Page 6 of Rampant

“Zach,” I whispered. “Please…”

“Please what? What do I need to do to make you wet? What didhedo?”

I shook my head. No, I couldn’t talk about Rafe. A sob broke free, then another. Tears slid down my cheeks, and each one amplified the grief simmering in my soul until all I felt was denial. Anger.

Rage.

“You killed him! I hate you.” I lifted a knee and struck his erection. “I fuckinghateyou! Do you hear me?”

Zach stumbled back, out of striking distance. While he doubled over, wheezing between lips tightened in pain, I unraveled, my gut-wrenching sobs tearing through the air, my feet uselessly kicking as acceptance finally penetrated.

Rafe was really gone.

I wailed, aching to clutch my breasts and contain the agony pouring from me. Zach might as well cut my chest open and carve my heart out with his teeth. It wouldn’t devastate any less. Nothing mattered anymore. He could beat me, cut me, kill me…I felt nothing beyond hatred and the remnants of despair.

I lifted my head, peering through tears and the messy curls clinging to my face, and caught his gaze, blasted all my hatred in that stare. He turned away, as if he couldn’t stand to look at me. But was it the sight of me that bothered him, or the truth that stared him in the face?

“You have a condition called dissociative amnesia.”

Before I could ask what the heck that meant, my brother beat me to it. Typical Adam behavior. He’d just arrived, but he was already taking over. Clearing his throat, he leaned forward, dark hair brushing his brows as he cast a glance in my direction. “What does that mean, exactly?” His get-to-the-point tone commanded Dr. Brady’s attention.

“Dissociative amnesia usually occurs due to a psychological trauma, rather than a physiological one.” The doctor gestured toward me. “In the case of your brother, it’s unusual, as it’s neither generalized nor selective. He hasn’t forgotten his entire life, or bits and pieces, he’s lost a large segment of it instead.”

“And you’re positive this isn’t from physical trauma?” Adam asked.

“Going by the MRI results, no. Everything looks good.”

I shifted carefully so the hole in my shoulder wouldn’t throb too much. “Then why the fuck can’t I remember the last eight years?” The doc’s brows furrowed, and I winced. “Sorry, I’m just…”Pissed that you guys are talking like I’m not here. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

His ruddy face hardened. “This type of disorder doesn’t always make sense.”

“Now you’re calling it a disorder? Am I crazy? Is that it?”

“No, Mr. Mason.” He crossed his arms over his broad chest, and I was certain he meant to intimidate with the firm set of his mouth. He didn’t approve of me, that much was obvious. Maybe he took issue with my career as an MMA fighter. Or the tats. Possibly, he detested foul language and the pricks who spewed it. “For whatever reason, your brain is burying part of your life.”

“What can I do about it? Is there some sort of treatment or medication? When will I get my memory back?”

“There isn’t a specific treatment for amnesia. Surrounding yourself with familiar people and places, getting back to your normal routine, those things might help your memory return. I recommend consulting with a psychologist. I believe working with a professional will help you get to the root of the cause.”

So he was saying I was crazy. Fucking wonderful.

Adam stepped forward and shook Dr. Brady’s hand. “Thank you.”

The doctor nodded, his stony expression unchanging. “I’ll be back soon with those referrals.” He directed his cool blue eyes on me. “Tell the nurses if you change your mind about the pain meds.”

“Sure.” The psychoanalysis wasn’t happening, and neither were the drugs. I couldn’t stand the drowsy, looped, out-of-control state they put me in.

Dr. Brady left and shut the door upon his exit. The dead silence that engulfed the room weighed on my nerves. I didn’t know how much longer I could take in this place, gunshot wound or not. I’d regained consciousness a few hours ago to find a stranger at my bedside who claimed it was 2014. Imagine my shock when I learned it was true. He’d informed me I’d been out for three days, spouted a bunch of other stuff, things that didn’t make much sense, and then the doctor had come in, followed by the nurses, who all poked and prodded. Tests were ordered, more words said, and it all hazed in my mind like smoke.

“You’re refusing medication for pain?” Adam frowned as he took a seat. “You’ve got nothing to prove. No one’s going to care if the big, bad RafeThe ChokerMason takes a pain pill. There’s no reason for you to suffer.”

If I listened beyond the condescending tone, he almost sounded like he gave a shit. I met his tired green eyes, noting the pronounced wrinkles surrounding them. He’d certainly aged since the last time I remembered seeing him.

Which was eight years ago…wait, longer.

“I’m fine, Adam.” At least I knew his name. Fuck, at least I knew my own. My memory had a warped sense of humor. How could eight years just disappear? It pissed me off that everyone seemed to know more about those missing years than I did, including a guy I knew nothing about. Jax wanted to talk. I felt it in my marrow, but I wasn’t sure I was ready to hear what he had to say. The doctors, the nurses—they all treated me with a professional air, but underneath, I sensed an undercurrent of hostility. Disgust even.

Who had I become? And what was up with the way my brother was looking at me? Like he fucking cared. Most of all, the absence of one person ate at me like a maggot.

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