"You're lying." I stop advancing, giving her space even though every instinct tells me to close the distance, to touch her, and prove that whatever we shared last night was real. "You've been watching me for weeks, cataloging everything I do, every instinct I have. You've seen the scars, the tattoos, the way I move. You know I'm dangerous."
Her jaw tightens. "I don't know anything about you. That's the problem."
"Then ask me."
"Ask you what?" Her voice rises slightly, frustration bleeding through the careful control. "You don't remember who you are. You can't tell me if you're a good man or a monster. You can't tell me if someone's going to show up here looking for you, if being near you is going to get me killed."
The words hit like physical blows, but I can't argue with them. She's right. I'm a blank slate with violent instincts and a body that's been through hell. For all either of us knows, I could be exactly the kind of man she should run from.
"So last night was a mistake," I say quietly.
She flinches. "I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to." I turn away, heading back toward the cabin, but her voice stops me.
"Sasha, wait."
I look back at her, and the conflict on her face is painful to see. She wants to trust me. She wants last night to mean something. But fear is winning, and I can't blame her for that.
"I just need time," she says softly.
"Take all the time you need." I force myself to sound understanding even though frustration coils in my gut. "I'm not going anywhere." I pause. "For now, at least."
The irony isn't lost on either of us. I literally have nowhere else to go.
I spend the rest of the morning avoiding her, which is impressive given the cabin's size, doing push-ups until my shoulder screams in protest. Anything to burn off the restless energy that's been building since I woke up alone.
Around noon, she makes lunch. Soup and bread, simple and warm. We eat in silence, the tension between us thick enough to choke on. I catch her watching me when she thinks I'm not looking, her gaze lingering on my hands, my chest, my face. Like she's trying to memorize me or figure me out. Maybe both.
"The storm's coming back," she finally says, breaking the silence. "Weather radio says it'll hit tonight."
"We have enough supplies?"
"We should be fine." She pushes her soup around with her spoon, not really eating. "We might lose power, though. She'squiet for a while, then surprises me when she says, "I don't regret it. Last night, I mean."
I set down my spoon, meeting her eyes across the table. Her cheeks flush pink.
"Then what's wrong?"
She's quiet for a long moment, her fingers tracing patterns on the table. When she finally speaks, her voice is barely above a whisper. "I've been alone for three years. I chose that. I needed that. And then you showed up, bleeding in my yard, and suddenly, I'm not alone anymore. I don't know who you are.Youdon't know who you are. It's a bit… disconcerting."
The honesty in her words cracks something open in my chest. "You're right. Neither of us knows anything about me. I don't know if I have family, friends, or enemies. But last night, for a few hours, none of that mattered. I was just a man with a woman who made me feel human."
She looks up at me, and there are tears in her eyes. "What if you remember? What if you wake up one day and you're someone completely different?"
"Then I'll deal with it." I reach across the table, offering my hand. After a heartbeat, she takes it. "But right now, in this moment, I'm just Sasha. And you're just Maya. Can't that be enough?"
She squeezes my fingers. "I don't know."
"That's honest, at least."
We clean up together, moving around each other with careful politeness. The easy intimacy from last night is gone, replaced bythis awkward dance of two people who've seen each other naked but don't know how to be clothed together.
I'm checking the security feeds when a memory hits me like a freight train.
A boardroom. Long table, polished to a mirror shine. Men in expensive suits, their faces blurred but their postures clear. Deference. Fear. Respect. I'm at the head of the table, and when I speak, everyone listens. The weight of authority settles on my shoulders like a familiar coat, comfortable and heavy. I'm making decisions that will affect lives, businesses, and territories. My word is law.
The memory fragments before I can grasp more details, leaving me dizzy and disoriented. I grip the edge of the desk, breathing hard.