Page 48 of Unleashed

"Next time, you will," Rafail growls.

I place a hand on his arm to calm him. Maybe more sex will help.

Jesus, did I really just consider that?

“Mr. Kopolov, I have your family files here.”

Rafail goes rigid. “Who sent those?”

The doctor frowns, looking over them. “No one. These are public record.” He’s quickly reading through things. “Ah, I remember this story. You became legal guardian to your siblings when you were barely an adult yourself.” Nodding, he flips through. “There were three brothers and a sister. You?—”

“Strike that.” Rafail cuts his eyes to the doctor, who pauses mid-sentence and stares at him. I stare too. Three brothers and a sister?

“I have two sisters and two brothers. My sister Yana is now legally married to Danila Sanchez, though she kept her legal name.”

I stare, but I don’t say anything. I’ve seen Yana’s ring but haven’t met her husband. She doesn’t live with us.

My mind whirs over this news as I piece it all together.

Rafailhashad his work cut out for him as guardian. The laws in Russia are draconian, with few rights for people who don’t meet the status quo.

Again, more questions surface, but I watch as the doctor makes the necessary changes to the paperwork before we move on.

"What can I help you with?" the doctor says.

"My wife has amnesia," Rafail says at the same time I say, "I have amnesia." The doctor nods. "Yes. I read the report."

"Where was that report located?" Rafail asks, his eyes narrowing on the doctor. The doctor doesn't fluster, but I watch him nervously eyeing the doorway as if estimating the distance between him and Rafail in case he needs to run. Good luck with that, buddy.

"A secure, encrypted file," the doctor says. "I promise, no one else has access to it. Your brother sent it to me.” He turns to me. "I know you suffered retrograde amnesia due to head trauma. Are you here because you have questions about this?"

"I do."

Leaning back in his chair, he taps his fingertips together. "What can I answer for you?"

My mind goes blank. I begged—damn near demanded—for him to take me to a doctor so that I could get answers to my questions, and now that I'm here, I don’t know what to ask. I open my mouth, but the problem is I have somanyquestions that I can hardly form a coherent thought.

"How long can she expect to have memory loss?" Rafail asks. His voice is calm as always, but there’s an underlying tension whenhis hand grips mine. Maybe he doesn’t like that I don’t know who I am.

The doctor adjusts himself in his seat, glancing between the two of us as if weighing his response versus his need to relay accurate information. “Retrograde amnesia varies greatly from case to case. There’s no promise of a full recovery, and in some isolated cases, certain memories will never return. The brain can be unpredictable.”

Rafail’s jaw tightens, his fingers flexing against my skin. “So there’s nothing concrete? We came out to see you, and you don’t really have any answers?” His questions become more detailed and pointed as he drills the doctor on every angle—treatments, triggers, even the possibility of sudden recovery. I watch as his need for control clashes with the ambiguous answers. I almost feel bad for the doctor. God help any doctor who will deliver my baby if I ever get pregnant.

Pregnant. Babies.Something flashes in my memory again, a triggered memory of wearing scrubs in a hospital as someone prepared to birth a child. Huh.

I watch as the doctor flips through a manila envelope, reading the chart, his brow furrowed. “This type of amnesia impacts your ability to recall memories from before your accident.”

I know. That seems obvious.

“I remember… some things. Little bits. Pieces.” My voice breaks. “Not enough.”

“That’s typical,” the doctor says, almost methodically, tapping the file. “Your memories are fractured, and we’ve found that memory loss is sometimes tied to the emotional intensity of an event. It’s the brain’s way of protecting itself from trauma, andwe don’t even need to have physical impact for such a thing to happen.”

“So someone can be so traumatized that they have amnesia?” I ask, staring at him. “Without any impact?”

The doctor nods. “In your case, it seems as if the trauma was significant.”

“She was hit by a car,” Rafail snarls. The doctor jumps in his chair, but I just give Rafail a withering look and squeeze his knee.Relax.

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