Blood for Lover, Tears for Luna

Chapter 5: Porcelain, Steam, and Masks

Eve never left my room. She was already there when the corridor grew quiet, sitting on the visitor chair like a cat that owned the windowsill. The cardigan on her shoulders was neat. Her smile was warm and sharp at the same time.

“You look better," she said. “Rest helps."

“I'm resting," I said.

Her eyes dropped to my belly. “Four months looks small on you."

I did not answer. I kept my hands over the blanket and watched the light on the IV pole slide along the wall.

“I'll keep you company," she said. “It's lonely at night."

“It's peaceful," I said. “I like peaceful."

She laughed under her breath. It was a soft sound, but it landed hard. She glanced at the small kettle on the side table, then at the stack of paper cups. “Do you want tea?"

“I'll pour it myself," I said. “Ginger is fine."

I swung my legs to the floor and stood slowly. The room swayed once and settled. I lifted the kettle and tipped it toward a cup. Steam rose in a white ribbon. My focus narrowed to the lip of the cup, the thin stream, the safe distance between the heat and my skin.

Eve stood up and stepped close—too close. Her shoulder brushed my arm. She did not ask. She did not say excuse me. She bumped into me on purpose as I poured.

The stream broke. Hot water ran over my knuckles and splashed onto the tray. The cup wobbled. A clean porcelain mug slid from the edge, hit the floor, and shattered into sharp white leaves.

“Careful!" she said in a sweet, startled voice that belonged in a play.

I pulled my hand back from the heat. “Step away," I said.

Instead she reached for my sleeve, fingers catching the fabric. She tilted her weight like she was about to slip. “Don't let me fall," she breathed, still wearing that innocent face.

I saw the trick. I felt the anger I had been holding like a tight knot. I did not want her to drag me, or make me the reason she landed on the shards. I pushed her. It was not gentle. It was on purpose. I pushed because she had earned it.

Eve went down on one knee in the puddle of hot water and broken porcelain. Her hand struck a shard. A bright red line opened on her palm, neat and thin. She drew a sharp breath and looked up at me with wide, wet eyes.

“Emma," she said. “You pushed me."

“You rammed me while I was pouring," I said. “You grabbed me on purpose."

She sat back, making a small show of pain. The cut dripped onto the tile. Water soaked the hem of her gown. Steam climbed the side of the bed like a ghost that could not decide who to haunt.

The door opened. Alpha Evans stepped inside. His face was all clean control. His eyes took in the cup, the water, the shards, the thin red on Eve's hand, the red marks on my knuckles. He did not shout. He did not frown. He crossed to me first.

He took my wrist and turned it. “Did you burn yourself?" His voice was low and calm, the same voice he used on patrol when he wanted men to stop bleeding and listen.

“I'm fine," I said. The back of my hand was hot but the skin was unbroken.

He set my hand down like it was made of glass. He looked at my ankles. “Any splash?"

“A little," I said.

He reached for a towel and a bag of ice from the small fridge and wrapped the ice without asking the nurse. He rested the cold pack on my ankle and held it there with his palm. The gesture was careful and familiar. It used to make me feel loved. Now it made me feel managed.

Behind him, Eve stood up. Her face trembled in a pretty way. “I tried to help," she said. “I didn't mean—"

Evans did not move toward her. He did not ask about her hand. He did not even look long at the blood. His eyes came back to me. “Sit," he said, and I sat.

He placed the towel where the water had splashed the bed frame. He swept one large shard aside with the side of his shoe. He did not tell anyone to take Eve to the nurse. He did not hold her. He did not comfort her.

The silence pressed on Eve like a door that would not open for her. She stared at him, waiting for the usual script—for his soft voice, his steady hand, the little circle of his thumb on the skin near her wrist. None of that came.

Her mouth trembled a second time, this time not so pretty. She bit her lip, looked at her palm, looked at Evans, and found nothing she could use. Tears started up fast, bright and tight. She turned away and ran out of the room, one hand curled to catch the blood, the other wiping her face. The sound of her steps faded down the corridor.

Evans held the ice on my ankle a moment more. “Keep this there," he said. His hand lingered, then he straightened the blanket across my knees. “No more getting up for tea. Press the call button and wait."

“I can pour water," I said.

“I want you calm," he said. “Calm is safe."

“For the baby," I said.

“For you," he said. He said it like a promise. It sounded like a rule.

He adjusted the tray, picked up the empty porcelain handle from the floor, and set it aside. He checked the monitor with a soldier's quick glance. Then he stepped to the door and spoke to someone in the hall in that low command voice that makes people feel helpful while they do exactly what he wants. I could not make out the words. I did not try. I lay back and watched the ceiling.

Evening thinned the color of the room. The light went soft and then gray. The vent hummed. The steady line on the screen drew its little green peaks. The baby turned under my palm like a small fish in a quiet bowl. I kept one sentence in my head and did not let it go: We are not a tool. We are ours.

Time passed in small pieces. 9:18. 10:03. 10:47. I do not know why I began to count like that. It just helped. The building around me slowed. The elevator dinged less often. The nurses spoke in softer voices. The world went down to the simple sounds—air, steps, paper, beeps.

Close to midnight, the corridor went still in a way that felt like the pause before snow starts. I closed my eyes and let my breath match the vent: in, out, in, out. I told my body, Quiet. I told the child, Safe as we can make it.

The door moved. It did not swing wide. It sighed, like a person not wanting to wake anyone. My eyes opened.

A shape slid through the gap and into the room. Not a nurse. Not a guard I knew. The figure wore dark clothes that did not whisper or shine. Another shape came after the first, then a third. They did not talk. They did not hurry. Their steps were soft and sure, like men who had done this before.

I kept very still. I did not sit up. I did not reach for the call button. I did not speak. My breath stayed steady because I would not give them my fear for free.

The first man came to the side of the bed. He was close enough that I could smell wool, rain, and the faint chemical bite of something that had been sealed in plastic. A square of dark cloth hung from his hand.

He lifted the cloth. He did not warn me. He did not say a word. He did not ask me to count. He set the cloth over my head in one clean motion.

The world went dim at once. The fabric slid down and caught at my cheekbones. It shut out the ceiling, the vent, the green line, the door, and the night. The cloth touched my lips and turned my breath warm against my face. All the sounds pulled back like the tide.

I did not move. I did not fight. I did not speak. I did not lift my hands. The last thing I saw was the man's glove near my shoulder and the edge of the hood coming down.