Not a kiss.
Just a soft, instinctive push of her body toward mine.
A seeking.
A remembering.
I pull back just enough to breathe.
“We’ll get your memories back,” I murmur.“Piece by piece.”
“And if I don’t?”she whispers.
I cup the back of her head, thumb stroking slow circles.
“Then I’ll give you new ones,” I say.“Better ones.”
She exhales a shaky breath relief, want, fear all tangled together.
I pull her gently into my chest, holding her close, the storm raging outside while the storm inside me goes quiet for the first time in hours.
Because now I know the truth:
They didn’t hit her by accident.They didn’t hit her to scare her.
They hit her to hurt me.
And that?
That means the rules just changed.
Time to hunt the men who forgot one simple truth: She doesn’t need to remember me in order for to kill for her.
Sixteen
Kelly
My memories feel like stars, distant and scattered, but guiding my way.
The storm doesn’t let up.
Thunder cracks like the sky is splitting in half.Rain hammers the roof so hard the windows shake.It should make me feel trapped, buried, claustrophobic.
Instead, I feel oddly steady.
Because Riot is sitting next to me on the worn couch in the safehouse, close enough that our knees touch, close enough that his body heat brushes mine like a quiet promise.
A promise he hasn’t said out loud but that I feel anyway.
He told me the truth about the message.
He told me they came after me to get to him.
He told me I mattered to him.
And now?
He looks like he’s preparing for war.
