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)
“A man afraid that she’ll run away again when given the chance.”
I stare at him, aghast.
“I ran?”
He reaches into his pocket with the sort of smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, but one that looks almost calculating. "You lost your ring in the accident. But I have it right here. And I told you, I had you restrained so you wouldn’t run again.”
Husband… I’m still reeling from the news. This apparently wealthy, powerful, dangerous man is my… husband? What?
I’m supposedly in one of the most intimate relationships two people can share, yet he’s a total stranger.
Zoya said my name is Anissa.
Anissa.
“Say my name,” I whisper, hoping that if he says it—if my husband speaks my name—it might trigger a memory, a hint of familiarity.
I don’t anticipate the note of pride in his voice when he responds. "Anissa Kopolova.”
Nothing.
I shake my head. "Why does that sound so foreign to me?"
I hate how small and vulnerable my voice sounds. I turn away from him. "Why did you look at me like you hated me? If I'm your wife… this doesn't make any sense.”
He doesn’t answer for long moments, his gaze trailing over me like… like he’s imagining the ways he could hurt me. I grip the sheets tighter. There’s no tenderness in his eyes, only cold hunger, a craving I don’t understand but feel deep in my bones.
And when he finally speaks, his voice is low and dark. “You don’t understand yet, do you?” I flinch when he reaches for me and he drags a thumb across my lower lip. Rough. Possessive. “You will.”
How is it that I remember nothing about who I am, much less who he is, but I remember everything about human behavior?
For example, that muscle ticking in his jaw tells me he's having a hard time being patient. The tentative way his thumb rubs along my wrist, unaccustomed to being gentle. But when I saw him with his sister, he was gentle with her.
Why not me if I’m his wife?
And why was she afraid of him?
"We've had a… rocky relationship," he says. "Just because we’re married doesn’t mean we’ve gotten along."
Hmm.
"Well, why not?" I ask him. It seems stupid to me that people would get married because they supposedly loved each other or whatever, and then they fight.
"Why don't we get along?" he repeats.
Buying time? Looking for clarity. Or as baffled as I am?
I lick my lips. My voice is husky. Shaking. "Remind me why I hate you."
Something that comes close to humor ghosts his face. "It's actually not very complicated," he begins. "I like to be in charge, and you don't like to be told what to do."
"How's that working out for you?" I snap. Once again, his features register something close to humor. The way the corners of his lips twitch tells me he's not accustomed to smiling either. Why? Why is he so sober? So angry?
"Not very well. I have a wife who ran away from me because she was angry with me. She didn't want to be with me anymore."
"I ran from you," I repeat, as if stating this out loud would make it more comprehensible. For the first time since I woke up, something that rings with the smallest touch of familiarity hits my consciousness.
I do remember running. Yes. Yes, that part is true. "So I'm a runner, then?" I ask.
He lets out a sigh. "You could say that."
What does he mean? I look down at my body. I'm fit, I know that. It's not like I woke up in a body that's wholly unfamiliar to me.
I flex my toes and make a decision. I may not be able to run now, but I will run again. From him, too, if I have to.
"So here's a question for you," I say. Goddamn, it hurts to talk. "Why did you tell Zoya I'm not allowed to have morphine if I’m your wife?" My voice trembles, and to my horror, when I blink, a tear slips down my cheek.
"You misunderstood," he says quietly, releasing his hold on me. I shiver at his icy tone and the loss of his touch. I have the distinct feeling if wolves could talk, they’d sound just like this. "You've been disoriented, confused. I want you to have pain relief, but the sort that will allow you to talk and function. Like this, so you’re not confused anymore.”
"So I can have pain medication," I repeat, just to be clear. Is this guy gaslighting me?
Is that why I hate him?
I'm so tired of having all these questions, and it feels like I've just begun.
I try to sit up in bed, but the pain is killing me.
"So I ran from you, and I was hit by… what, exactly?"
At his murderous look, I clutch the warm fabric of the duvet cover in my fist for protection. I’m doing my best to feign bravery, but something tells me that even if I could remember who he was, I would still be terrified. Maybe even more than I am now.