Page 21 of Unleashed

"My god!" I gasp.

"You're lucky you're alive," he says, his voice low. "They said if you had been standing still and not running at the speed you were, you wouldn’t have made it."

I need to know the answers to the questions that haunt me. Why was I running? Why was I running fromhim?

"No running for a while, Anissa." It’s far from the first concern on my mind.

He stands in the doorway of a bedroom. The open door reveals a large primary suite. The room is grand, with high ceilings and soft, elegant lighting. A plush, deep indigo-colored rug covers the hardwood floor, and tall windows flood the space with light. The furniture is dark wood, rich and commanding, and there's a fireplace in the corner, unlit and cold. But what I notice most, of course, is the imposing bed in the center of the room. It dominates the space, draped in luxurious fabrics and surrounded by tall, intricately carved posts.

Again, this room looks somewhat familiar—and I wonder if I've seen it before. Or is it just that I've been in a place like this before?

No, no… he said that we were married. Not for long, but I have definitely been in this room before. Then why does it all look so new? I close my eyes because a headache is forming behind my temples, throbbing. I try to take in the details, but it's overwhelming. It feels as if someone's holding a metal pot in front of me and clanging it with a wooden spoon, the noise reverberating in my skull.

"Remember what I told you," Rafail says.

"You told me a lot of things," I say, trying to hide the petulant tone of my voice and failing. I’m tired. Overwhelmed.

"The doctor said too many questions or pushing too hard will impede your recovery. No more questions, Anissa. The doctor's coming in to check on you. I want you to rest. Are you hungry?"

I shake my head and resist the urge to lay it on his chest. It feels nice being carried like this, as if I'm weightless, by a strong man like him. I'd have to be immune to every female instinct in my body to not enjoy the way he holds me, nestled in his arms. I can feel the strength of his muscles and how he's not even struggling to carry me.

There's a couch in the bedroom with an array of pillows on it. Beside it is a small table and a few books. I look around the room, but there's not much to see. It's well-appointed but simple, not unlike a luxury hotel room. I half expect to see small bottles of body lotion and shampoo in the bathroom when I go, maybe white hand towels twisted into the shape of a dove.

"So this is my new prison," I say dryly. Silk sheets as soft as a lover’s touch brush my skin, and yet I feel caged. Gilded chains in the form of rare paintings line the walls, and fresh-cut roses—too perfect, staged—sit on every surface. It’s beautiful but as suffocating as iron bars.

He looks at me sharply and doesn't reply.

When his phone vibrates, he answers it and turns away from me, speaking in Russian. I realize it's easier for me to understand Russian than English. Russian must be my first language, then. How strange to need to remember that.

He told me to rest. He told me that if I push it, I will impede my recovery. Rest it is, then, but it's a lot easier said than done with my brain.

It's human nature to want to sift truth from lies, but how does one do so without a foundation of memory? I try to piece together what he’s said without taxing my brain. He says he's my husband and that we didn’t like each other. That I was hit by a car after running away from him and lost my memory.

I have two choices then: believe what he tells me or don’t and seek the truth.

Overcome with exhaustion, the pain becomes too much. I close my eyes, thankful for the clean sheet beneath my chin and the soft mattress. I like the sound of his voice, I think, as I start to drift off to sleep. He's confident. Commanding. And somehow, that brings me no small measure of solace.

As I drift into darkness, faint images glimmer at the recesses of my mind. Laughter. A shadowy figure. A whisper in Russian.

Maybe when I wake up, I'll remember who I am. Maybe when I wake up, I'll remember everything. Maybe when I wake up, I'll be able to distinguish truth from lies.

Or will I?

Chapter 8

RAFAIL

While she sleeps,I make a few phone calls. My mind races. She’s curious and bright, and even though, so far, her memory is spotty, there’s no question with a mind as sharp as hers that itwillcome back.

And fuck me, she’sgorgeous. I wasn’t prepared for this. For her. Every inch of her challenges my self-control. Those wide, almost innocent eyes that glint with defiance, the gentle part of her full lips when she’s surprised, almost like she’s tempting without even trying. Her skin is pale and flawless, and when she shifts, the curve of her neck beckons to me. Her hair falls in soft waves around her shoulders, as brilliant as a Snow Queen’s.

I clench my fists, willing myself to focus, to remember that she’s here because she ran from me, but every inch of her soft skin, every delectable curve, only makes it harder to concentrate. The sooner I truly claim her, the sooner I truly make hermine…

When I held her, the scent of her skin, soft and slightly sweet, hit me like a drug, raw and intoxicating, making my pulse race.When she looked up at me with wide eyes, her pretty lips just inches from my own, I could hardly keep myself from tracing the line of her jaw, from pressing my lips to the place where her pulse beats just beneath her delicate skin.

I want to bury my hands in her hair and my cock in her tight, hot pussy until she arches beneath me, helpless andmine.I’ve fought, controlled, dominated, and conquered so many before her, yet nothing prepared me forthis.Forher.

The woman who brought near devastation to everything I’ve ever built, who put my entire family at risk.

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