I do, but the less I say, the better, so I shake my head, curling up when a lightning bolt of pain pierces every vertebra of my spine.
“You’re here because you have invaluable information that you don’t yet remember. From what I’ve gleaned, you’ve been recovering well since your accident and your memories are returning faster than your neurologist anticipated.”
“I don’t know what information you’re talking about.”
“I believe you met a certain Carter Willard recently, though Nash Wright might ring a louder bell. The information I need involves his father.”
I twist the hem of the jacket, blinking away another wave of tears. Nash isn’t even his real name. Nothing about him was real. They’re two people in one body.
Nash is mine, and Carter...
Carter is a monster.
There’s a rap on the bedroom door before Rex enters, holding a gray hoodie and gray tracksuit bottoms on the palm of his hand as if he’s presenting a king with a crown.
“Ah, good. We’ll finish this conversation once you’ve rested,” Blaze says, setting the clothes beside me. “Rex here is my personal bodyguard. I trust him with my life, so he’ll stand guard at your door. You can be sure no one will enter without my explicit permission—I don’t hand that out lightly.”
Another knock rattles the door and Rex lets in a maid. The smell of tomato soup breaches the room, making my rioting stomach somersault back.
“You should eat something. If you can’t eat, then at least drink your tea. It’ll help you sleep. I’ll stop by in the morning.”
With that, he marches toward the door, every step like a man on a mission. He stops in the doorway, where Rex waits, eyes hidden behind black sunglasses. “No one other than me and this maid enters this room. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir. Orders?”
“Shoot to kill.”
My blood runs cold and my eyes dart to the guns strapped around Rex’s torso. There’s two more on his back and I bet he’s got another pair at his ankles. He looks capable of taking down twenty men without breaking a sweat. If he’s guarding my door, the information hidden in my broken synapses must really be invaluable.
The door closes behind them and I’m finally alone.
I hold my breath, listening for the characteristic click of the lock, but it doesn’t come.
The warm clothes on the nightstand beg me to slip into them while the fear coursing through my veins tells me I should curl into a ball or hide in the corner.
I don’t listen.
Fear won’t get me through this. If I want to walk out of here alive, I need to calm down and focus.
Aware of the cameras pointing my way, I hold the black, oversized suit jacket against my chest and slowly stand, every move igniting a charge of blinding pain down my back.
Getting dressed will be a challenge.
Tucking the clothes under one arm, I limp toward the bathroom. There’s a camera here as well... but there’s also a shower curtain to hide behind.
I take a moment to steady my breathing, then fling the clothes over the rail. Grinding my teeth, I grip the hem of thepink lacy negligee and cross my arms. I can’t lift it far, doubling over when pain lances my back.
It’s like I’m being whipped all over again, but with no rug to absorb the impact.
Once the pain subsides, I try again, and again, until sweat trails a path along my spine. If I can’t take this off, there’s no way I’ll get the hoodie on.
I’ve survived worse.
Centering myself, I recall the accidents that left me scarred. I remember what it felt like to wake up in hospital without any pain meds. I remember the agony of my dislocated shoulder. How tender the sprawling purple bruise on my thigh was after I tucked and rolled out of Nash’s—Carter’scar.
And then I remember how much it hurt when my mother was dying. How I had to go through it again, reliving it night after night as my memories returned. How much it hurt when I discovered Nash wasn’t who he said he was. The pain currently streaming through me as I realize I might never see Dad again.
I close my eyes, grit my teeth, and tug the pink fabric off like I’m ripping a Band-Aid. My knees give in, my vision blurs, but the negligee is off. I use that momentum to shove my hands into the sleeves of the hoodie like my life depends on getting dressed and no amount of pain can stop me.
