29. Saar
Chapter 29
Saar
I ’m married?
I’m fucking married.
To Cormac Quinn, no less.
What a nightmare.
The confusion that settled in the moment I opened my eyes hasn’t left in the past forty-eight hours.
And being married to that jerk is not even the biggest revelation. Vito Conti stole all my money and shot me?
And my father stole my trust fund. I’m broke and married.
What a nightmare.
And I’m a podcaster. Apparently being shot increased the number of downloads of the two episodes I released so far.
I listened to them both, hoping the missing pieces would come together. It was my voice, my ideas, but I don’t remember saying those words.
Lost.
That’s how I feel. At least everyone left now. After I threw them out because I need to think. I need to remember.
Retrograde amnesia caused by trauma. Fuck. It’s confusing.
Unable to recall events leading to the incident. In my case, the last memory I have is waiting for Vito at the coffee shop in Milan. I was going to tell him I’m done with modeling.
Corm’s hurt face keeps flickering through my mind.
What a nightmare.
Someone knocks softly, and while I don’t answer, the door opens anyway.
“Hey.” I smile at Lily.
“Sorry I couldn’t come sooner; I was working.” She tiptoes into the room like she was doing something wrong.
“It’s okay. I’m glad you’re here.”
I sent everyone away because they were too concerned, too worried, too overbearing, but Lily’s company has never been over-anything.
She pulls a chair closer and sits, adjusting her glasses. “So you remember me?”
I chuckle. “You’re unforgettable.”
A smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. “Because of my horrible haircut?”
“Promise me I can give you a makeover when I’m out of here.”
She rolls her eyes. “When are you out of here?”
It’s a simple question, but it brings the temporarily lighter mood down immediately. “They want to discharge me tomorrow.”
“That’s great.” She toes off her sneakers and lifts her leg on to the chair, resting her chin on it.
“I don’t know where to go, Lils.” My words hit me with a new intensity, like I haven’t been spinning them in my head for hours.
“You don’t want to go to Corm?”
“I don’t remember his house, or that it was my home. I remember hating the man, which doesn’t make me feel particularly keen on going there.”
“Your things are there, so maybe go and pack, and you will see how it feels. Maybe returning there will trigger your memories.”
“Celeste said the same. She offered I stay with them, but she thinks I should give Corm a chance.”
“He loves you, Saar.”
“The Cormac Quinn I know only loves himself,” I quip, but Lily’s words ram through me like a wrecking ball.
His hurt face flickers through my mind. Again.
“He was so devastated the whole time. If I’ve ever seen a man who wanted to take a bullet for his wife, Corm was it.”
I bite my lip, my heart beating wildly, my stomach a knot. “Everything feels so surreal. So many things happened in such a brief span of time, and I don’t remember any of them.”
“Many significant things happened during that time. You lost yourself, and you kind of found yourself, started to reinvent yourself. In the last two weeks, you were happier than I’ve ever seen you before.”
“Maybe it was the job. That podcast is good.”
Lily snorts. “She said humbly.”
I close my eyes for a moment. Every time I do that, I hope for a flashback, for anything that confirms I belong by Corm’s side.
But it’s all just darkness.
“Saar, nobody would blame you if you decide to start anew away from him. But I think it would always bother you. It would always hang above you as this unresolved part of your life. What is the worst outcome, anyway?”
“That I won’t remember, and I will be staying with a stranger. A stranger who is clearly suffering from my memory loss the most.”
“Or you will remember, and this nightmare will be over. Or you fall in love with him again.”
“Was I in love with him?”
She sighs, the sadness rolling off her, seeping into all corners of this room. To all dark corners of my heart. “I don’t know.”
“Isn’t that something I should feel rather than remember?”
She looks at me, her eyes full of compassion, glistening. “Fuck, Saar, I don’t know. Do you feel unsafe returning there?”
Unsafe? The question gives me pause.
Weird. Full of doubt. Confused.
But when I close my eyes, what I remember is that fleeting touch of his lips on my forehead when I regained consciousness. It burned my skin in the most familiar way. It warmed my heart, like being home.
Before my mind registered who he was, and I squashed the feeling. But its imprint is there, inside me, vibrating with something I don’t understand.
“I don’t worry about my safety.”
“So what do you worry about?”
I don’t really have an answer. “You’re right. The worst-case scenario is that I won’t remember. He was hurt when I sent him away.”
“He must have had something to say about that. That man is a bully.”
I stare at her. A bully? That sounds more like the Cormac I know. But he just left, his head down. “He looked broken. I don’t want to hurt him again if I don’t remember and leave.”
“Does he want you to return to his place?”
“I don’t know. We didn’t really talk.”
“Then let him decide if he wants to risk it.”
I stare at the ceiling, the sleep evading me. The monotonous humming of the heart monitors should act as white noise, but I’m nowhere close to tired.
