed her hair back from her forehead, buying myself a moment. "I know, baby. But you're so brave. The doctor told me you're the strongest girl he's ever met."

"I don't want to die, Sister Lucy."

The world stopped.

I was eight years old again, standing in a different hospital room, watching Mom's chest rise and fall one last time. The monitors screaming. The nurses rushing. My father's broken sob. I remembered thinking: This is what it feels like to have your heart ripped out.

I couldn't do it again. I couldn't lose Lisa.

The tears came before I could stop them, hot and sudden, spilling down my cheeks faster than I could wipe them away. I tried to turn, to hide, but Lisa saw. Of course she saw. She saw everything.

"I'm sorry," I choked out. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to…"

But she just looked at me with those eyes, too knowing for a seven year old, too tired for any age, and I watched the hope drain from her face. She knew. She knew I was lying. She knew I wasn't sure if she would be okay.

Without a word, Lisa lowered herself back onto the bed, pulled the blanket up to her chin, and turned toward the window. The silence that followed was worse than any scream.

I stood there, useless, tears drying on my face. If I lost her, if I lost Lisa too, I didn't know what I'd have left to live for. Mom was gone. My dreams of art school were gone. All I had was Lisa and Dad, and Dad was barely holding on as it was.

Get it together, Lucy.

I wiped my face with the back of my sleeve and took a shaky breath.

"Lisa?"

Nothing.

I tried again, forcing brightness into my voice. "Lisa, do you want to do something fun?"

She turned, just slightly, her expression suspicious. "What?"

"I'm serious. This place is so boring. I think I might lose my mind if I have to stare at that beige wall for one more hour."

A tiny giggle escaped her, small and reluctant, but real. "You're silly."

"Extremely." I grabbed the remote from the side table and clicked on the ancient TV. "Look, they're showing old cartoons. The ones with the rabbit who does bad things and never gets in trouble."

"Bugs Bunny?"

"That's the one." I settled onto the edge of her bed, careful not to disturb any wires. "We can watch and pretend we're somewhere else. Somewhere with better snacks."

Lisa's small hand found mine beneath the blanket. Her fingers were cold, always cold now, but they squeezed mine with surprising strength.

"Where would we go?" she whispered.

"Anywhere you want."

She was quiet for a moment, thinking. "The beach. Mom used to take us to the beach."

The mention of Mom hit me like a wave, but I kept my smile in place. "The beach it is. I bet it's warm there. And sunny. And there's no beeping machines."

"No needles?"

"Not a single one."

She snuggled closer, her head resting against my arm, and together we watched cartoon rabbits outsmart cartoon hunters. Her breathing slowed, steadied, and within minutes she was asleep, truly asleep this time, not the drugged unconsciousness of the past two weeks.

I stayed perfectly still, afraid that any movement would wake her. The TV cast shifting shadows across the room, and for a moment, just a moment, I let myself pretend.

Pretend that Lisa would get better.

Pretend that we'd leave this hospital together.

Pretend that I hadn't overheard the doctors in the hallway three days ago, using words like aggressive and experimental and financial burden.

Pretend that I hadn't already started considering things I never thought I would consider.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I fished it out one-handed, careful not to jostle Lisa.

A text from Dad: “Coming back at 7. Any change?”

I stared at the screen for a long moment before typing: “She woke up for a bit. She's sleeping now.”

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

“Good. We need to talk when I get there.”

My stomach tightened. Dad had been acting strange lately, stranger than usual. Disappearing for hours, taking phone calls in the hallway.

“About what? I typed.”

The response took four minutes.

“Not over text.”

I locked my phone and set it aside, unease coiling in my chest. Outside the window, the sky was still black, no hint of dawn. The city lights glittered in the distance, indifferent to the small tragedies playing out in its hospitals and homes.

I thought about Mom. About the last time I saw her alive, how she'd squeezed my hand and told me to take care of Lisa. “Promise me, Lucy. Promise me you'll protect her.”

I'd promised.

And now, watching Lisa sleep, I wondered what I would be willing to do to keep that promise.

A shadow passed by the door, a figure in dark clothing, moving too slowly to be a nurse. I tensed, watching the small window in the door, but no one looked in. No one came.

Probably nothing.

Probably.

But the feeling lingered, the

sense that someone had been watching. That someone had been waiting.

I pulled Lisa closer and kept my eyes on the door until the sky began to lighten.