Chapter Two

Priest

" J esus Christ," I mutter, peering out at the crowd already gathering around the main stage, waiting for Winter's set. It's a goddamn madhouse out there. There are bodies as far as I can see. Thousands of people are crammed into the arena for the festival, leaving standing room only.

"Welcome to the big leagues, fucker." Memphis Hughes smacks me on the back, his blue eyes shining as he grins at me. "Do us all a favor and don't shit yourself, yeah?"

"How about you get fucked?" I growl, flipping him off.

He throws his head back, laughing in response. The asshole. I swear to Christ, the man is never serious about anything. Typical drummer. But he and I have gotten close since I joined Winter's band a few months ago. He's a solid motherfucker.

Me? Well, I guess we'll see. If I've ever played a show this big, I don't remember it. Don't remember much about much, honestly. My life started six years ago. Everything before that is a great, big blank.

I know I came from somewhere, but I don't know where. And I know I was going somewhere, but I don't know where I was going, either. Everything in between is a void too, sucked away in a black hole of Jamais vu and retrograde amnesia.

Six years ago, the policía found me tied to a chair, clinging to life, when they raided a trap house in Guadalajara, Mexico. Don't know how I got there, how long I'd be there, why I was there, or what I did to get myself tied up inside.

All I know is that I've got a goddam hole in my heart that won't heal, nightmares that refuse to go away, and more questions than there are answers. I've told myself for years that I need to just let it go and settle into this new life—that I need to be Priest, the man I became when I woke up in the hospital—but I don't even know who the fuck he is. Who I am.

How do you become someone new when you don't know who you were to begin with? How do you start over when you don't know where you're starting from? I've asked myself the same goddamn questions a thousand times, and I still don't know the answers.

I've spent years trying to glue together whatever shattered pieces of my life remain. I've cracked skulls and broken bones and did what I had to do. And all it got me was scraps of information. I've only ever found just enough to know someone wanted me in that trap house. But I've never been able to find out who or why. No one is willing to talk.

Who did I piss off?

What the fuck did I do that was so goddamn bad that my whole life needed to end up this way?

Don't know.

But I know it started in this city. Nashville. I was able to piece together enough to know that. Even came back once, trying to make sense of it. But that got me nowhere. The cops thought I was having a goddamn mental health crisis when I tried to explain. I damn near ended up on a psych hold. I slipped away before they realized I had no proof that I was even supposed to be in this country.

When you have no identity…well, cops don't take too kindly to that shit. Been there, done that a few times now. It took Winter's husband, Ronan, months of back and forth with the Embassy to sort out an identity for me so I could get here legally this time. But he's former Special Ops, and he knows people who know people, so he made it happen.

As far as the world is concerned, I'm Priest Alcalde, 31 years of age, born on May 18 th . The age is bullshit. I don't know how fucking old I am. The rest is more or less true, though. I was born again on May 18th, six years ago when I woke up in Alcalde Hospital in Guadalajara. And the staff named me Priest.

But fucking hell. Being here with an identity doesn't make me feel any better. If anything, I'm more unsettled than ever. The feeling doesn't have anything to do with the number of people milling beyond the stage. Doesn't have anything to do with the fact that I'm supposed to be on said stage in a few minutes, either.

It's this city, and the restless anxiety clawing at my soul. I've felt it since I stepped off the plane. Everything here is so goddamn familiar. Yet none of it makes any sense. It's like my instincts are screaming at me, but I don't know what the fuck they're trying to tell me.

I should remember… but I just fucking don't. I walk around, see buildings, and get this sense of…déjà vu. My goddamn throat feels tight. My chest aches. But I don't remember why . It's infuriating.

The only thing that's familiar is the fiery redhead who haunts my dreams. She's haunted me every damn day for six years, but since I came back here, it's constant. I can just be standing there, and I can almost hear her laugh. I feel her hands on my body, remember the searing heat of her mouth around my cock. But I don't know who she is, either. That pisses me off because my heart knows her even if my mind refuses to cooperate.

Is she waiting for me somewhere in this fucking city?

Does she wonder what happened to me?

I don't fucking know.

"You good man?" Memphis asks, his eyes narrowing on my face.

"Yeah. Fuck." I shove a hand through my hair, exhaling a breath. "Same shit as always."