Perhaps it’s the pain. My arm throbs, but I lied to the doctor to lower the dose of the drugs. I don’t want to be sedated. The painkillers make my head foggy, keeping me further from accessing those lost memories.
Maybe I should just call the nurse and confess, so I can get some sleep. Five more minutes and I’ll request medication.
I check my phone again. I texted Corm after Lily left, but he hasn’t responded. He must be sleeping.
And yet, I’m strangely disappointed. And relieved.
He has a role in my accessible memories. And that role is not a pleasant one. I can’t wrap my head around that animosity ever changing. And yet, apparently it did.
I check the phone yet again and then drop it to the nightstand, reaching for the nurse call button.
A soft knock on the door spikes my heart rate.
The cone of light stretches on the floor, and when I look up, my breath hitches. God, the man is breathtakingly beautiful.
He’s in jeans and a navy V-neck, his hair messy like he’s been running his hand through it. I have seen a lot of models in my life, but God, he rivals them all.
“Hi,” he rasps.
I swallow, my mouth a desert. “Hi.”
“May I?” He shifts his weight.
I nod, suddenly tongue-tied. That’s a new one for me. Well, for the me I remember.
“Sorry it took me so long, I was… Never mind.” He shakes his head. “How are you feeling?”
Something in his tone strikes me like lightning. It’s the genuine care. He came because I texted him that we should talk. Frankly, I expected him to call back, not to show up.
But it’s the caring attitude that throws me off. I used to think my parents cared in their own weird way. That Vito cared—God, was I stupid.
But having Corm’s full attention is a very different level of adoration. I don’t know what to do with that.
It completely throws me off, and my eyes water.
“What’s wrong?” He rushes to my side.
I wipe a tear. Apparently, I lost pieces of my memory and became a crier. “You do care about me, don’t you?”
He hangs his head, sighing. When he looks up, he locks me in his gaze, and I’m powerless. My chest constricts, fairy wings fluttering in my stomach.
What is happening? I’m scared to look away. It’s like something is passing between us that I don’t understand, but which is familiar.
It’s fleeting at the same time, just grazing the edges of my mind, teasing me. I try to grasp it, to catch it, to keep it, but I can’t. Goddammit.
He opens his mouth and closes it. Then he tries to start again.
Please don’t say you love me, because I don’t know who we are to each other, but I don’t want to hurt you.
“Of course I care.” His tone is aloof, like he gripped the reins of control and governs his reactions and words now.
It’s strangely disappointing, and freeing at the same time.
“They want to discharge me tomorrow.” I shift and wince. I should have taken the stupid drugs.
His entire body moves, and then stills. Like he wanted to reach out, but he caught himself. “I’m calling the…” He shakes his head. “Should I call the doctor?”
“No, it’s okay.” We stare at each other, awkwardness stretching between us. “Thank you,” I add, and his shoulders relax a bit.
“So, you’re out of here tomorrow…” He licks his lips, looking at me with hooded eyes.
He doesn’t look like the Corm I remember—larger than life, owning the air around him, ego spread through several zip codes.
He looks like a man grieving.
“Is it okay if I stay at your house?”
His eyes widen. “Of course.” He steps closer, his arm rising.
“For the time being,” I add, to protect myself and to stop him from touching me.
He drops his hand to the side-railing of my bed, squeezing it in a white-knuckled grip.
“Anything you need, The Morrigan,” he rasps, his eyes searching mine.
“The Morrigan?”
“Never mind.” He shakes his head. “You should get some sleep.”
I nod. “Yeah, I guess.” I fidget.
“Are you sure you don’t need the doctor?”
I chuckle. “Chill. I’ll call the nurse to help me.”
“Anything I can do?”
I sigh. “No. I need to go to the toilet. I hate that stupid bedpan, but they don’t want me to walk alone at night yet.”
“I’ll help you.”
The authority in his voice startles me. On impulse, I want to refuse just to make a point… Not sure what point exactly, but I really need to pee.
Also, having him here isn’t as weird as I feared. It actually is comforting.
“Okay.” I nod reluctantly.
I pull the heart monitor clip from my finger and shift to one side, so I can apply my weight on my healthy arm to sit.
I grunt. “Give me a moment.”
He practically vibrates with pent-up energy beside me as I attempt to push off the mattress again.
“Fuck it,” he growls, and scoops me up bridal-style. Carefully.
“You’re not a patient man, I take it.”
It was meant to be a reprimand, to assert my independence, but it comes out like a tease. Maybe because being in his arms distracts me, and not in the unwanted way.
His scent envelopes me with the same familiarity his presence does. It’s confusing, but I decide not to fight it.
I’ll be living with him—in his house—so I may as well lean into all the complicated emotions. Running away from them won’t help me sort things out.
