Chapter Nineteen

Emma

"I think it's time we stopped dodging things and talk about it head-on."

The mug of hot cocoa was halfway to my mouth when Rhyse uttered the heavy words. My arm froze as I slowly lifted my head to stare across the coffee table at him.

The crackling of wood in the fireplace to my right was the only sound for several very long heartbeats.

Shit.

He wanted to talk about earlier. On the boat. When I'd stupidly let myself be kissed by him. A mistake, to be sure. It was not one I wanted to repeat.

"It's okay," he said, lifting a hand. "I know it's not an easy subject. But I think it would be for the best, for both of us if we talked about it. Brought it into the open, so to speak. That might make it easier on you."

I hated the confidence in him. As if he wasn't going to be affected. Of course he wasn't. He was a man. All he was thinking about right now was probably what to say that would get him in my pants. Finishing what that impossibly hot kiss had started.

"I don't want to talk about it," I said, waving him off with my free hand then using it to cup the bottom of my mug as I took a sip.

The last vestiges of the sun disappeared behind the horizon as I watched, staring out at it, instead of at Rhyse, who was watching my intently.

"We're going to talk about it," he said a bit more firmly after some time had passed. "You need to talk about it, Emma. You've been avoiding so much. You need to let it out."

The casual arrogance was too much for me this time. "Me? What about you, huh? Why don't you have to talk about it?"

He frowned. "Me? What good does me talking about your missing memory do?"

"Oh." I sat back against the couch while, opposite me, Rhyse leaned forward, his eyes watching me closely.

"What did you think I was talking about?"

"Nothing." I shook my head, stalling by taking another sip of cocoa, slowly this time.

Rhyse snorted softly, letting me know he was fully aware I was lying through my teeth but accepting that I wasn't going to tell him.

"Your memories, then," he pushed.

I sighed. Perhaps if I gave into this, it would allow us to avoid the other talk. The one about us kissing.

"What do you want me to say?" I asked.

"I want you to tell me who you are," he said. "Where did you live? What did you do?"

"Really? That sounds so boring."

He smiled. "Then bore me. I could use some sleep. But I want you to tell me."

I inhaled and then exhaled. Again, stalling for time. Why? It was just telling him about some of my life. He wanted to get to know me. Was that really such a bad thing? It shouldn't be hard.

"Are you okay? You're looking a little pale."

"You might be onto something," I said hoarsely. "This isn't easy. But it should be."

"It's understandable."

I gave him a questioning look. How was this understandable in any way?

The gentle smile he gave me was a surprisingly effective measure. "You've been avoiding talking about your life because you're afraid. Which is totally normal."

"Why would I be afraid to talk about my life?"

"Because it's been the better part of a year. You don't know if it's still there. If the people are still there. You don't know anything about what happened, and that's scary. Acknowledging that everything you know might be gone is also scary."

"More like terrifying," I said. "But I think you're right. That feels right."

It was very insightful for a male. I had to wonder if he'd had help coming up with that explanation from someone.

"We're not idiots all the time," he said mulishly. "Just some of the time."

My cheeks warmed at the soft but firm reprimand. "Noted."

"Now, tell me. Who are you? What did you do for a living?" He leaned forward. "Let me into your life, Emma."

I swallowed, trying to ignore the subtle undertones of eagerness in his voice. Normally, I would never have detected it, but the link between us made sure I knew everything. Or most everything, at least, when it came to his emotions. There was still a part of him I couldn't decipher. Like it was there and affected him but wasn't him.

"Emma."

I realized I'd been quiet for some time, lost in my own thoughts.

"Me. Who am I," I whispered. "My name is Emma Whitson, but you know that, I guess. I work—work ed —at a place called The Hunt Station. It was a tiny little eatery in my tiny little crossroads town. Half a dozen tables. A gas station with two pumps. A couple of shelves and a fridge with various basic goods, mostly stocked from locals. Milk, eggs, cheese, that sort of thing."

"You owned it?"

"No, not at all. I just worked the tables and the kitchen on the slow days. Jesse worked there on the weekends and holidays."

"Sounds cozy," Rhyse said.

"It was. All wood construction. Lots of hunting decor. That sort of thing. We didn't do anything fancy. Even the food was basic. Eggs. Sandwiches. Burgers. Steaks. Every Thanksgiving, Jesse would do up a turkey. Sometimes, I baked cookies to sell for dessert."

Rhyse was nodding along, but the creases between his forehead deepened with every sentence.

