Chapter 9
Rory stared at her ceiling, begging sleep to pull her under.
When it was clear that would not happen, she sat up to grab her new sleeping potion.
Potions were her least favorite things to put in her mouth, and that’s saying a lot.
But if she wanted to see Not-Bane again, she needed to choke it down.
The instructions on the bottle said to fill the cap once and chase it with water. Tiptoeing downstairs to avoid waking Lauren, she slipped into the kitchen, took a shot of the potion, gagged, and then chased it with water.
When she settled into bed, her eyes closed, and she quickly drifted into the shadowy abyss.
“You came,” a man’s voice said behind her. Rory whipped around and came face to face with Bane, or Bane’s look-alike. She still didn’t know.
Looking around, she noticed they were in the woods near the old treehouse she’d found with Dume and her sister as a kid. It was a place filled with memories, and she walked toward it, touching the old wooden ladder.
“What is your real name?” she asked without turning around.
Goosebumps spread across her skin as he approached, his dominant aura wrapping around her.
“You called me Bane before. What’s changed?” Curiosity laced his words, as did something else she couldn’t decipher.
“Nothing,” she lied. “But it’s likely a murderer would give a false name.”
She felt him shift behind her. “Then it doesn’t matter, does it? If you think I killed Cora, call me whatever you wish.”
She spun on him, shoving him. “Don’t you dare say her name.”
The sadness in his eyes took her aback, and she cursed the pang of empathy in her chest. Why did her brain conjure this man and make her doubt what she knew?
“Tell me,” she whispered.
The side of his mouth lifted as he took a step forward. “And what will you give me in return, Miss Raven?”
She stepped back, hitting the ladder attached to the tree.
Without a word, she turned and climbed until she was sitting inside the spacious fort.
It pleased her to see that their childhood treasures still remained in decent condition.
Before her arrest, she cleaned the place often, unable to let their memories decay with time.
Had Dume taken over the responsibility while she was in prison?
Bane, or Not-Bane, hoisted himself inside and looked around silently with a furrowed brow. He bent forward and picked up Cora’s favorite book, opening it. “This isn’t my copy,” he said absentmindedly.
Rory stood and snatched the book from his hand. “It’s my sister’s.”
Looking around the room with interest, he moved slowly as he drank everything in. “None of this is mine.”
Rory gazed around the room, seeing nothing but her childhood memories. “Why would any of this be yours?”
The curtains Cora stole from their mother’s linen closet glided between his fingers as he walked past. “Because my sister and I built this when we were children.” He knocked on the wooden wall. “How is it still here?”
“That’s not possible,” she insisted, tracking his every move. “When we found it as kids, it looked ancient.”
He ignored her, murmuring to himself. “It must be the potion-based lacquer the contractors used to seal the wood.”
“What are you talking about?” She was losing her patience with him. “You can’t be more than thirty years old. I’m twenty-five, and when we found this place, the wood looked old.”
“It doesn’t look old now,” he said pointedly.
“We showed my dad, and he bought magic repairing lacquers to coat the wood and fixed it up for us.” Rory motioned around her. “Before I was arrested, I maintained it.”
An eternity passed as he stared at her before finally shaking his head with a small smile. “Of course you would find it.” He walked to a built-in bookshelf where Rory, Cora, and Dume kept trinkets and some of Cora’s favorite books.
Not-Bane kneeled on the floor, running his hand along the underside of the bottom shelf before stopping. A wide grin smiled across his face. “It’s still here.”
“What are you doing?” she demanded, wanting to slap his hand away from her sister’s books.
“Looking around,” he replied with a smirk and sauntered toward her. “Tell me the truth.” His voice was seductive, and she forced herself not to react. “Why do you think Bane isn’t my real name?”
“Last time you said you didn’t kill my sister.”
He nodded slightly. “Knowing my name will not help you find what you’re looking for.”
“How would you know what I’m looking for?” she challenged. She didn’t even know what she was looking for.
“Because I know you.” He brushed a piece of hair out of her face, and she swatted his hand away, making him smile. “I know you sleep with your mouth slightly open. Your favorite color is red, and you hate reading. I know how your eyes swell when you cry, breaking my heart into a million pieces.”
Stepping into her space, he leaned down, and his voice was husky. “I know what sounds you make when you ride my face and how your back bows off the bed when you want me to replace my fingers with my coc—”
“Stop,” she practically yelled as her entire body flushed. Clearly, she needed to get laid, but she would worry about that later. “You only know me because my mind has conjured you into existence. I need to know why.”
He walked across the room and peered out of the small window at the wildflowers blanketing the ground. “What makes you think this dream isn’t mine?”
There it was again, that sense of familiarity. It was a phrase she’d heard somewhere before. What did it mean, and why was it important enough for her mind to remind her?
“Who are you?” she breathed. Was he important to her in Vincula, or was he Bane, and she was subconsciously trying to let go of her need for vengeance?
He looked over his shoulder. “I am no one to you, not anymore.”
The treehouse shimmered, and Not-Bane hung his head. “Time to wake up, Miss Raven.”
Rory sat up, covered in a sheer layer of sweat. Despite the magic blocking her memories, her brain remembered. Why else would she have such lucid dreams that caused feelings so strong she thought they were real?
Something in her chest stuttered with heartache, like watching the third-act breakup of a romance movie. The only difference was she had missed the beginning of the movie and didn’t know what was happening. That’s what her life felt like.
Frustration wasn’t a good enough word to explain how she felt. Who was this man in her dreams, and why did he feel familiar? She longed for someone she didn’t know anymore because her memories were packed away, just out of reach.
She wished the vague recognition didn’t plague her so she could move on with her life, but it did, and she couldn’t.
Not without knowing who she left behind.