“I’m learning,” he grumbles.
He puts me down gently by the toilet in a small hospital bathroom, but doesn’t move.
“Are you going to watch me?”
“Yes.”
He doesn’t even flinch, just leans in the doorway looking like a god of sin. My pussy clenches with appreciation. Really?
Sighing, I sit down and pee, hoping the gown is covering me enough to retain some modesty.
“Have you watched me in the bathroom before?”
“Yes.” A playful smirk ghosts his worry-stricken face, and God, I want to see more of it.
“Do you have some strange peeing kink?”
The question wipes out his grin, and I regret bringing awkwardness into this.
But when I look up, his gaze meets mine, full of heat and something else I can’t decipher.
“I have a you kink,” he drawls, and I swear his words have a direct line to my core.
I’m in the most un-sexy position, and yet I feel like a goddess under his dangerous scrutiny. I might not remember being his wife, but my body hums with… Is it recognition? Or is it just chemistry?
We stare at each other, suspended in a strange vacuum where this man I think I hate feels more like a kindred soul than anyone ever did.
Perhaps the heart does remember. And if not my heart, my lady parts do. Or she is just one greedy pussy.
“This is so strange.” I swallow.
He licks his bottom lip, and the simple notion wipes out any thoughts.
“Do you want some privacy?” He breaks the silence that stretched for a lifetime.
I nod, and he averts his eyes away from me. He doesn’t move, doesn’t turn, doesn’t step out. He stays rooted in the doorway like a sentry.
And for some outlandish reason, I miss his confining gaze immediately.
After I clean myself, I stand up and shuffle to the sink. Our gazes lock once again in the mirror.
His eyes tell a tale of hurt and love.
My eyes try to understand his silent story.
But my mind is blank. It doesn’t catch up with the freight train of emotions and the raw need swirling through me.
“Can I stay tonight?”
Warmth floods my cheeks, and my heart races.
Corm chuckles. “Relax, I will just sit by your bed.”
If I thought having Corm helping me pee and then watching me sleep was awkward, I didn’t fully appreciate how useless my arm is when getting dressed.
While I sit on the bed, he slides my panties up my legs. His fingers graze my skin as he pulls them up my ankles to above my knees.
I’m indignant and aroused at the same time. More embarrassed. I think. By my helplessness, and by my reaction to his touch.
While he can’t push my panties any farther, his hands continue up my thighs. His touch sears through the flimsy fabric, and I stifle a moan.
He swallows, his gaze burning my skin.
I need to look away. I should stop him, but I don’t want to. I want him to trigger something in me, anything that would bring the memories back.
It’s not only about the two of us. It’s about my own identity. I didn’t know how two-plus months of a blackout could almost undo the rest of my life that I still remember.
I keep waiting for some revelation, and none is coming. The therapist told me to be patient, and I want to be, but as Corm slides his hands up my torso, I want him to do something to remind me.
To remind me of him.
Of me.
Of us.
Instead, he scoops me under my arms and lifts me to stand.
“You okay?” He checks, his voice rough as he squats and pulls my panties up.
I nod when he straightens as if I am okay. I’m not. I’m in pain. I’m confused. And I’m fucking horny.
“Did I love you?” I don’t know why I ask. What would either of the answers resolve?
He tenses for a beat, grinding his jaw. He takes my hands in his, not really holding it, just grazing my palms with his fingers.
“I can only hope.” There is pain in his voice. I might not know him as my husband, but I know agony. Not sure how, but I see it all over his face.
“Hope?”
“You never told me.”
Suddenly, I wish I could tell him now; his regret is so palpable, it coils around my insides, spreading pain.
We stand there, so close yet so far from each other. I take a breath, my nipples grazing his chest. His cock hardens between us.
He tucks a strand behind my ear and his hand lingers, his touch feather-like. Cupping my face, he leans forward but stops an inch from me.
His breath fans my face. I shake all over with anticipation, but it seems like he is waiting for my consent.
Can I give it? Will kissing him be a good thing? Or will it confuse me further? What if I don’t feel anything?
And why the fuck am I in my head right now? It’s not like my mind has been useful as of late.
As if he senses the turmoil, he takes the leap and closes the distance, his lips grazing mine.
The jolt of electricity shudders through me at the tender touch. I part my lips, inviting him.
“Ready to get out of here?” Celeste’s voice fills the room, and we jump away from each other like she caught us doing something forbidden.
Her hands on her belly, her lips freeze in an unspoken O, her eyes darting between me and Corm.
Cal stops, surprised his wife didn’t move, and raises his arm, a coffee sloshing around. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
Shit, I forgot to let them know I’m returning to Corm’s.
Corm walks to the window, probably hiding his erection behind the bed.
“The therapist recommended that returning to familiar places might trigger my memory.” I clutch my arm, trying to ignore the throbbing—around my wound, in my temples, and in my pussy. Jesus. What timing.