"The girl again?"

I jerk my chin in a nod. I'm not sure why I told him about her. Guess I needed someone to know something real about me. She seems like the realest part of my life. Everything else, I built from the ashes of what was left. But she's the one thing left over from before. Her and the guitar.

I forgot my own damn name, but I didn't forget her face, and I didn't forget the music. Apparently, the motherfuckers couldn't take either of those from me.

Memphis clamps a hand down on my shoulder. "You'll find her, brother," he says, holding my gaze. "And the best way to make it happen is for you to keep getting up on that stage and blasting your ugly mug all over the city. If someone is looking for you, eventually, they'll recognize you."

I dragged myself onto every stage in Mexico, trying to accomplish that. Didn't work. When Winter offered me a spot in her band, I snatched the chance. She plays all over the world. Her band does music videos, interviews… I need in on that. I need my face everywhere. If my girl is out there, I need her to see me, to find me. Because I don't have the first goddamn idea how to find her.

I'm not even sure if she's real or just a figment of my imagination—something I made up because I needed something to cling to, something about my life that felt real. I desperately want to believe she's real but after six years…Christ, I'm afraid to hope at this point.

I just appreciate Winter for giving me the opportunity. She could have said no. Shit, in her shoes, I probably would have. Asking a motherfucker who doesn't know who he is, where he came from, or what he might have done to join her band? It's a big risk. But she took it.

I owe her. Big time.

I just hope like hell it pays off for all of us.

Fifteen minutes later, I step out onto the stage with my goddamn heart in my throat. I feel like I'm preparing to play for the first time. Only…I don't remember the first time I played.

I remember picking up an old, battered guitar in the hospital after they removed the bandages from my hands. Remember being shocked as hell when my fingers found the strings and seemed to know what to do. And I remember when the right chords just rolled from the instrument like I was born with a guitar in my hands.

But the first time I played? Don't remember that shit. Don't remember learning to play. Don't remember the lifetime of fuck ups it took to get where I am today, either.

Shit. I guess they did steal the music from me, too. They left me with the skills, just not the memories. The doctors said that's usually how it works—people with amnesia remember the skills they acquired, just not the memories that go along with said skills.

I know how to drive, but don't remember when the fuck I learned. I know how to tie my shoes, speak, write, do all that bullshit, but couldn't tell you a goddamn thing about my childhood.

I'm Priest, the man born again from the sins of his past…whatever those sins were. But when I step out onto the stage to the roar of the crowd, I take a moment to look around, searching through the crowd just like always, looking for my past.

I don't expect to find it—never fucking do. But the moment my eyes land on the fiery redhead standing stock still in the front row, the world stops spinning.

The blood roars in my ears, my heart beating a frenzy against my ribs as I stare at her, shaking as her name tumbles from the broken recesses of my mind in a painful crack of sound.

"Mina."

Memphis grabs my arm, his brows furrowed. "Priest, man, you okay?"

I barely hear him over the thundering pulse in my head. It feels like the goddamn thing is splintering apart. I shake him off without answering, stumbling toward the edge of the stage, toward her.

I have to get to her, to see her, to touch her, to prove to myself that she's real and not just another figment of my fucked-up mind.

She is real, right?

Her mouth moves, forming the shape of a word. "No."

She isn't answering me. She's staring right at me, stricken. She sees me. Christ, she recognizes me too.

She's…

Knowledge slams into me like a sledgehammer to the chest, stealing my breath and threatening to buckle my knees.

Oh, God. She's my fucking wife.

Memories flood my mind in a dizzying rush—her smile, her laugh, the feel of her skin against mine, the scent of her shampoo, the taste of her kiss. I remember the curve of her hips in my hands, the breathy moans spilling from her lips as I moved inside her, the way she always looked at me like I was her whole world…

And I was.

Christ, I'm her husband.

She's my wife.

I stagger to the edge of the stage, my guitar hanging forgotten at my side. The crowd screams and cheers, but I'm oblivious to everything except the woman standing there, staring up at me with huge, shocked green eyes brimming with tears. Her face is pale, her full lips parted and trembling.

