Something tugged in my stomach, stronger than the tug in my heart. My scalp prickled with intensity and the high ceiling room with its quiet humming computers filled with stagnant awareness.
I swallowed, cursing the skip in my racing heart.
“Would you let me?” I whispered.
Kill sucked in a breath, his stomach rippling. The red, raw stitches on his pectoral looked angry against the whiteness of his flesh. The edge of a tattoo peeked from the sides of his ribs, hinting at a full back piece.
“I’ll find out who you are, Forgetful Girl. And when I do, you won’t be safe from me.” His voice whispered around me—a trap that I doubted I’d get free from.
“I’m counting on it. And when you find out who I am—tell me.” I looked into his gaze, transmitting my wish. Unravel my life. Then I wouldn’t be locked in the dark with an unfathomable connection.
My hand went tentatively for his buckle. Without a word, he pushed me away, reaching for the belt. He winced, letting his right arm fall to his side. “On second thought, I can’t do it one-handed. You’ll have to help.”
Taking a deep breath, I helped him undo the heavy silver buckle, then locked eyes with him as he popped the top button and moved his hand away from the zipper.
We didn’t speak, but something so sharp and in tune hung between us. It spoke in whispered verse, in barely acknowledged lyrics.
Kill cleared his throat.
I didn’t move.
Then my fingers fluttered over the most private part of him, grasping his zipper and tugging slowly, oh so slowly down.
He gritted his teeth. His jeans gaped open, showing dark grey boxer-briefs. He arched his hips, giving me space to yank them down.
My eyes flew briefly to the gun resting beneath the desk. I could crawl to it within seconds. I could hold it to his head while I stood and walked away. He wouldn’t die—not now that I’d stemmed the bleeding.
I didn’t need to ask questions. I’d been given all I needed to know.
But I couldn’t.
I just couldn’t.
The only sound was the clunk of his heavy jeans as they slipped off his large legs. His hips fell back onto the cold tiles and my eyes latched onto a huge art piece encapsulating his entire left leg. The design was of crashing waves with hidden symbols, equations, and promises hidden in the froth. A girl, whose red hair flowed up with the tide and disappeared into his boxers, smiled sexily, while her green mermaid’s tail kissed his knee. The damn Libra sign was in there, too—repeated over and over—yet another reminder of something I’d forgotten.
“You aren’t anything like I expected a biker lord to be like.”
“You had expectations? That’s dangerous.”
I tensed, wanting to trace the beautiful colors on his leg. “Regardless, it seems we have something in common,” I whispered.
He breathed hard, kicking away the material by his feet. His eyes fell to my T-shirt-covered side, almost as if he could see my tattoo beneath the cloth. “Seems so.”
His cryptic reply sent my nipples stiffening. Something undeniable drew me to him. Something I doubted I would ever be able to understand.
I jerked into action.
Grabbing the first fluffy white towel, I tapped his hip. “Up. I’ll put this beneath you.”
He smirked. “If you’re worried about getting the tiles wet, don’t bother.”
I scowled. “It’s for you. You’re freezing. Your body has been through enough.”
He froze; his eyes searched mine, deeper, harder than anyone before. “Who are you?” he breathed again. “Why the fuck do you care if I’m uncomfortable or bleeding to death?”
“Did you have someone to take care of you?” I hated the thought that another woman had been close to him.
I’m jealous.
He never stopped staring. “What does it matter?”
“Why is it such a mystery to be cared for? I can’t let you die.”
“Any other girl would’ve pulled that trigger the moment she got her hands on the gun.”
I asked, “If I hadn’t helped you, who would? You live alone. Those men at the compound seemed like half were on your side and half weren’t. You have a first aid kit stocked with things I doubt are legal, yet you’re amazed that I’m willing to stop you dying. I think the main question is—who are you?”
Tell me.
He didn’t respond for a minute, raising his hips again for me to spread the towel beneath him. His boxer-briefs were so tight they didn’t hide the very obvious outline of his large but flaccid cock.
His tone dropped to a curse. “No one.”