“His house isn’t familiar since you don’t remember it,” Cal rumbles.
“What’s your problem?” I yank the sling from the bed, struggling to pull it over my head.
“He should have—”
“Stop it now,” Celeste orders and comes to help me, hanging the sling over my head. “Let me help you get dressed.”
For some reason, I search for Corm, meeting his eyes and feeling somehow grounded immediately. The intensity of his gaze hits me with a dose of something intimate. Sensual. Raw.
Celeste collects my clothes where Corm laid them out earlier. “Be nice, boys,” she warns.
Reluctantly, I break the eye contact and follow her to the small bathroom.
“How did you trick her again?” Cal whispers, his words infused with fury.
“Maybe you should give your sister more credit. She can make her own choices.”
Corm’s defense brings a smile to my face.
“If something happens to her—”
“Nothing will happen to her,” Corm snaps, his tone now laced with anger.
Celeste rolls her eyes before she pulls a crew neck over my head.
“Really? Wasn’t it in front of your fucking house she got shot?” Cal retorts.
I pull my good arm through the sleeve, and Celeste carefully navigates the other sleeve around my wounded arm. She pulls my hair out of the neckline and points to the toilet, so she can help me with the jeans.
I strain my ears, but the room behind the door remains silent. Corm is not rebutting. Why? Is he blaming himself for what happened to me? That’s preposterous.
He must feel so alone with that guilt. Losing me and blaming himself.
But I can’t take on the responsibility for that. I don’t have room to deal with his baggage. And yet a part of me wants to own it, wants to lead him out of his misery.
I barely let Celeste button up my jeans, and I burst out of the small bathroom. The walls were closing in on me already.
“It wasn’t your fault!” I glare at Corm. “It wasn’t his fault,” I tell Cal, and turn back to Cormac. “Don’t you dare blame yourself. We can’t change what happened. You didn’t pull the trigger. You didn’t invite Vito into my life. Both of you stop this right now. I have enough chaos in my head at the moment; I don’t need either of you adding to it.”
The silence that follows is filled with raging testosterone, animosity, and remorse, but at least neither of them dares to protest.
“Is there anything else we need to pack? Are we waiting for the doctor?” Celeste redirects our attention.
I’m about to tell her I have my discharge papers already when the door bursts open again.
When I see the two people who decided to join the party, I step back and hate myself for it.
Corm appears at my side. “What the fuck do you want here?”
My father flinches. “Who the fuck are you?”
He asks as if he doesn’t know Cormac Quinn. He might not know my connection to him, but they must have met at functions. Or he must have read about him.
This is just Dad’s typical way of showing people how insignificant they are.
“I’m Saar’s husband, and I respectfully ask you to get the fuck out of here.” Corm’s words seem to slap my father. I never knew how satisfying it would be to see my old man taken aback.
My husband.
My married status terrified me after I woke up without my memories, but right now, right here… I step closer to my husband.
“Oh my, you really got married?” My mother clutches her pearls.
“My daughter got shot; I think I have the right to be here, young man.” Dad regains his composure, glaring at Corm.
Cal moves to stand by Celeste, like she needs physical protection against our father. Or maybe he needs to be protected from her.
“You mean the daughter you disinherited? The daughter you shipped to Europe when she was a teenager? Get the fuck out of here before—”
I put my hand on Corm’s back, and he stops, whipping his head to me. “There is no point,” I whisper.
“Charles, will you let them throw us out?” Mother huffs.
“Of course not. I have the right to be here. And I never disinherited my daughter; she chose to abandon the family and betray me.”
“Well, if I’m such a disappointment, I fail to see why you bothered coming,” I say, getting tired of all the drama this morning keeps bringing.
“It’s time you step up and behave like a van den Linden,” my father retorts.
“What does that even mean?”
“People are still talking about our fallout, and we don’t look good. It’s not the image the name van den Linden deserves.” Mother pretend-sobs, now clutching her necklace with both hands.
“I will give you your trust fund if you help us fix the optics,” my father says.
I blink, almost laughing. My parents want to bribe me to become a dutiful daughter?
Stunned by their lack of compassion or affection, by their negligence and absence of any parenting skills, I rack my brain for words to say.
I don’t get to say anything, because my husband’s fist lands in my father’s face. Charles van den Linden stumbles, patting his bleeding lip as he leans against a door frame.
“You’ll regret it,” Dad warns. “I have witnesses.”
Cal chuckles. “No witnesses here, Dad. Just get the fuck out.”
Corm shakes his hand, his knuckles red, and turns to me. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“You shouldn’t, but I’m glad you did.” I smile.
And for the first time in a very long time, I feel like I truly have someone in my corner. Which is confusing as fuck since that someone means nothing to me.