Chapter 7 #2
"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.
"You were hit by a car. That's one of the problems, Anissa. You’re impetuous and disobedient and ran wildly into oncoming traffic."
Impetuous? Disobedient? I feel my brows lift in surprise. "One of the problems you have with me? I'm not a child. I know that much. I’m sorry, I know I was in an accident, but did I somehow go back in time?”
He growls and doesn't speak for a moment as if he's trying to compose himself. "You’re definitely no fucking child.”
His gaze grows hungry as he licks his lips, and I’m once more reminded of a wolf, but this time, he looks ready to eat me alive. I blink and stare, trying to compose my thoughts and my expression all at once and failing at both.
I chatter on, trying to regain some control. "So far, we've established that I'm your wife. I ran from you heedlessly and was hit by a car. My reason for running from you had something to do with your high-handed ways? And I'm guessing you must have a ring that I lost in the accident."
"Yes," he says, and something like regret crosses his face. There’s a vague familiarity about all of this, but just enough off-kilter to make it feel like I’m staring into the mirror at a funhouse. The truth is distorted. His ragged voice utters a low, harsh command. “Give me your hand.”
When he takes my hand in his much larger, much rougher one, I note the golden ring that glints in the overhead light.
“Your ring,” he says, slipping it back onto my finger.
It’s heavy and cold. I notice a small engraving inside—a twisted line that looks as sharp as barbed wire. In hardship and loyalty, it reads.
I stare in wonder as he slides it onto my finger. It feels vaguely like Prince Charming sliding the glass slipper on Cinderella's foot because it fits perfectly.
I rub my thumb along the ring, waiting for it to feel foreign, but it doesn't. It’s a perfect fit.
At the same time, though, it's reminiscent of the cuff he just took off. A teeny, tiny perfect handcuff. I can’t remember the ceremony, but the words resonate.
I note the matching ring of gold that glints on his finger.
"How long have we been married?" My voice feels detached and hollowed like I’m speaking in a tunnel. I’ll ask questions until I know who I am.
"One week."
My jaw drops. My god. "One week, and we already hate each other?"
A ghost of a smile crosses his features again. "We never liked each other, Anissa. You were given to me by your father. He owed me a debt, and he paid it with you."
I blink in shock. "Jesus," I mutter. "What a dick move."
This time, he actually does laugh. I start at the sound.
"Some men value their lives more than their virtue," he finishes.
"I see." I’m quiet for a moment before I continue. “So I was angry with you or… something,” I begin.
"Or something," he finishes with a nod. "Yes."
"And I ran from you, and I got hit by a car. Wow. I suppose I'm lucky to be alive.”
His gaze grows murderous, his tone chilling and laced with danger. "Lucky for the person driving that car that you're alive."
I lick my lips and swallow hard. "So… what happened to the person who hit me?"
He sits up straighter, and his eyes darken. His muscles tense. "What do you think? I did exactly what a husband is supposed to do when someone hurts his wife."
I stare at him. Again there's a twinge of familiarity, but I'm not sure if it's him that triggers it.
There's something about his undeniable protection, cloaked in danger…
Something about his violent, unbridled strength that makes me feel like I'm protected in a gilded cage. It’s all so familiar to me, and yet it makes my heart race.
I lay my head on the pillow because the effort of talking is exhausting.
“I’m tired." I rest my head back and sigh. "And I'm sorry that we didn't get along before. Maybe you'll remind me why I don't like you. But for now, I'm glad you've given me some answers."
Something tells me we're going to have a lot more questions before this is through, I think, as sleep beckons.
"Those pain meds… okay, can you hook me up?
" I'm guessing he doesn't really know that much about me.
I was given to him in marriage, which doesn't actually surprise me.
The arranged marriage idea is strangely familiar.
Maybe it's because I was married to him, or maybe it's for another reason altogether.
"I think I need a pair of crutches," I tell him.
"I can't walk like this. And I really need to get out of this bed. "
His phone rings. With a scowl and a curse, he shuts it off and shoves it into his pocket so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t crack.
“What’d your phone ever do to you?” I mutter, but he only grunts in response.
"I'll get you whatever you need," he says. "For now, I'll carry you."
Panic flits across my chest. I don't know him at all, but if what he tells me is true, I know we've already shared… something. I bear his last name and his ring. This stranger of a man knows more about me than I do.
What else does he know about me?
"You'll carry me," I repeat, licking my lips. That's going to mean me coming in much closer contact with him than I'm comfortable with. But I can't walk. I'm completely consumed with pain. Something has to give.
"Do you want me to get your wheelchair?" he asks with a hint of a sneer and narrowed eyes. I can tell he's testing me.
"Absolutely not," I insist. "Fine. I suppose you can carry me, then.”
“I wasn’t asking for permission.”
Argh. Of course not.
“So where are you taking me, then?"
I feel like a child… as if everything is out of my control and I'm completely dependent on someone I don't know. But what's most disturbing of all is that I'm someone I don't know.
"To our bedroom. You obviously need some help. You need rest."
I nod, not trusting my voice enough to say anything else.
Our bedroom.
Our bedroom.
It feels oddly intimate, and I can't reconcile intimacy with a stranger. I’ll be alone with him, a thought that both terrifies and exhilarates me.
I stifle a scream when he scoops me into his arms, cradling me like I’m weightless.
But there’s nothing even remotely gentle with the way he grips me, his fingers pressing into my skin as if branding me.
I feel his strength, his power, and for one terrifying second, one wild thought arrests me: is this how it will feel when he claims me?
No softness. No tenderness. Just raw power?
As his fingers brush my skin, I notice a thin, worn leather bracelet on his wrist. A charm dangles from it—a tiny wolf’s tooth. Something tells me this bracelet has significance and has witnessed things, dark secrets held by men like him.
I’m momentarily dazzled by his strong, calming, masculine scent. They say that smell is one of the strongest triggers, but I still can’t remember a thing. I’m only aware that he smells clean and strong and utterly masculine.
His arms are warm, his grip certain as he straightens with effortless ease. My leg aches, but I bite my lip and bear it. I want to get out of here.
Maybe if we don't get along, we can bury the hatchet. Maybe there's hope—no. I can't trust him. I can’t trust him.
"Do I have family?" I ask him.
Am I all alone in this world?
For some reason that I can't put my finger on, I believe that I do.
I remember being… loved. I remember laughter. I remember feeling like I belong. But I also remember being oppressed. Wanting to escape…
Is that what I did?
"I told you about your father, who sold you to get out of debt. You have no mother and no siblings."