"What? Why are you looking at me that way?"

"It doesn't sound like you," he said. "You're far too polished, too refined, to have grown up like that."

"I didn't," I admitted. "That was my dad's hometown. He moved back there after …"

"After what?" Rhyse pushed after a minute, giving me time to process.

"My mother." I took another sip. The cocoa was only warm by now.

"Here. Give me that."

Rhyse took the mug from me and held it over one palm. Flames flickered to life, warming the mug and the liquid within.

"Now, that's handy," I muttered.

Rhyse chuckled.

"What's so funny?" I asked when he continued to snicker to himself.

Arching an eyebrow, he held out his hand. "That's hand- y?"

I groaned. "Seriously?"

"Absolutely."

Shaking my head, I accepted the rewarmed mug and took a sip. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he said, gesturing for me to continue.

I licked my lips, nodding slowly. "My mother passed away about a decade ago, I guess. Nine years to my memory but closer to ten, apparently."

"I'm sorry. Losing a parent is never easy."

Filing away the heavy note in his voice for later discussion, I bobbed my head once. "Yeah. It wasn't. The cancer made it even worse. It broke my dad."

Rhyse looked ready to leap across the gap, to put an arm around me, to hold me, whatever he thought might help ease the pain of the memory. To his credit, though, he stayed seated, giving me the space I needed.

"He stayed strong the entire time," I said. "But I could see it in his eyes. He was fading. Retreating from the world. When she died, he told me he couldn't stay in their house anymore. He sold it and moved back to his hometown."

"Did that help?"

I shook my head. "He was never the same. Five years to the month after she went, I got the phone call he'd passed away. They found him in the one thing he'd kept of hers, a rocking chair. Their wedding photo in his hand. They say it was a heart attack, but I know the truth. It was a broken heart. If she wasn't in the world, he didn't want to be there either."

Blinking furiously at the tears in my eyes, I buried my face in the mug until I got myself back under control.

"For some reason, that got to me. I knew he was in the middle of trying to renovate the house he'd grown up in but had never completed it. So, I got it in my head to continue his legacy. I quit my marketing job and moved there. That was five years ago. I got some of the renovations done but not the one I was looking forward to the most."

"What was that?"

I smiled. "Free-range chickens. I wanted some free-range chickens to raise."

Rhyse smiled back. We looked at each other like that for a few handfuls of heartbeats.

"I guess that's probably all gone now," I said, sobering abruptly. "If what you tell me is true about the war, all that area is now under dragon occupation."

"Under occupation, probably," Rhyse agreed. "But it wouldn't surprise me that a tiny little place like that has barely noticed any difference. The lives of its people are probably not much changed. You may be surprised. But that probably explains something about your initial reaction to dragons."

"What do you mean?"

"You were probably there then, or close to it. The first wave of the war. The first attacks. When it was all shock and awe. That would paint a bad picture in your head. One that might even be leaking through your memory blockage."

"Maybe," I said, leaning forward to set the now empty mug on the coffee table.

As I did, one of the logs in the fireplace let out a huge crack and sparkle of flames. The unexpected noise startled me. My arm jerked, sending the mug flying.

I leaped from the couch, trying to snag it before it hit the floor, but Rhyse beat me to it. He calmly swiped it from mid-air and held it steady. A second later, I clumsily slapped his arm as my reflexes caught up with everything.

"Easy," he said, using his other arm to snake around my waist and steady me.

"Thanks," I said, looking up at him from where we were both crouched over the empty floor between the table and the fireplace.

I didn't let go.

"You're a little jumpy."

He didn't let go.

"Maybe a little on edge," I admitted, trying not to focus on his arm around my waist or the burning desire to snuggle deeper into him.

A wave of warning and panic came over me out of nowhere. Inhaling deep through my nose, I pulled myself away, arms clutched to my sides. "I-I'm sorry," I said, stepping back. "I …"

"Is everything okay? Did I hurt you?" Rhyse asked, rising up out of his crouch but staying hunched over so his head was closer to my level.

"I'm fine," I said. "I am. I just … I need to think, okay? I can't. I have to go—"

Ducking out from under him, I hurried across the room and down the hall to the bedroom Rhyse had given to me.

The door closed, and alone, I flopped onto the bed, breathing heavily, trying to keep from letting the panic overflow.

In my head, dragons swooped down, spewing fire and flame across everything and everyone. Was it a warning?

Or a memory?