Suddenly, he blinks and the unfocused, lost look disappears from his eyes. He looks at me as if seeing me for the first time.
"Where…" His voice is rough, barely above a whisper. He tries to sit up and immediately gasps, his hand going to his bandaged shoulder.
"Don't move," I say quickly, setting down my tea. "You were shot. I removed the bullet, but you need to stay still or you'll tear the stitches."
He stares at me, those gold eyes moving over my face like he's trying to place me. "Who are you?"
"Maya." The lie comes easily after three years of practice. "You collapsed near my cabin during the storm. I brought you inside."
"Maya," he repeats slowly, like he's testing the name. Then his brow furrows. "Who am I?"
My stomach drops. "What?"
"I don't…" He closes his eyes, his jaw clenching. "I don't remember. My name. Where I'm from. Why I was…" He opens his eyes again, and there's panic in them now. "I don't remember anything."
Oh, God. Amnesia. Of course. Because this situation isn't complicated enough already.
"It's okay," I say, trying to sound calm even though my mind is racing. "You hit your head. There's a nasty bump, but the memory loss is probably temporary."
"Probably?" His voice sharpens despite its weakness.
"I'm not a doctor. But head injuries can cause temporary amnesia. It might come back."
He's quiet for a long moment, his eyes never leaving my face. I feel exposed under that stare, like he's reading things I don't want him to see.
"You saved my life," he finally says.
"I couldn't leave you to die in the snow."
"Some people would have."
The certainty in his voice makes me wonder what kind of life he's lived that he assumes people would leave him to freeze. Even though he doesn't remember his life.
"Are you hungry?" I ask, changing the subject. "You should eat something. Keep your strength up."
He nods slowly, and I escape to the kitchen to heat up soup. My hands shake as I work. A man with amnesia. A dangerous man, ifhis scars and tattoos are any indication. And, of course, the gun I took off him. A man who was shot and left for dead.
And I just invited him into my home.
I bring him soup and help him sit up enough to eat, propping pillows behind him. He winces with every movement but doesn't complain. His eyes track my movements as I settle back in the armchair with my own bowl.
"Thank you," he says after a few spoonfuls.
"You're welcome."
"Maya." He says my fake name like he's memorizing it.
I nod.
We eat in silence for a while, the only sound the wind outside and the crackle of the fire. The storm might have stopped, but the temperature has dropped even further.
"What should I call you?" I ask finally. "Since you don't remember your name."
He considers this, his gold eyes distant. "I don't know. What do you think?"
"You look like a Sasha," I say without thinking. It's a common Russian nickname, and something about him seems Russian. Maybe it's the bone structure, or the way he holds himself even while injured.
Of course, it could be the obvious—his Russian accent, slight though it is.