Chapter 13

“ANISSA”

I stare up at my husband, that wicked glint in his eyes and the smile that curves his lips. My god, I don’t know if he’s a demon or an angel.

Maybe neither.

Maybe both.

He’s wicked and sexy, and he makes every nerve in my body sing, even as my heart beats frantically at his issued commands and utter demand for compliance.

I won't let him know how much this exhausts me, how tired I am just going from one place to the next. I won't tell him how much the pain is either. I wanted to see the doctor, and I'm getting my way, so there's no need for him to get all smug about it. Still, I can't help but lean my head against the seat and close my eyes, still sweaty and panting from my climax.

But as the wheels crunch over gravel and we continue toward wherever the doctor’s office is, I can’t help but wonder what else he has planned for me. What he’s threatened. What he’s promised.

Gah.

"This was a bad idea."

"It wasn't. It was an excellent idea,” he says with no small measure of smugness.

I open my mouth to protest when I decide it’s probably smart for me to reserve my energy. Bide my time.

See what else he has up his sleeve.

We’re silent for long moments, and I'm half-asleep when he finally speaks. "Don't fall asleep. We're here."

"I’m not asleep," I lie, even though I think I was almost dreaming. I pry my eyelids open and find us at a small residence.

This is nothing like what I expected. I thought he’d bring me to some type of office, but instead, this is a little house with wooden clapboard siding and a faded sign.

"Wow. Um, this is it?"

He frowns at the age-worn building, eyes narrowed. "I suppose so.”

“Do you trust your uncle?”

He shakes his head. “That’s a complicated question.” I don’t push. “Hold my hand when we go in. Don’t talk to anyone. Keep your eyes in front of you.”

What?

I want to ask him why he’s so afraid. Even though I think I already know, I want to hear it from him. For someone like him, just taking me to the doctor means he’s already given me what I want—and let the doctor take the upper hand.

What's it like to need to control things so tightly? What will it take to make him crack? I feel as if I've already gotten a taste of it. He looks from left to right as though waiting for someone to leap at us from the shadows. What is he hiding? Or is he really just fearful in general?

Not surprisingly, we manage the short distance from the car to the entryway without being bombed by a terrorist, attacked by a madman, or swept away in a hurricane. I am clumsy on my crutches, but he is sturdy by my side.

Inside, it's clean and vacant, a sterile waiting room with a few chairs and end tables strewn with glossy magazines. It’s so normal, so natural, it feels a little odd to see after the total isolation of the past few days. "Huh. No other patients?”

“Obviously,” he says, scowl in place. “I won’t take unnecessary risks.”

Oooh. Right. “So you made sure nobody else came here?" I ask him, but the wide-eyed look of the receptionist sitting at the desk is answer enough for me. She stares at him as if he’s a ticking time bomb. "We have an appointment with the doctor," he grunts.

“I-I know. Yes, sir.”

My cheeks flame at the wicked hint of a smile he gives me. Those words will never have the same effect again. I turn away, cheeks flushed.

The assistant grabs a clipboard, fumbles awkwardly with it, and then drops it on her desk with a loud clatter. She jumps, her face flushing as she scrambles to pick it up again. Her hand shakes so much she can barely hold on. Rafail blows out a breath, grabs the clipboard from her, and thrusts it into my hands along with a pen.

I look at the sheet in front of me and scan the questions. A lump rises in my throat when I realize I can't answer half of these questions. Date of birth? No idea. Medical history? I haven't a clue. Blood type?

Beats me.

I turn away. The page in front of me blurs, my eyes filling with tears of frustration, when Rafail pulls it away from me and tosses the clipboard back on her desk.

"This is unnecessary. Open the fucking door, and let me see the doctor. He can shove this paperwork up his ass."

One thing’s abundantly clear to me: Rafail didn’t get where he was by being charming .

