The needle slides into my vein with practiced ease, and I watch my blood—dark red and vital—flow through the transparent tube into the collection bag. Dr. Morrison doesn't meet my eyes anymore. After five years of these weekly sessions, I suppose we've run out of small talk. "How are you feeling today, Mrs. Cross?" he asks, his voice professionally detached. "Fine," I lie. The truth is, I've been exhausted for weeks. Dizzy. Nauseous in the mornings. But I don't tell him this because I already know what's causing it, and the knowledge sits in my purse like a loaded gun—three positive pregnancy tests, each one confirming what my body has been screaming at me. I'm pregnant with Damian Cross's child. And I have no idea how to tell my husband that I can't keep doing this. That I can't keep giving my blood away to save someone I've never even met. "We'll need an extra unit today," Dr. Morrison says, adjusting the collection bag. "Mr. Cross requested it specifically." My stomach drops. "That's... that's more than usual. I don't think—" "Mr. Cross was very clear about the necessity." His tone brooks no argument. I close my eyes and lean back in the leather chair that costs more than most people's cars. Everything in Damian's world is like this—expensive, beautiful, and hiding something darker underneath. The medical suite occupies the entire east wing of our mansion, a sprawling estate in the hills overlooking the city. When Damian first brought me here as his new bride, I thought it was for emergencies, maybe the occasional house call for a twisted ankle or flu. I didn't know it was built specifically for this. For me. For my blood. "The host is stable?" I ask, using the term Damian always uses. Never a name. Never a relationship. Just "the host personality" who apparently needs my specific blood type to survive some mysterious condition. "Stable," Dr. Morrison confirms, but something flickers across his face. Guilt? Pity? It's gone before I can identify it. Twenty minutes later, I'm lightheaded and being offered orange juice and cookies like I'm at a Red Cross blood drive instead of in my own home, giving away my life force for reasons my husband refuses to fully explain. Damian finds me in the library an hour later, curled up on the window seat with a book I'm not really reading. He's devastating in his tailored suit, dark hair slightly mussed from running his hands through it—a habit he has when he's stressed. At thirty-five, he commands every room he enters, built an empire from his father's failing company, and chose me out of hundreds of more suitable women. He chose me because of my blood type. AB negative. Rare. Valuable. He just happened to fall in love with me too. Or so he says. "Elena." His voice is warm, concerned. He crosses to me in three long strides and cups my face in his hands. "You look pale. Did Morrison take too much?" "He took what you requested," I say, and I hate how small my voice sounds. Damian's jaw tightens. "I'm sorry. I know it's difficult. But you understand how important—" "Do I?" The words burst out before I can stop them. "Do I understand, Damian? Because you've never actually explained it to me. Not in five years." He pulls back slightly, and I see the walls go up behind his storm-gray eyes. "We've discussed this." "No, you've told me it's necessary and that I'm saving a life. You've told me you're grateful. You've told me you love me." I stand, needing to be on equal footing. "But you've never told me who I'm saving or why it has to be me." "Because I'm asking you to trust me." His voice has gone cold, the voice he uses in boardrooms when someone questions his authority. "Haven't I given you everything? Your family's debts are paid. Your father's business was saved. Your mother has the medical care she needs. I've asked for one thing in return, Elena. One thing." The words hit like a slap because they're true. Five years ago, my family was drowning. My father's company was bankrupt, my mother needed surgery we couldn't afford, and I was a twenty-two-year-old college dropout with no prospects. Then Damian Cross appeared at a charity gala like a dark angel, offered me a deal that seemed too good to be true, and I took it. I married him. I gave him my blood. And in return, he gave me a life of luxury and saved everyone I loved. A devil's bargain, my best friend Mira called it. But she didn't have to watch her mother die or her father lose everything he'd built. "I'm not ungrateful," I whisper. "I just... I need to know more. Especially now." Damian's expression shifts, sharpens. "Especially now? What does that mean?" This is it. The moment I tell him. But looking at his face, at the way his whole body has gone tense and alert, I lose my nerve. "Nothing," I say. "I'm just tired." He studies me for a long moment, and I'm terrified he can see right through me, can somehow sense the tiny cluster of cells growing inside me that will change everything.