Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 92957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92957 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 465(@200wpm)___ 372(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
I stifle a growl, holding my anger back with difficulty. This might not be the chance I’d hoped for. "Give me examples of inconsistencies to watch out for."
"Names, relationships," he says. "See if she remembers if she has any brothers or sisters. You might watch how she behaves in familiar surroundings.”
I don’t know much about her. That will have to change.
"In severe cases of amnesia, she would struggle with basic daily tasks, like finding her way around a kitchen. But if she navigates her area easily, she might be remembering more than she lets on. Ask her about her favorite food, her opinions on things. See if her memory is intact."
Right.
"She may have some emotional responses, involuntary habits, muscle memory—things like that. The sense of smell can be powerful. Just keep in mind a triggered memory doesn’t necessarily indicate she’s lying."
I see. My mind reels with possibilities, eager to use this knowledge to further tighten my control over my… bride. "Thank you for your time."
I send a text to my entire family and everyone in my trusted circle.
Anissa has no memory of who she is. From this moment on, you all will treat her as my wife. That is what she is now. I want it announced wide, loud and clear that my wife and I have taken our vows. Let her family know. Let everyone know. Anissa is mine.
My decision made, I head back to Zoya and Anissa.
Rodion texts back.
Got it. Do you love her in this scenario?
I scowl at the screen and shake my head. Will he ever learn?
Of course not.
Chapter 7
“ANISSA”
I'm lying in the bed, staring at the wall. Trying to remember who I am or why I’m here. It’s strange having a vague sense of self, of purpose, and yet realizing I can’t quite grasp any of it. I think our identity is something we take for granted, the natural order of things, and when it’s gone, it’s as if the sun’s been turned off, and you no longer recognize the playing field anymore.
Zoya, the sweet girl that she is, has told me almost nothing.
I watched as she opened her mouth, then looked at her phone and promptly shut it again. She stood, pacing at the foot of the bed, and though she looked perplexed, she didn't respond when I asked her what was going on.
She says my name’s Anissa. I expect it should sound familiar, if that's my name, but it’s completely unnatural, like a shoe that doesn’t quite fit.
Zoya stands and flits toward me, wringing her hands, though her voice is steady and calm.
“Rafail is coming back to see you. He will answer your questions,” she says, a new hardness to her voice as if she’s angry with him.
"Did he give you permission to unfasten me?"
I imagine that I am a captured princess, with people out there who love me, coming to save me from whatever lies ahead.
I feel fragile and dependent, and I hate it.
"You can ask Rafail," she says quietly. “He's your…” She shakes her head. “No, I'm going to let him tell you that.”
She comes to my side and presses something cold and small in my hand—a tiny silver charm of a bird in flight. “For luck,” she murmurs, glancing nervously at the door as if we’re going to be discovered at any moment. “This is yours. Or it… was.” The delicate bird feels strangely familiar, like a piece of a lost dream.
Her voice trembles. "Anissa, I know he can be scary. I know he’s dangerous. They all are, really, though I think you’ll like Yana, and I think she’ll understand…” Her gaze trails off as her voice does. “But you're going to be okay." Giving my hand a gentle squeeze, her tone is vehement. "You're strong."
"So are you," I whisper, even though I hardly know this woman. She’s small and fragile, and I know that whatever she's been through has made her stronger. I can see it in her eyes.
A ghost of a smile crosses her face as the door opens.
The air grows icy, sending a shiver down my spine. It’s utterly still.
My captor’s back.
Now that I’m a little more awake, I decide to assess the situation. He’s maybe in his mid-thirties, tall and commanding, rugged and dangerous. His dark, intense eyes seem to pierce right through me. Right through anyone, I'd imagine, with that laser focus. He has a sharp jawline and high cheekbones, and something tells me he is not a stranger to violence. Everything about him embodies raw power, but there's something more, something familiar… He's a man used to being obeyed.
Dressed in a white T-shirt, faded jeans, and leather boots, he feels oddly familiar, and even in casual dress, he exudes unbridled physical strength. His dark-brown hair is a touch too long, with a hint of curl that would seem playful if not for his cold expression and mask of control. The stubble on his chin is somewhere between rugged and five o’clock shadow, enough to give him an edge of dominance I crave. I shiver. He’s harsh and ruthless, there’s no doubt.