"Of course, Mr. Kopolov," the assistant says. She’s stunning, dressed in a tight pencil skirt and V-neck blouse that shows every curve. Her calves look amazing in those heels, but he doesn't even look at her. He turns his head and peers in the other direction, a muscle ticking in his jaw.

"Mr. and Mrs. Kopolov.”

It’s the first time I’ve heard both of us addressed like that. Did they announce us that way when we were married?

A young doctor in his mid-thirties stands in the doorway. Tanned skin and short hair—he looks as if he just got home from a trip to the Caribbean. "I'm so sorry for the confusion," he says, gesturing for us to come into the office. "Please, come in. If I’d known it was you making an appointment, sir, I’d have come to your house.”

Oh Jesus. All this compromise from my unyielding husband for nothing.

"Next time, you will," Rafail growls.

I place a hand on his arm to calm him. Maybe more sex will help.

Jesus, did I really just consider that?

“Mr. Kopolov, I have your family files here.”

Rafail goes rigid. “Who sent those?”

The doctor frowns, looking over them. “No one. These are public record.” He’s quickly reading through things. “Ah, I remember this story. You became legal guardian to your siblings when you were barely an adult yourself.” Nodding, he flips through. “There were three brothers and a sister. You?—”

“Strike that.” Rafail cuts his eyes to the doctor, who pauses mid-sentence and stares at him. I stare too. Three brothers and a sister?

“I have two sisters and two brothers. My sister Yana is now legally married to Danila Sanchez, though she kept her legal name.”

I stare, but I don’t say anything. I’ve seen Yana’s ring but haven’t met her husband. She doesn’t live with us.

My mind whirs over this news as I piece it all together.

Rafail has had his work cut out for him as guardian. The laws in Russia are draconian, with few rights for people who don’t meet the status quo.

Again, more questions surface, but I watch as the doctor makes the necessary changes to the paperwork before we move on.

"What can I help you with?" the doctor says.

"My wife has amnesia," Rafail says at the same time I say, "I have amnesia." The doctor nods. "Yes. I read the report."

"Where was that report located?" Rafail asks, his eyes narrowing on the doctor. The doctor doesn't fluster, but I watch him nervously eyeing the doorway as if estimating the distance between him and Rafail in case he needs to run. Good luck with that, buddy.

"A secure, encrypted file," the doctor says. "I promise, no one else has access to it. Your brother sent it to me.” He turns to me. "I know you suffered retrograde amnesia due to head trauma. Are you here because you have questions about this?"

"I do."

Leaning back in his chair, he taps his fingertips together. "What can I answer for you?"

My mind goes blank. I begged—damn near demanded—for him to take me to a doctor so that I could get answers to my questions, and now that I'm here, I don’t know what to ask. I open my mouth, but the problem is I have so many questions that I can hardly form a coherent thought.

"How long can she expect to have memory loss?" Rafail asks. His voice is calm as always, but there’s an underlying tension when his hand grips mine. Maybe he doesn’t like that I don’t know who I am.

The doctor adjusts himself in his seat, glancing between the two of us as if weighing his response versus his need to relay accurate information. “Retrograde amnesia varies greatly from case to case. There’s no promise of a full recovery, and in some isolated cases, certain memories will never return. The brain can be unpredictable.”

Rafail’s jaw tightens, his fingers flexing against my skin. “So there’s nothing concrete? We came out to see you, and you don’t really have any answers?” His questions become more detailed and pointed as he drills the doctor on every angle—treatments, triggers, even the possibility of sudden recovery. I watch as his need for control clashes with the ambiguous answers. I almost feel bad for the doctor. God help any doctor who will deliver my baby if I ever get pregnant.

Pregnant. Babies. Something flashes in my memory again, a triggered memory of wearing scrubs in a hospital as someone prepared to birth a child. Huh.

I watch as the doctor flips through a manila envelope, reading the chart, his brow furrowed. “This type of amnesia impacts your ability to recall memories from before your accident.”

I know. That seems obvious.

“I remember… some things. Little bits. Pieces.” My voice breaks. “Not enough.”

