The MC President's Forsaken Wife (Zara and Knox) novel Chapter 470

Chapter 230-2

25 Points

They are two immovable forces crashing against each other over the body of a woman broken by grief.

“If she miscarries because you refuse proper medical sedation,” Stitch whispers, his voice trembling with a dark, terrible weight. “That blood is on your hands, Willow.”

I freeze, sure that he’ll get his way now. But Willow doesn’t give an inch.

“I carry no blood but my own. I love my sister too much to let your fear poison her.”

Stitch lets out a harsh, bitter breath, grabbing his heavy black trauma kit. He zips it shut with a sharp, violent pull, slings it over his shoulder, and turns on his heel. He doesn’t look back at her as he marches toward the elevator.

I lie on the rug, my chest tight, staring at the flames.

In the kitchen, Willow doesn’t sigh. She doesn’t shake, and she doesn’t run after him.

She simply stands by the marble island for a few quiet seconds, taking a deep, rhythmic belly–breath to clear Stitch’s harsh, frantic energy from her chest. Then she picks up a small brass bowl and a hand–carved wooden applicator, completely unbothered by his departure, completely settled in her

purpose.

Her priority isn’t winning an argument with a club medic. Her priority is her sister.

Me.

I hear her light, bare feet brushing against the floorboards as she walks back into the room. She sets the brass bowl on the hearth next to the glowing embers and kneels beside me on the faux–fur rug.

“He’s angry with you,” I say. “I’m sorry.”

“He’s afraid,” Willow corrects me, her face completely serene as she smoothes my messy hair back from my forehead. “Stitch lives in a world where everything has to be controlled, measured, and fixed with iron tools. When the world breaks beyond his tools, fear takes over and fear always seeks to control, don’t hold it against him.”

“What if… what if he’s right?” I whisper. “What if my fear is hurting the baby?”

“He’s right about the threat, but entirely wrong about the remedy.”

“He is?”

Willow picks up a small braid of dried sweetgrass and a bundle of lavender, lighting the tip in the open flames of the fireplace until a thin, fragrant ribbon of white smoke curls into the air.

“He is, Zara. Medicine can force a heart to beat slower, but only spirit can teach a heart why it needs to keep beating.”

She waves her hand gently over the burning herbs, fanning the sweet, earthy smoke across my body. The scent is rich, warm, and profoundly grounding, smelling of rain–soaked fields, wild flowers, and ancient

earth.

“Close your eyes,” she instructs softly. “Not all screwed up with tension, but softly. Like butterfly wings”

Willow reaches into the brass bowl, pulling out a thick, warm herbal salve she’s mixed. She told me earlier that it’s a blend of warm almond oil, crushed chamomile, dried calenduta, and grounding frankincense.

She slides her warm hand beneath the hem of my oversized sweater, resting her palm flat against my lower stomach. Her skin is hot, radiating an intense, gentle warmth that seeps straight through my cool

“Breathe with me,” Willow whispers, her voice rhythmic and deep. “In through your nose, down to where my

“Out through your mouth,” she says, massaging the warm salve deep into my skin. “Release Stitch’s fear. Release the terror of the other night. Let the smoke carry it away.”

“You’re the vessel, Zara,” Willow says softly, her voice rising and falling like a lullaby over the quiet room. “You’re the soil, and Locke’s seed is planted deep within you. A storm’s raging outside the walls, but inside this earth, there’s only life. Strong life. Unbroken life.”

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