He Wants My Blood, I Want His Life

Alaric married me because my rare blood type could save his beloved. Every time Maeve Kincaid was in critical condition, he'd gently coax me to donate blood, calling it a friends wifes duty.

Until I found his diary: Every time she gives blood, she's as pale as paper. It almost makes my heart stir. Pity, she's just a walking blood bank.

The day Maeve was discharged, Alaric placed a diamond necklace hed long bought around my neck: "Maeve needs a bone marrow transplant. Your match is the highest. After this, well truly start our life together." Hed already signed the consent form for me.

I touched my abdomen, smiling and nodding, quietly deleting the prenatal scan report I'd just received on my phone. The doctor had said if a pregnant woman with my blood type donated a large amount of marrow during pregnancy, the fetus would almost certainly not survive.

Perfect, Alaric.

Your child, like the woman who loved you, was never meant to exist.

Alaric married me because my RH-negative blood could save his beloved. Everyone in our social circle knew it, but I, in my naivety, once believed it was love.

Until I stumbled upon his diary, hidden in the flyleaf of his copy of Love in the Time of Choleraa book he never let me touch, and sometimes stared at, lost in thought, a peculiar habit I attributed to his literary leanings.

That day, he rushed out, forgetting to lock his desk drawer. Impulsively, I pulled it open. My heart hammered as my fingers brushed against the familiar hardback. I opened it; the flyleaf was smooth. With a fingernail, I gently pried open the almost invisible seam, and a folded, high-quality piece of paper slipped out.

On it was Alarics forceful handwriting, pressing through the page:

"March 15th, Overcast. Donated another 400cc. She didn't make a sound, her lips so pale they were almost invisible. Lying there, she looked as fragile as a priceless porcelain vase in a museum. My fingertips brushed hers when I handed her the warm tea; they were ice-cold. For a moment, my heart actually clenched. Absurd. Lucy she's just a walking blood bank, nothing more. Maeve needs her, and I only need her blood. Get a grip, Alaric."

"May 20th, Rain. She actually baked a cake. How foolish. RH-negative blood, what a perfect coincidence. Or rather, Maeve's luck, my luck. Looking at her eager eyes, I suddenly felt annoyed. This 'luck' must be held firmly. Perhaps, should I consider marriage to lock it down? More legitimate, and safer. Anyway, she seems to love me very much. Love, isn't it the best kind of chains?"

"July 7th, Sunny. Maeve's condition is stable. Lucy seemed particularly tired today, fallen asleep on the sofa. Sunlight on her face, fine downy hairs, faint blue veins visible beneath her pale skin. Suddenly recalled the first time she fainted in my arms after a donation, light as a feather. That fleeting flicker of my heart still lingers. What a ridiculous and pathetic emotion. She's just a blood bag, a vital ingredient, a living reserve to ensure Maeve's safety. Alaric, don't forget what you truly want."

The last line, the ink still fresh, pressed through the page with a barely perceptible, self-loathing satisfaction: "Every time she gives blood, she's as pale as paper. It almost makes my heart stir. Pity, she's just a walking blood bank."

The edges of the paper were slightly frayed, as if frequently touched. I clutched that slip of paper, standing in the empty study in the early summer afternoon, yet I shivered, bone-chillingly cold. The bright sunlight streaming through the window stung my eyes, but not a single ray of warmth penetrated my bones.

So, every time he coaxed me onto the donation chair, gently saying, "Lucy, please, honey, it's a friend's wife's duty," his mind was filled with such frigid, cutting thoughts.

A friends wife? Ha. What kind of wife was I? I was just a walking, renewable resource, a human blood bag with the label "Mrs. Thorne" stuck on me.

My nails dug deeply into my palms, the pain providing the last shred of strength to remain standing. I couldnt collapse. At least, not here.

I meticulously refolded the paper along its original creases, returned it to the flyleaf, pushed the book back into the drawer, and closed it. Every action was terrifyingly steady.

Back in the bedroom, I locked the door and slowly slid to the floor, my back against the cold wood. The thick carpet absorbed all sound. I raised my hand, looking at my slender wrist, the veins unusually distinct due to recent frequent blood donations. The faint pressure of the rubber tourniquet seemed to linger there.