“No one?”
“I’m no one. And no one would’ve helped me. In my world—you survive or you die. You don’t rely on others to make sure you do either one. It’s the very first fucking lesson you learn.” The pain in his voice notched around my heart, squeezing.
“It doesn’t sound like a fun lesson. Who taught you that?” I whispered, crawling to his shoulders and tapping his side to sit up, so I could place another towel below his torso.
He obeyed, never taking his eyes off mine. “I don’t know why I’m indulging you, but if you must know, my father.”
Father.
“Buttercup, don’t go far. I’ll only be a second.”
I smiled at my dad. My big, strong teddy bear of a dad, who succumbed to my wish and had nicknamed me Buttercup after my favorite movie of all time: The Princess Bride.
The sun was setting, silhouetting his large body with a red-orange hue.
The brief memory faded. My father’s voice was loud in my ears as if he’d literally just spoken, but I couldn’t remember what he looked like, smelled like, or even if he was still alive.
Homesickness and despair lodged a ball of tears in my throat.
Kill hadn’t noticed my trip to the past; his eyes squeezed as a fresh wave of pain cut through him.
Busying my hands, I murmured, “What happened? Why did your father teach you such a brutal lesson?”
His face shut down; any warmth he’d shown disappeared as he growled, “Nothing fucking happened. None of your goddamn business.” He lashed out, wrapping his fingers around my wrist.
I froze.
“I never should’ve fucking mentioned him. Don’t ask me any more questions—especially about him. Got it?”
My heart lodged in my throat; I nodded. His fingers squeezed, cutting off my circulation until little heartbeats thrummed in my fingertips, then he let go.
Sighing heavily, he stared broodingly at the ceiling.
I kneeled beside him, afraid, anxious, and most of all, burning with curiosity. It wasn’t just me blanking out the past. Kill had done the same thing.
Slowly, I placed my hands into the bowl of warm water, squeezing the flannel free of excess water. “Sorry,” I whispered. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” I shook the cloth out and placed it over the dried blood on his stomach.
His eyes flared at the warmth. He looked up, locking gazes. “You’re the strangest girl.”
Girl.
Not woman.
Why in that moment did I really want him to think of me as a woman?
He’d seen me naked. He’d been affected. Hadn’t he?
His attention flickered between my legs, where the T-shirt did little to hide the nakedness beneath. He groaned quietly, masking it as pain, but something inside reacted. Something primal.
My eyes shot to his groin. The flaccidness had given way to something firmer, his poor blood-deprived body making an attempt to send supplies south.
I shouldn’t be so pleased, but a small smile tugged my mouth. “At least we know you’ll probably survive.”
He looked down, anger in his eyes, then wry amusement replaced it. He half smiled. “Guess it’s good news for everyone.”
Shyness crept over me, and I bent my head, rubbing the damp cloth over his bruised and dirty torso, slowly cleaning him.
Silence fell between us, but it wasn’t awkward. More like restful… peaceful.
Minutes passed as I transformed his dirty flesh to pink cleanliness.
Swirling the cloth in the bowl, I wrung it out and washed his left leg, studying his tattoo closely.
Arthur cleared his throat. “You’ve asked your fair share of questions of me. It’s my turn. What’s your name?”
My hands stilled on his kneecap.
Name?
I closed my eyes, searching deep within for something. A headache bloomed, shoving me backward, slamming a locked door in my face.
Returning to cleaning, I whispered, “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
I shrugged. “I don’t remember anything apart from waking up in the van before you tore my blindfold off.”
“Nothing?” His voice was part amazement, part incredulousness. “I thought you were making that shit up.”
I shook my head, once again cleaning out the cloth. The water was now grey and stained with crimson. “I wish, then I might have the answers I need and understand what I’m still doing here.”
Kill clenched his jaw. “Guess I have your crap memory to thank for being alive, then.”
Shifting to the other side of his body, I ran the material over his right leg, my eyes never leaving his tattoo. It looked old. Slightly faded in color but the lines were sharp and well drawn.