The fire had died down. Shadows stretched long across the floor, and the wind outside whispered against the glass with a low whine like a wounded animal.
Lily slept curled on her side, small and motionless beneath the heavy velvet covers. One hand was tucked under her cheek, the other resting just below her navel—an unconscious gesture. She looked still, peaceful even. But her brows were drawn faintly, as if her dreams were not kind.
And beside her, Yen lay awake.
He had been for hours.
Eyes open. Breathing steady. Still.
But the longer he stared into the dark, the tighter his fists became beneath the sheets. The silence clawed at him, louder than any scream. His eyes burned from not blinking. His jaw ached from being clenched so long.
His hand had rested over her belly the entire time.
Flat.
Empty.
Cold.
He pulled it back.
The moment he did, a noise escaped her. A tiny sound. A breathless whimper. As if she could feel the absence.
As if her body remembered what wasn't there.
Yen sat up abruptly, the sudden shift yanking the sheets with him. Lily stirred but didn't wake. She mumbled something soft, unintelligible, and curled further into herself, as though shielding what didn't need to be protected anymore.
His eyes narrowed.
"Lily."
No response.
Her breathing evened out again.
He stared at her. Watched the slow rise and fall of her ribs. Too thin. Too fragile. Too weak to hold life. She looked like glass under moonlight. A porcelain thing made to be broken.
And he had broken her.
He didn't feel guilt for it.
He felt angry.
Yen threw the covers off his side of the bed, stood, and began pacing barefoot across the cold stone floor. The hem of his robe dragged behind him like a trailing shadow, his hands twitching at his sides.
He had done everything right.
He had kept her warm.
Fed her.
Watched her.
Told her exactly what to do.
And she still lost it.
His teeth bared in the dark.
She had failed.
She had failed him.
Again.
And yet—
His steps slowed.
—there she was. Still here. Still his.
He turned to look at her again, lying there like nothing had changed, like she hadn't shattered him when she bled onto his hands.
No.
No, she didn't get to sleep peacefully.
He stormed back to the bed.
Lily flinched awake just as the mattress dipped beneath his weight. "Mnh—" her voice was hoarse, drowsy. "W-what...?"
"Wake up."
His voice cut through her fog like a whip. Sharp. Cold. She blinked up at him, disoriented, heart already racing from the sudden drop in temperature beside her.
She tried to sit up, but his hand slammed down beside her head, caging her in. He leaned over her, eyes glowing faintly in the dark, feral and unblinking.
"I said wake up."
"I'm—I'm awake," she whispered. Lily could smell the wine in his breath.
She was trembling now. From the cold or from him—she didn't know.
Yen's hand moved to her thigh, gripping it. "You dreamt again," he said flatly.
"I—I don't remember."
"Yes, you do."
She looked away.
His hand slid up, fingers bruising against her hipbone now. "You touched your belly in your sleep," he said, voice lower now. "You still think it's in there, don't you?"
Her lips parted, no words.
"You want to pretend." His breath was hot against her ear. "You want to keep sleeping so you don't have to admit what you did."
"No," she whimpered.
"No?" he echoed, pulling back just enough to look at her. His gaze was wild—unhinged beneath the stillness. "Then what were you dreaming of? Hm? The nursery I built? The little slippers? The way it kicked?"
"Stop," she breathed, her voice cracking.
But he didn't.
"You held your stomach like you missed it," he sneered. "Like it was taken from you."
Her tears welled before she could stop them.
"It died because of you," he spat, low and close. "Because you disobeyed. Because you were careless. Because your body—" he pressed a hand to her stomach, hard "—was too weak."
"Yen—!"
He kissed her.
Rough.
Desperate.
Punishing.
He kissed her like he wanted to drown her in silence. Like he wanted to wipe the pain off her lips by replacing it with his own.
Her fists pushed against his chest, but it was useless. His hand tangled in her hair, yanking her head back when she tried to turn away.
"I should start again," he said against her throat. "You want to be full again, don't you? You sleep like you're already carrying."
"No... please—" Her words dissolved into sobs, voice too thin to even break.
"I'll keep you in this bed," he murmured into her skin, voice suddenly gentle, too gentle. "No walking. No garden. No sunlight. I'll chain you here if I have to. You want that, don't you?"
She cried harder.
His hand cupped her cheek.
"Tell me," he whispered. "Tell me you want me to try again."
She couldn't.
She just shook her head, sobbing into his chest.
And he held her there—her face pressed against him, his hand wrapped around her hair, his palm resting once more over her belly, trying to imagine something there that wasn't.
Neither of them slept for the rest of the night.