Pale as paper? Yes, how could I not be, with so much blood loss? And he found it almost "stirring"? How cheap, how cruel, that flicker of emotion. Like a butcher occasionally admiring the docile fur of a lamb about to be slaughtered.

The desolate wasteland in my heart, once ablaze with fervent love for him, was now thoroughly frozen by this sudden blizzard, utterly silent. Not even ashes remained.

Good. Alaric, thank you for giving me clarity, in the most brutal way.

From then on, the way I looked at Alaric completely changed. Before, my gaze was filtered through admiration and a timid desire to please. Now, that filter had shattered, revealing the naked, sophisticated core of his self-interest beneath.

He still played the role of the attentive husband. Occasionally, when he came home early, hed bring a bouquet of flamboyant red roses, never quite to my taste. After social events, hed lean against my shoulder, smelling of liquor, mumbling vague, almost promises.

"Lucy, darling, once Maeve's condition stabilizes, we'll go on that belated honeymoon. Haven't you always wanted to see the Northern Lights in Iceland?"

"I know it's been hard on you lately, I appreciate everything."

"You're my wife, my closest confidante."

Before, hearing these words would fill me with a subtle sweetness, even if tinged with a slight, uncertain sourness. Now, I only found them deeply ironic. When he looked at me, did those deep, handsome eyes reflect Lucy Thorne, or merely the symbol of an RH-negative blood type?

I started to indulge him, becoming even more pliant and silent than before. When he needed blood, I never hesitated, only softly asking each time, "How much this time? I seem to be getting dizzy more easily lately."

He would gently stroke my hair. "Not much, just the usual amount. Afterwards, I'll have the kitchen make you some nourishing broth, and I'll personally oversee it."

Personally oversee it? Was he overseeing the broth, or overseeing the recovery of his "blood bag," ensuring its sustainable use? I lowered my eyes, nodding obediently. But deep inside, a cold spark began to glow quietly in a corner no one could see.

I needed time. I needed to plan. Until then, I couldn't tip my hand.

The day Maeve Kincaid was discharged from the hospital was a grand affair. Alaric booked an entire VIP floor at the citys most expensive private hospital. Flowers were laid out from the elevator to her room.

Dressed impeccably in a suit, he personally carried an extravagant bouquet of 999 champagne roses, greeting his "dear friend," Maeve, who looked delicate and pitiful in her custom hospital gown. As "Mrs. Thorne," I was naturally present. Dressed in a slightly oversized, old-fashioned suit Alaric had sent, I felt like an awkward accessory.

Maeve leaned back in her wheelchair, carefully pushed out by Alaric. She looked up, a weak, victorious smile blooming on her pale face. "Lucy, thank you again." Her voice was barely a whisper, yet her eyes, like poisoned needles, pricked at me. "Alaric told me everything. This time, it's all thanks to you. You truly are... a blessing to our family."

Our family. The phrase sickened me, but I managed to conjure a perfectly timed, slightly shy and worried smile. "Please don't say that, Maeve. Your recovery is what matters most. Alaric, he... he was so worried about you."

Alaric, who was bending down to meticulously adjust the thin blanket on Maeve's lap, paused at my words, glancing at me. His expression was complex, as if he hadn't expected me to be so "gracious and composed." He quickly turned back to Maeve, whispering in a voice I'd never heard from him before, "It's windy outside. Keep covered. The car's waiting downstairs."

Watching their backs, I slowly walked behind them, my nails once again digging into my flesh. A blessing to their family? No, I was merely a sacrificial offering, to be used whenever convenient.

That evening, Alaric returned earlier than usual. He carried a scent of hospital disinfectant mixed with Maeves usual perfume, a nauseating combination. But his expression was relaxed, even showing a rare, genuine contentment. In his hand was a deep blue velvet jewelry box.

"Lucy, come here." He sat on the living room sofa, beckoning me over. I put down the magazine I was pretending to read and walked to him. He pulled me down beside him and opened the box. Inside was a diamond necklace, the main diamond sizable, reflecting cold, brilliant light under the lamps.

