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He got up and walked to the kitchen. “Let me see if we have all of the ingredients for it before I

say let’s make it.”

I admired his bare back as he went, my eyes scanning down his muscular form.

One particular spot caught my attention, and without thinking I decided to get up and ask him.

I lifted my hand once I got to him.

“What happened here?” I whispered, running my fingers along the length of his back.

There was what looked like a brand there.

Something that I could almost make out but wasn’t sure what it could possibly be.

“You really want to know?” he asked.

Did I?

I wasn’t sure.

I thought I did.

Which was why I said what I said next.

“Yes,” I confirmed. “I do want to know.”

“It’s a burn of my gun,” he said softly. “From as far as the doctors can tell, they heated the metal of my gun, then pressed it to my back as a brand.”

My breath hitched.

“And this?” I asked, pressing against the squares.

“Dog tags,” he answered.

I leaned closer, and my breath hitched.

“Those say Maldonado,” I breathed.

“Yes,” he confirmed.

I didn’t bother asking how or why.

He didn’t know.

I could practically see the frustration rolling off of him.

“If I’d seen this when I still thought you were Malachi,” I said. “I would’ve had some serious

questions.”

He snorted. “I did have some questions. I have a lot of them, actually. But nobody seems to have

the answers. Hayes might… but when he was done talking in there… I think he’s even more fucked up

than I am, even though he doesn’t look it. I swear to God, he spaced out about ten times there, and I thought he was going to have to be given something to calm him down after. He’s just as fucked up, if not more so, than I am.” He paused. “I’m beginning to think that maybe not having my memory might

be a good thing.”