He Wants My Blood, I Want His Life Chapter 1

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 friend’s wife’s 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 he’d long bought around my neck: "Maeve needs a bone marrow transplant. Your match is the highest. After this, we’ll truly start our life together." He’d 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 Cholera—a 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 Alaric’s 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 friend’s 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 couldn’t 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.