The man who stepped inside shared Wilder’s square jaw and the shape of his nose, but his coloring was different. His skin was a shade deeper, his hair a dark chestnut with subtle caramel streaks only visible where the light shone upon it. Rich brown eyes narrowed at me, flaring almost coppery where they caught sunlight from the window. He was older than Wilder, though not by much, yet his bearing and stern expression gave the impression of authority.
His imposing height and the formidable breadth of his shoulders would have made him memorable, even without the formal black cape draped over his right shoulder.
His name would not come to me, but something twisted deep in my gut as I studied him. My free hand twitched, trying to reach for him, and heat burned at the back of my throat, as though the words that had lodged there were flames ready to be spewed at him.
His brows drew together, as if he could tell something was wrong before I’d spoken a single word. Before he’d even glanced at the man standing between the bed and the wall.
Wilder had frozen, his tunic stretched over both arms and pulled taut across his chest in preparation to be dragged over his head.
“You’re not dressed,” this new man said, and though I couldn’t remember ever having heard his voice, I knew it the same way I would know what a ripe berry tasted like before I bit into it. As if I’d experienced the tart burst countless times before.
A new heat kindled inside me with that thought, but it sputtered at the disgruntled tightening of his jaw. At his impatient huff.
This man was displeased with me.
The dark weight of his gaze suggested that was not a recent development.
“Why aren’t you dressed?” He glanced around the room, evidently looking for a way to hurry me along, and when his focus found Wilder, it cooled into a malignant glare. “Am I to assume, then, that punctuality is too much to ask of yourentirecohort?”
Cohort?
When neither Wilder nor I answered, he continued, turning that icy gaze my way. “You are both aware, are you not, that this is a single-occupancy room?”
“Something’s wrong with her, Des.” The words almost exploded from Wilder, as if he were desperate to change the subject. “The rest of…this…it can wait.”
The new man—Des—turned back to me, and the room suddenly felt too warm, despite the open window. Again the space—my room—felt somehow obliquely familiar, yet still entirely alien. Just like both men.
“Amber?” he said. “What’s happened?”
I stepped back, and my calves brushed the armchair through the thin material of my gown. “I do not know you.”
But that wasn’t entirely true.
Desmond.He hates being called Des.
Focus on the facts.
I could not be sure whose voice was whispering in my mind—my own?—but the advice felt wise:Let the facts lead to a conclusion.
“I don’t know who you are,” I said, rephrasing my statement for accuracy, since I was fairly certain that I did, in fact, know them both. “But I cannot be certain how significant that is, because I don’t know who I am either. Beyond names, anyway. Still, I don’t remember our names, so much as I simply know them.”
Both men blinked at me. Neither moved. I couldn’t even be sure they were breathing.
“My conclusion,” I said, “based on the fact that this bedchamber appears to be mine, and that you both seem to know me, is that I have lost my memory.”
Wilder huffed, a mild sound of amusement that inexplicably eased my anxiety, albeit only a little.
“Well,” he said, “she certainlysoundslike the same old Amber.”
“You really don’t rememberanything?” Wilder dropped into the green armchair, fully dressed but for his boots.
Beyond the window, birds dove toward the glittering water far below. I inhaled the salty ocean scent, attempting to synchronize my pulse with the peaceful crash of the waves. Trying to breathe past the tension in the room.
Wilder’s attention was an almost physical sensation—an uncomfortable pressure, like a hand pressed to an open wound.
Desmond’s felt like a sunbeam directed through a lens. His copper-hued eyes were trained on me intently. Skeptically. The arms crossed over his broad chest emphasized the sentiment.
“Nothing recent.” I sank into the wooden chair, my back to the desk.
