Page 21 of Sinful Embers

Memories flood back unbidden—Vivienne at seedy hotels after her sets, draping herself over whatever man had caught her attention that night. How many times had I seen her disappear into a bathroom with a stranger?

I shudder, stomach rolling as another memory slams into me. The night I stumbled into the wrong stall.

God. Why that one?

I shake my head, pushing it down. But the mention of the bathroom reminds me—I need to go. Badly. Still, I refuse to move while I’m this exposed.

"Sorry, do you need the ablutions?"

My head jerks toward him. Jesus. Who even uses that word? "No." I shake my head, but my bladder protests sharply. "Yes. But I can’t exactly go when there’s nothing closing it off. I'm not about to piss on display in this damn goldfish bowl."

Timir sighs, pulling out his phone. He taps the screen, then holds it up to me. "This is your cell’s feed. It’s blank."

He places the phone on a chair near the toilet. "I’ll leave it here so you can see there are no cameras."

Then, without another word, he walks out, pausing only to remind me, "You have five minutes." The door clicks shut behind him.

I don’t waste time. My bladder won’t last much longer. I rush to the toilet, yanking my pants down, surprised to find a Velcro band along the side. It runs all the way down to the ankle shackle.

Huh.

I hate to admit it, but I’m impressed by the design.

After washing my hands—relieved to find antibacterial soap and a towel wedged between the basin and the shower—I glance at Timir’s phone. Could I use it to call someone?

I shake the thought away. No chance.

Instead, I return to the cot, noting the small nightstand beside it. I must have been too preoccupied with Timir watching me sleep to notice it earlier.

There’s a knock. "Leigh, are you done?"

I consider yelling "No," just to be difficult, but I sigh. "Yes. Thank you."

Timir re-enters, taking his seat at the table once more. "Feel better?"

"I do." Before he can say another word, I blurt, "Why was Vivienne so scared of you?" My gaze flicks toward the door. "And where’s the man with my father’s face? Wasn’t he your sidekick?"

Timir’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “He’s around. But trust me, it’s better if you don’t meet him. He doesn’t like Vasilikis.”

I stiffen, his words hitting a nerve. "Then why the fuck does he have my father’s face?" The words spill from my lips before I can stop them, my chest tightening as I realize how easily I’ve just referred to Nikolas as my father. "Didn’t he live with Vivienne and me for a while when I was young?"

Timir leans back, crossing one ankle over his knee, watching me like I’m a puzzle he’s trying to solve. "What do you remember?" His voice is careful, almost too measured.

It reminds me of the way therapists talk. What do you remember, Leigh? How does that make you feel, Leigh?

Like I want to punch you in your stupid face.

I shake off the memory of those useless therapy sessions—the ones Mark insisted I needed. Therapy never unlocked my memories. It only pissed me off.

"Not much," I admit. Pieces of memories claw at the edges of my mind, just out of reach. The ones that have surfaced don’t make sense yet.

I shift on the cot, trying to get comfortable, but the thin mattress makes it impossible. "This fucking cot is a goddamn torture device," I mutter, stretching my stiff limbs.

Timir raises an eyebrow, his tone dry. "Look at you—a few patches of memory from your old life, and you’re already pining for all the luxury you grew up with."

"I was never rich," I snap defensively. "I grew up with Vivienne and Mark, remember? There was no fucking luxury in that life. No money for anything luxurious."

Suddenly, the memories—the ones I’ve spent years burying—start clawing their way to the surface, demanding to be seen.

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