Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

KILLIAN

I feel like I'm slowly waking up. Not that I remember ever waking up before, but the knowledge is there somewhere. At least I can communicate now.

My heart pounds as I search for answers. Thoughts swirl. My skin tingles and the hair on my arms stands straight up. Something is terribly wrong.

Why can't I remember anything?

I listen to my body—that's the key—but my body isn't focused on survival or regaining my memories. It's focused on this man.

He's attractive. My brain catalogs his messy blond hair, warm brown eyes, and full lips and tags him accordingly: safe. The word pops into my head, but there isn't enough information to test its validity. I know nothing about him.

I know nothing about myself.

My body registers more. The scent of oranges and sweat. The way his hand settles on my chest. My fingers wrapping around his wrist. The increase in his breathing. His pulse racing under my thumb. The flush in his face. He wants me. And my body responds in kind.

Irrelevant. I ignore my body's demands and turn my head toward the music coming from the house. Thrumming. Pulsing. Then light. Airy. Words pop into my head and my brain accepts them as true with no resistance. Jazz. A familiar warmth washes over me, and I grasp it like a lifeline. A clue to the life I can't remember.

The man crosses his arms and watches me with narrowed eyes. Does he think I'm lying? Consider me a threat? I don't sense any fear. I open my mouth to reassure him, but the words I'm not a threat stick in my throat. A string of something…memory? It floats on the edge but slips away before I can grab it, leaving a trail of unease.

I might be a threat.

A cool breeze blows over me, and I shiver. Right, I'm naked. According to my brain and the scorn in the man's words—but not his eyes—I should be ashamed. But I'm not. It's one of the few things that feels right.

He huffs and his hands move to his hips. "What do you remember?"

"Nothing."

"You must remember something."

I examine my dearth of memories. "Standing in your yard. At your door. That's all."

"None of this makes sense, cher."

"Agreed. May I come in? I'm…cold."

The change is immediate. His body relaxes. The suspicion in his eyes vanishes. He chews his bottom lip and steps back. "Fine. But don't try anything."

My lips twitch in amusement. "I promise I will not try anything."

He seems wary, but it's overridden by compassion. A need to…protect? Care for someone in need? Interesting.

The home is open. The living room and kitchen are divided only by a small counter with bright-green bar stools. Various knick-knacks, dishes, and clothes clutter the room, spilling from the mustard-yellow couch and coffee table onto the floor. Leftover pizza and cans of something called Red Bull.

Music pours from a speaker on the counter leading into the kitchen, and I'm drawn to it. Jazz. I'm sure of it now.

It unlocks some of the tension swirling in my stomach, leaving me lightheaded. Who am I? But that's not important. Why am I here? In this place? With this man?

None of this feels random.

"Listen, cher?—"

"My name is not Cher."

"It might be." His crooked grin adds to his attractiveness. "How would you know?"

Then he shrugs and moves around the room, cleaning the mess. Grabbing books, papers, and a plate containing a half-eaten slice of pizza off the couch. Once the spot is clear, I start to sit, but his hand clasps my arm. The sparks from before return, and he jerks his hand away.

"You're not sitting on my couch with your junk hanging out."

I glance down at my "junk" and back up. "What do you suggest?"

He shakes his head, a small smile on his lips. "Hold on a minute."

In the hallway, he turns and glances around the room and back at me. Then he leaves me alone. Is that a safe thing for him to do? Am I a danger to him? I hate that I don't know the answer.

Doesn't matter. I can't leave. I'm here for a reason.

Even if I don't remember what it is.

The urge to investigate is difficult to ignore. I want to sift through his things to look for clues. Finding out why I'm here is important, but he let me in despite his fears. I can't betray that trust.

He's only gone for a moment, and the churning in my stomach stops upon his return. The sweatpants and shirt he hands me are soft. Worn. Why do I enjoy that thought? Of wearing something of his softened by use?

He faces away as I dress, and warmth spreads through me. He's already seen me naked, but this is his way of giving me privacy. It's endearing. Sweet. I clear my throat. "Thank you. You can turn around."

His eyes wander over me, and he chews on his lip. My body responds, and I swallow thickly. I need to focus.

I sit when he motions to the couch, and he plops down at the other end. "So, you really don't know who you are?"

I shake my head. I've searched for the answer since the moment I found myself in this man's front yard. No luck.

"What's your name?" I ask.

He hesitates. "Beau."

"Beau." I test the name. It's like silk in my mouth. Beautiful. It fits him. "I'm…" My name is there on the tip of my tongue. I can't bring it forward, but I know I have a name. And that's a relief. "I still don't know."

He laughs. "I can call you cher, but it might get awkward. How about…?" He thinks for a minute, his finger tapping his chin. "Killian?"

"Killian." I draw the name out. It doesn't fit exactly, but it fits well enough. "It's agreeable."

"Great." His grin touches something inside me. Like a salve on a wound. Have I been wounded? He sighs. "Are you hungry?"

Bam. Bam. Bam .

We both jump as the door shakes from the force of the blows. He frowns, glancing at the door and then back to me.

Danger. My heart pounds loud and deep. Which is a curious feeling. I'm not afraid, but my body recognizes something . I stand and draw myself up, readying for battle.

"What the hell, Killian?" Beau jumps to his feet. "Do not Hulk out on me."

"I don't understand that?—"

The banging returns, and Beau pulls an object out of his pocket. A phone. "Well, hell. Things just got a lot more interesting. Why are the cops here, Killian?"

Adrenaline rushes through me. The police. My body registers the threat and my mind wonders why.

"Mr. Tremere? It's the NOPD. We need you to open the door."

"Stand down, Killian," he whispers harshly, jabbing a finger at me. Then he points to the couch. "Sit."

I shake my head. "I'm fine, Beau."

I've barely known this man, or myself, for an hour, but I'm ready to go to battle for him.

"Open the door."