"Do you like it?" He took out the necklace, reached behind my neck. The cold touch of the metal made me shiver slightly. The clasp clicked shut. The diamond hung heavy below my collarbone, like an ornate shackle.

"Maeve's discharge this time is largely thanks to you. This is a thank-you, and also" He paused, his finger tracing the edge of the diamond, brushing my skin almost imperceptibly, "a small, insignificant compensation for what you're about to do."

Here it comes.

I looked up, through the fragmented, swirling light refracted by the living room's crystal chandelier, maintaining my usual docile dependence, even a touch of well-placed bewilderment. "About to do? Isn't Maeve well now?"

Alaric gazed into my eyes, those always profound and unreadable eyes now clearly reflecting my imagepale, docile, easily controlled. He sighed, taking my hand. His palm was warm, yet it sent a chill through my heart. "Maeve's condition has changed. Acute myeloid leukemia. She needs a bone marrow transplant as soon as possible."

His voice was steady, even gentle, as if discussing tomorrow's weather. "You know, bone marrow matching is difficult. But" He squeezed my hand slightly, as if conveying resolve, or perhaps exerting an invisible pressure. "Your matching results are in. Highly compatible. A perfect 10 out of 10. The doctor said it's practically a miracle."

A miracle? I looked at him, suddenly wanting to laugh. Yes, RH-negative blood, a perfect bone marrow match. For them, my existence meant creating these "miracles" again and again, didn't it?

"So?" I whispered, my voice distant, as if from far away.

"So, we need you to be the donor." Alaric's tone became firmer, carrying an undeniable decisiveness. "This is Maeve's only, and best, chance for survival. I've already signed the consent form for you. The surgery is scheduled for next Wednesday. Lucy, I know this is sudden, and there might be some risks, but Maeve can't wait. Don't worry, it's the best hospital, the best team. I'll get the top experts to ensure your safety."

He reached out, seemingly wanting to pull me into his arms, his gesture tinged with a patronizing comfort. "After this, we'll truly live our lives together. I promise you, I'll never let you suffer like this again. We'll go to Iceland, see the Northern Lights, just the two of us, okay?"

Iceland, the Northern Lights. He had used those words as pain relief once before, when I fainted after my first blood donation. Now, he brought them out again, as bait, and as an anesthetic.

I lowered my gaze, my eyes falling on my still-flat lower abdomen. A life was quietly forming there. A life that had arrived unexpectedly on a night when I was utterly heartbroken and foolishly drunk, right before my heart completely died.

This afternoon, I had just received my prenatal checkup report. Six weeks pregnant.

My high school friend, Dr. Lin, had privately warned me in a grave tone: "Lucy, you have RH-negative blood, which means you need extra care during pregnancy. If you undergo a major invasive procedure like bone marrow donation at this time, especially if a large amount is collected, the fetus will almost certainly not survive. Plus, it will be extremely damaging to your own body. You've already had frequent blood donations, and your anemic state hasn't fully recovered. You must consider this carefully. No, my advice is, absolutely do not do it!"

Consider it carefully? Did I have a choice?

The consent form, he had already signed it for me. The words "signed for me" burned like a hot iron on my soul.

I looked at Alaric's face, so close, filled with certainty and a trace of barely concealed urgency. He probably thought I would, as countless times before, lie on the operating table obediently, even with a joyful sense of sacrifice. After all, I loved him so "deeply," deeply enough to disregard everything else. So deeply that he never imagined I, this "walking blood bank," would ever resist, would have secrets, would hate.

The ice field in my heart cracked open with a deep fissure, and a dark, hateful flame silently began to rise.

I raised my hand, my fingertips gently brushing the diamond at my neck. Cold, hard, and ostentatious. Just like the "future" he promised.

Then, my hand dropped, resting on my lower abdomen, very gently, pressing it. It was still calm there, I felt nothing. But I knew a tiny life was growing. Alaric's child. And my child. A child he would never anticipate, and perhaps, if he knew, would personally crush. Because the existence of this child would hinder his beloved from receiving my bone marrow.

Perfect. Alaric.