"Mina," I rasp again, my voice cracking. "Baby…"

Her hand flies to her mouth, and she shakes her head slowly, disbelief and raw, agonizing hope warring across her beautiful face. I drink in the sight of her like a man dying of thirst. The vibrant red of her hair, the smattering of freckles across her nose, the familiar curves of the body I've dreamed about for six long years.

She's not the same as she is in my memories—she's older, the fire in her eyes replaced with sorrow. Her body is softer, rounder…sweeter.

But she's mine, goddammit. My wife.

My heart clenches, every shattered piece of it straining toward her. She's here. Real . The woman who's haunted my dreams, the one I could never let go of…is my fucking wife.

I jump down off the stage, shoving my way through the throng. Security tries to halt me, but I shoulder them out of the way. I have to get to her. Have to hold her. Nothing else in the goddamn world matters except getting my arms around my wife again.

"Mina." I stumble to a stop in front of her, my entire body shaking. She's even more perfect up close. Those eyes are so goddamn familiar.

I want to howl in fury—in pain. Six years, she was right there, hovering in my mind. And I couldn't remember.

How could I forget? How the fuck could I ever forget her?

Guilt claws at my insides, eating away at them like acid. I forgot her. Ah, God. She's my world, the reason I breathe…and I fucking forgot her.

"Baby." I reach for her, desperate to touch her, to convince myself this is real, to ground myself before the pain annihilates me.

"Don't touch me!" She shrinks back, her eyes wide in her pale face, tears dripping down her cheeks. "Don't you dare touch me, Grayson."

Grayson. Ah, goddamn. It's been so long since I heard that name. It doesn't even feel like mine anymore. And yet…it is. I'm Grayson McGregor.

At least, I was Grayson McGregor once upon a time. Before I was tied to a chair in a trap house and tortured almost to death. Before…fuck. Before I lost everything, including my soul.

"Mina, baby, please," I plead, reaching for her again.

The crowd around us is quiet, all eyes on us. They don't matter, though. This does. She does. She's the only thing that's ever mattered to me. And I've been trapped in hell for six years, a wall standing between me and my memories of her.

"You're not real," she whispers, her voice cracking. "You died. They told me you died." A sob wrenches from her throat, her petite body shaking.

My heart fractures, splintering into a thousand jagged pieces. I drag her into my arms, crushing her to my chest as if I can somehow absorb her pain, her grief.

Christ, all this time, she thought I was dead.

I bury my face in her hair, breathing in the achingly familiar scent of her shampoo. "I'm here, baby," I rasp against her ear, my throat raw. "I'm real. I'm alive."

She shakes her head against my chest, her hands fisted in my shirt. "No, you aren't. I mourned you. I b-buried you."

Each word is a knife to the fucking heart, twisting and cutting deep. I want to howl in rage and despair. I want to find the fuckers who did this to us and rip them apart with my bare hands. But I fucking can't. The only thing I can do right now is hold her while she cracks apart.

The crowd presses in around us, a throbbing mass of bodies and noise as they try to figure out what's going on. Faces swim in my vision, their mouths moving, but I can't make out the words over the roaring in my ears. All I can focus on is the broken woman in my arms. My wife. My reason for breathing.

"Priest!" Riley Jamison, Winter's manager, touches my shoulder, empathy written all over her face. "You need to get her out of here before this is all over the news. Take her backstage."

I nod woodenly, scooping Mina up into my arms. She clings to me, burying her face in my neck as sobs wrack her body. I carry her through the crowd, security guards clearing a path for us.

The screaming fans fade into background noise as I stride toward the side of the stage, desperate to get her alone. Backstage is chaos, roadies and techs rushing around. I ignore them all, heading straight for the green room. As soon as I'm over the threshold, I kick the door shut behind me and gently lower Mina to the worn leather couch.

She immediately curls into herself, hugging her knees to her chest as violent sobs shake her body.

I kneel in front of her, my hands hovering helplessly. I'm afraid to touch her, terrified I'll shatter her into pieces too small to put back together.

"Mina, please look at me," I plead, my voice cracking.

She raises her head slowly, tears streaking her pale cheeks. Those emerald eyes, red-rimmed and swimming with anguish, cut me to the fucking core.

"How?" she whispers. "How are you h-here? How are you a-alive?"

I shake my head, my goddamn heart bleeding, not sure how to answer that question. So I tell her the only thing I know how to tell her. The truth. "I came for you."