Page 3 of Finding Love

“Like what? You threw yourself at me when I first woke up, and I had no idea who you were. Today, I found out you’re a member of a mafia family.” She spreads her arms. “I’m still alive and breathing, right? That didn’t break me, did it?” The defiance in her voice reminds me of what first drew me to her, besides a body I’d give anything to touch again. Her attitude has never failed to turn me on, and the present moment is no exception.

I’m burning to put this bed to use.

Maybe then, she’d remember me.

Us.

“For all you know,” I counter as quietly as I can. “It might have set you back when I startled you. Your team said you need to be careful.”

“Why do they speak to you but not to me? Isn’t that a violation somehow?” she demands, lifting her chin. Fuck me. I’d give anything to kiss the defiance away until she melts in the heat.

“They know how important your care is to me. I brought you in after you were hurt.” It’s not easy remembering that night—the helplessness, holding her, and feeling like she was slipping away no matter how tightly I clutched her.

The entire team knows better than to address anybody but me when it comes to her condition. No one outside these walls is to know she’s a patient. No calls to family. Besides, I’m her family. They go through me and me alone.

“And how…” her voice wavers and cuts out, but she pushes through like the warrior she is, “… how do I know it wasn’t you who hurt me?”

It takes everything I have not to flinch under her simple question. Never has innocence pierced me the way hers does now. “You need to trust me, Emilia. All I ask for is your trust.”

“You won’t let me have a phone, and I’m supposed to trust you?” She sinks against her pillows with a weary sigh, like sitting and talking with me is too much. “I’m sorry, but you’re asking a lot.”

As much as I loathe it, there’s no choice but to tell her the most convenient part of the truth. “You aren’t a detective anymore. You resigned weeks ago.”

“Bullshit,” she blurts out in a trembling voice as the color drains from her cheeks. “I would never.”

“You did.” Gesturing toward her right arm, I explain, “You have a scar there now. You were shot in the arm and suffered nerve damage.”

She doesn’t want to believe me. I see it in the way she flexes her hand and winces as she lifts the sleeve of her flowered gown to examine the small yet very visible scar left behind. “You were shot by a man we assumed was already dead,” I murmur as she studies herself. “It was my fault you were hurt. I should have made sure he was dead. I’ll never forgive myself.” Truer words have never been spoken.

“So I quit my job?” Her voice is soft, like a little girl who’s lost her way and doesn’t know what to believe or where to go now. Here I am, ready to take her by the hand and guide her, and I’m the last person she’d rely on.

“You did.” I’m trying like hell to ease her into it. Gentleness isn’t my strong suit. I don’t have a lot of practice with it, let alone patience.

Her baby blues are full of apprehension when they meet mine. “Where do you come into this? You knew what I do… did… for a living, but we were still together?”

I’ve had days to consider how I’d explain everything, yet words escape me. It could be that no amount of imagination could possibly prepare me for being in her presence. She won’t let me touch her, yet I can see her. Smell her. Feel the warmth radiating from her trembling body. Her presence is too powerful, and I came too close to losing her to do anything but yearn for her now.

Emilia needs me to be stronger than that.

Swallowing back my longing, I murmur, “It’s a very long story. All I can do is ask you to trust me. Believe me when I tell you we were together, and we were happy. Vacationing in the Hamptons, having a great time.” Another swallow, this time to clear the lump in my throat. “Planning a future together.”

That’s what does it. She flinches at the word future, frowning, her brows drawing together. “My head hurts. I need to rest now.” Without another word, she turns, facing away from me, ending the conversation by revealing the stitches running along the back of her head—twelve in all, and every one of them a silent condemnation.

“I’ll let you rest, then. But I’ll be in the other room if you need anything.” She offers no response, only pulling the blanket over her shoulder and tightening into a ball.

This is the way she acts when she knows nothing but my name. How much worse will it get when she remembers how we met? Her determination to build a case against me and my family?

I can’t let that happen. She needs to love me again before she remembers more, or she needs to remember everything all at once. Since the medical team believes her recovery will take time, the former seems my only path to salvation.

I have to make her love me.

Considering I don’t know how I managed it in the first place, I’m fucking lost and more determined than ever to find Vitali and end his miserable life before wiping his entire family off the map. Nobody takes what belongs to me.

But killing him won’t bring her back, and that matters more than anything because I need her more than I’ve ever needed anything. I was born to be hers.

Yet here I am, closing a glass door, separating us again. There’s nothing to do but take everything boiling in me—the love, the loneliness, the fear for Emilia’s health and safety—and pour it onto a sheet of paper embossed with the hospital’s logo. There’s a stack of it in a drawer along with other office supplies. I wonder how many people have conducted business in this room while waiting for a loved one to recover.

Touching the pen to the page is almost therapeutic. I can allow myself to crack open and pour out everything threatening to choke me.

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