I spoke to him in my heart, word by word, silently. Your child, like the woman who loved you, was never meant to exist. But whether it exists, and how it ends, will be decided by me. Not you.

I lifted my face, meeting his expectant gaze, and slowly curved my lips into a smile, as soft and even timid as always. I nodded gently.

"Okay."

My voice was obedient, without a ripple of emotion. "For Maeve, and for you, I'll donate."

Alaric visibly relaxed, the last trace of uncertainty vanishing from his eyes, replaced by a glow of successful planning, mixed with satisfaction and a hint of complex emotions. He tried to embrace me again; this time, I didn't resist. I let his embrace, smelling of perfume and disinfectant, envelop me. My chin rested on his shoulder. My eyes open, I watched the potted plant in the corner of the living room, its leaves trembling slightly in the air conditioning's gentle breeze.

In my eyes, an icy, dead desert.

My phone vibrated silently in my pocket, the screen lighting up, then dimming. The message that read "Six weeks pregnant, preliminary normal embryonic development, recommended regular monitoring," along with the attached digital report, had been completely deleted. Along with my last, ridiculous hope for him.

In the days that followed, Alarics treatment of me was abnormally "good." Supplements flowed into the house, and he even canceled an important meeting to personally accompany me to the hospital for pre-op checks. Of course, these were the mandatory medical exams for a donor.

Blood tests, labs, EKGs, chest X-rays he was with me for every step, full of patience, holding my hand, emphasizing to every doctor and nurse: "This is my wife. Please be meticulous, use the best techniques, and ensure her safety."

The medical staff cast envious glances. "Mr. Thorne is so good to you, so considerate." "Mrs. Thorne, you're very lucky."

I kept my head down, smiling shyly, leaning closer to him, appearing dependent and devoted. Only I knew that every gentle word he spoke, every thoughtful gesture he made, was like a blunt knife, grinding back and forth on my already numb heart. It didn't hurt, but that cold, sticky feeling of disgust shadowed my every move.

He did all this simply to ensure the "donor" was in good condition, capable of smoothly producing the "bone marrow," the "commodity" that would save his beloved.

During a break in the exams, I slipped away to the OB-GYN department, feigning a consultation for anemia. My friend, Dr. Lin, seized the moment while Alaric was on the phone. She pulled me into her office, locked the door, her face grimmer than I had ever seen it.

"Lucy, are you insane? Are you really going through with the donation? Do you have any idea what this means?!" she hissed, almost shouting, her voice low. "This isn't just a few hundred CCs of blood! Bone marrow harvesting! It's a massive burden on your body right now! The baby almost certainly won't survive! You could hemorrhage, get an infection, face all sorts of unpredictable risks! Do you ever want to be a mother?!"

I looked at Dr. Lins flushed face, red with urgency. A tiny crack appeared in the cold, hard shell around my heart, and a faint warmth seeped out. In this world, there was still someone who genuinely cared about Lucy Thorne, the person, not just her blood or her bone marrow.

I squeezed her hand, her palm slightly damp with agitation. "Lin, I know." My voice was surprisingly calm, even to myself. "I know it all."

"You know, and you still" Dr. Lin's eyes widened.

"I have my own plans." I cut her off, my voice soft, yet with an undeniable, resolute finality. "I'm not keeping this child. But how it 'won't be kept' is my decision. That consent form Alaric signed, could you check it for me? Are there any... loopholes?"

Dr. Lin was stunned, looking at me as if I were a stranger. The Lucy she knew, always docile, a little melancholic, constantly revolving around Alaric, seemed to be peeling away before her eyes, revealing a cold, hard, unfamiliar core beneath. "What... what do you want to do?" Her voice trembled slightly.

"Help me." I gripped her hand tightly, my fingertips cold. "Lin, right now, only you can help me. It's not about harming anyone, just... self-preservation. And taking back something." I looked at her, my eyes devoid of pleading, only a deep, bottomless chill, and beneath it, a quietly burning flame.

Dr. Lin looked at me for a long time. Finally, slowly, she squeezed my hand back, very tightly.

"What do you need me to do?" Her voice was even lower, laced with a sense of desperate determination.