Page 22 of Sinful Embers

I hear Vivienne’s voice now. The real one. Not the twisted, softened version I’d reconstructed in my head. I’d spent a decade convincing myself she was someone she wasn’t.

Then a memory hits me like a wrecking ball.

My breath hitches. "Why did we have to leave England?" I demand, my eyes locking onto Timir. "It was because of you, wasn’t it?"

Timir’s expression hardens slightly, but he doesn’t look surprised. "Vivienne thought Carlos and I were trying to kill her."

My heart pounds. "And were you?"

They want to kill us, Leigh. We have to leave now.

Vivienne’s voice echoes in my head.

Timir exhales slowly. "That question has multiple answers."

He coughs suddenly—harder this time. He reaches for his water bottle, taking a slow sip, but I don’t miss the flicker of pain in his eyes.

"How about this one then?" I press. "Who is Carlos?"

Timir’s gaze sharpens. "My sidekick, as you so eloquently put it earlier." A flicker of amusement crosses his face, but it’s gone as quickly as it came.

I frown. "So his name is Carlos?" The name tugs at something in my brain, just out of reach.

"Yes."

I hesitate, the weight of my next question pressing against my ribs. "If he doesn’t like Vasilikis, then why does he have my father’s face?"

Timir’s expression remains unreadable. "Because he wanted to take over your father’s life," he says simply. "To gain access to you. To use you as his way back into the Vasiliki fold."

A sick feeling curls in my stomach. "Why me?" I demand, the chain around my ankle rattling as I step forward. "Why would he want me? Why do you want me? What the fuck am I doing here?" My voice cracks, my frustration boiling over. "Why am I chained in a dungeon like a fucking dog with a shock collar?"

Timir sighs. "Don’t you recognize this room at all?"

My frustration spikes. "Should I?"

"Carlos thought being down here might trigger some of your memories."

I let out a bitter laugh. "Oh, my God. Did Vivienne chain me up in a dungeon like this? Is that why I hate her so much?"

Timir shakes his head. "Not that I know of."

"That’s not a no," I snap. "That’s a ‘maybe she did.’"

My fingers curl into fists. I want to hit something.I want answers, not half-assed riddles.

"You know how this works, Leigh," Timir says. "I can’t tell you about your past. You have to remember it on your own. If I tell you, it could alter the way the memories surface. The mind is a tricky thing."

I roll my eyes. "Blah, blah, blah. You don’t think I’ve heard that a million times?"

I close my eyes briefly, willing myself to calm down. When I open them again, I say, "Do you know how it feels when I get these memories? Deep down, I can feel they’re real. I know they happened. But they don’t make any fucking sense."

I glance at the cold, bare floor. Blank. Empty. Just like my mind.

"It’s like starting a mystery movie in the middle and trying to piece everything together. When I ask people, did this happen? No one will give me a straight answer. I just get the same damn speech over and over."

Timir studies me for a long moment. "I can only imagine how that must feel."

His gaze flicks to his watch. "It’s almost lunchtime."

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