“So this really is home to you, isn’t it?”
“It’s where I live. Yes.”
It’s a curious reply, with a hidden meaning I try to decipher. “Where you live? So it’s not home?”
“Semantics.”
“That’s an answer which I assume translates to you not wanting to talk about this.”
“Why do you?”
“Because if I can’t know me, I want to know you.”
“You mean, you still think you know me and don’t remember.”
“Do I?”
“No matter how many times you ask me that, the answer’s going to be the same.”
“Fine,” I say, but I’m not ready to give up. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-two. How old are you?”
“Twenty-five,” I reply, surprising myself. “And I really . . . don’t know how I know that.”
“A name and an age. It’s progress. Maybe if you write in that journal you grabbed at the hospital you’ll know I’m telling the truth.”
“I’m sure it’s ruined.”
“And easily replaced.”
“Unlike my memories,” I say. “And I’m not calling you a liar, Kayden. I can’t help how you make me feel.”
We stop at a light and he turns to me, and even in the darkness the blast of his full attention is like fire heating ice, and I’m the ice. “How do I make you feel, Ella?”
A million emotions rush through me, but I cannot name one of them, so I whisper, “I don’t know.”
“Do you want to know how you make me feel?” he asks, his voice a low seduction that promises hot nights, and hotter kisses. I want those kisses. I want more. He might not be a monster, but he’s still keeping secrets.
“Not yet,” I say, turning away from him to face the roof of the car, when I’d meant to simply say, “No.”
He laughs, that low, ridiculously sexy laugh of his, and I am again taken aback by how right and wrong he can feel at the very same moment in time. We fall into silence, the sound of the radio mixed with the raindrops on the roof filling the air. I start to drift off when “Take Me to Church” by Hozier begins to play. My gut knots, my chest tightening with some dark emotion that I think might be fear. Which is ridiculous. I’m sitting in the car with Kayden. The song is just a song, but the words sweep through me like a blade, trying to make me bleed.
There is no sweeter innocence than our gentle sin . . .
I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting the urge to shove away a memory I don’t want to see, but I can’t hide. I wasn’t a coward when Kayden held that gun on me, and I won’t be one now. Cautiously, I let myself slip inside the past, and it’s like I’m looking down on myself from above, not fully committed to being in the moment. First, there is just me. I don’t see the place I am at. I’m wearing a curve-hugging black dress with sheer, long sleeves. My lips are glossy. My makeup is perfect. My hair is red, vibrant, and this is me. The real me Kayden said he hopes to know. That he swore he would know.
My vision expands, and I can see that I am standing in the middle of a bedroom with expensive artwork on the walls, fancy hardwood floors beneath my strappy high-heeled shoes. To the right of me is a large brown leather chair, and beside it a wooden sculpture of a tiger, and I don’t like it. Not at all, but I do not know why, nor do I care to remember. I cut my gaze away from it, shutting out whatever memory it represents.
I refocus on where I stand, a massive mahogany bed behind me. Two gorgeously etched wooden doors are in front of me, and I’m waiting for them to open. And they do, as if my attention has invited them to do so, and he enters, stealing my breath, skyrocketing my heart rate. I try to see his face, but my mind is still protecting me. I don’t have to know who he is to feel his power or the way he owns the room. No. The way he owns everything, and everyone, around him.
He walks toward me, slow, confident, stopping a mere sway from touching me. He is tall and towers above me, watching me, and I can feel the heat of his stare, but I cannot see his eyes or even what he is wearing. And I don’t want to, I realize. That’s the problem. I’m hiding when I have to face this, and I force myself to go deeper into the memory. No longer am I watching myself from above. I’m right there in that room, living the experience all over again.
“Undress,” he orders.
I blanch. “What? I thought we were going out.”
He steps closer, towering over me, his suit tailored, expensive perfection, like his body beneath it. “You heard me. I told you to undress.”