Zane
Four days after the bleeding started.
The hospital corridor smells like institutional despair—disinfectant trying to mask death, fear, and the particular odor of hope dying by degrees. I've been standing outside her door for twenty minutes, watching through the narrow window as machines breathe for her decision to live or let go.
She's awake—I can see her eyes tracking the fetal monitor, counting heartbeats like a rosary—but she hasn't looked at the door. Hasn't looked for me. Maybe doesn't know I'm here. Maybe doesn't care.
Because I can't be anywhere else. Because watching her through this window, even knowing she hates me, feels more necessary than breathing. Because our child—the one honest thing between us—is fighting to exist, and I need to witness either its arrival or its departure.
The waiting room behind me is a study in temporary ceasefire. Coyote Fangs on one side, Iron Talons on the other, all weapons left outside by unspoken agreement. Even war stops for dying babies. Tommy sits beside me, silent. Ghost leans against the wall, texting updates to crews holding territory. Across the room, I recognize Miguel's lieutenant, Carlito. But no Miguel.
Through the window, I watch Lena's hand drift to her belly, protective even as her body wages war against what's inside. The baby's heartbeat fills her room—rapid, stressed, but steady. Fighting. Like its mother. Like its father. Maybe that's the problem. Too much fight in bloodlines never meant to merge.
Dr. Morrison approaches, her face professionally neutral but her eyes telling darker truths. "Mr. Cross. A word?"
We step aside, away from the audiences of leather and violence.
"She's stabilized for now, but barely. The magnesium is holding off contractions, but her body is under extreme stress. The placenta is showing signs of early abruption. If she delivers now, at twenty weeks..." She pauses, choosing words carefully. "The survival rate is less than ten percent. And if the baby survives, the disabilities would be profound."
"What does she need?"
"Peace. Actual peace. Her cortisol levels are toxic—to her and the baby. Every spike in stress brings her closer to labor her body can't stop and her baby can't survive." Morrison's eyes bore into mine. "Whatever war you're fighting, whatever happened between you two, it needs to stop. Or you'll be planning a funeral instead of a birth."
She walks away, leaving me with the weight of medical truth. Through the window, Lena shifts, and the movement makes her wince. Even that small motion threatens everything.
Tommy appears at my shoulder. "Carlito wants to talk."
Miguel's lieutenant stands near the vending machines, trying to look casual despite the tension radiating from every line of his body. He's younger than Miguel, maybe twenty-five, with the kind of tired that comes from carrying someone else's rage.
"Miguel sent you?" I ask, though we both know the answer.
"No. He doesn't know I'm here." Carlito glances back at his guys, then at mine. "This is me, speaking for those of us who remember what family meant before it meant war."
"Go on."
"The surveillance shit—that was fucked up, hermano. But Miguel sending it to her?" He shakes his head. "That wasn'tprotecting her. That was breaking her to break you. Some of us... we remember when Miguel would've died before hurting her. Now he's the one putting her in that bed."
"Your point?"
"My point is both sides are bleeding out. Feds are circling. And Lena's about to lose that baby because two men who claim to love her can't stop measuring their dicks long enough to see they're killing her."
The truth tastes like copper in my mouth.
"What do you want me to do? Miguel declared war. He won't accept anything but total surrender."
"Maybe. Or maybe someone needs to remind him that winning a war means nothing if you've got no family left to protect." Carlito pulls out his phone, shows me a photo. It's Miguel from an hour ago, sitting in his car outside the hospital, not coming in. "He's been here. Watching. Can't bring himself to enter because he knows what he'll see—his sister dying because of him."
"Then why doesn't he stop it?"
"Same reason you put cameras on her. Pride. Fear. The inability to love without possessing." Carlito pockets his phone. "Someone needs to break first. Question is whether it happens before or after she buries that baby."
He walks away, returning to his side of the waiting room. I stay by the window, watching Lena fight to keep our child inside her body while everything outside tries to tear it away.
Her eyes finally meet mine through the glass. For a moment, neither of us moves. Then she mouths a single word: "Please."
I don't know if she's begging me to stay or go, to fight or surrender, to save us or let us die.
But I nod anyway, promising something I don't know how to deliver.