“That’s typical,” the doctor says, almost methodically, tapping the file. “Your memories are fractured, and we’ve found that memory loss is sometimes tied to the emotional intensity of an event. It’s the brain’s way of protecting itself from trauma, and we don’t even need to have physical impact for such a thing to happen.”

“So someone can be so traumatized that they have amnesia?” I ask, staring at him. “Without any impact?”

The doctor nods. “In your case, it seems as if the trauma was significant.”

“She was hit by a car,” Rafail snarls. The doctor jumps in his chair, but I just give Rafail a withering look and squeeze his knee. Relax .

“The brain has its way of protecting itself from trauma, is all I’m trying to say,” the doctor says, glancing briefly at Rafail before continuing.

“Will I… remember? When will I know?”

“Know what?”

I try to swallow the lump in my throat, but it doesn’t work. My voice wobbles. “Everything.”

The doctor hesitates. “Remembering is possible, but with retrograde amnesia, memories often return in fragments. But to reiterate, there’s no guarantee.”

My jaw unhinges. My heart pounds so hard I feel nauseous. Hope sinks as I shift in my seat. “Do you mean to tell me I might never remember who I am?”

He sighs. “It’s hard to predict. You may get some memories back, but if we push too hard, it could cause things to be much worse.”

“What could make it worse?” I ask as the room begins to spin, and it feels too hot in here.

The doctor pushes his glasses further up his nose with a furrowed brow as though trying to determine his next move in a game of chess. “Stress, trauma, trying too hard to remember things. All can complicate your recovery. If you want to make sure that you remember, don’t push yourself. You don’t want to shut down the process. Let things happen naturally.”

I can tell you this—I’m not somebody who lets go easily. My hands clench into fists. “You’re telling me I could break my brain?”

The doctor looks at Rafail again before he responds. "To be perfectly honest, I can't make any guarantees. There's no way to truly break a brain,” he says, quoting me. “But we want to make sure that you have proper healing.”

He’s raised more questions than he’s given answers. "But I need to know. I need to remember. It's like I've been dropped in a foreign land, and I don't speak the language."

Something like fire ignites in Rafail's eyes, but he doesn't answer or say anything.

The doctor leans back, his expression vaguely sympathetic. "I understand that, but you must be cautious. You don't want to force a memory to come back and trigger more confusion or even introduce false memories."

My stomach plummets. Before this conversation, I had no idea that was a possibility.

The truth is… the man beside me is the biggest question of all.

He tells me I’m his wife, but I don't feel that way.

Why was I running ? I need to know.

His answers have been fruitless so far. I turn to Rafail. The brief silence that follows is heavy, nauseating, as Rafail's eyes darken, and when he speaks, his tone is typically cold and chilling. "You were running,” he says softly. "I told you that."

“I know, but why ?” Surely, there was a better way to handle things.

He doesn't answer right away, his jaw clenched. Finally, he says in a low but clear tone, "You didn't want the life we had, Anissa. You were trying to escape it.”

I can almost hear the words he doesn’t say aloud: but there is no escape.

The doctor interjects, “I understand this is a lot, but I recommend you just focus on resting your brain right now. Give yourself time to heal.”

Give myself time to heal ? Take this easy? I balk at him. "What if I never remember?"

Rafail shakes his head. “I promised you we’d ask questions, but we need to leave now.”

Suddenly, my husband’s phone buzzes. His brow furrows as he pulls it from his pocket and shakes his head. "We need to go. Thank you for your time, doctor. I wired the funds to your account."

The doctor’s brows shoot up. Wired funds sound like some underground negotiation, not a medical consultation. I wonder how much he paid him.

When we’re outside, I stare at Rafail, eyes wide. “What happened?”

He smiles at me, bends, and kisses my cheek. “Nothing out of the ordinary. Not yet, anyway.” We walk toward the car. “Semyon saw a threat retreat, one I feared.” He turns toward me with a soft smile on his lips. “You said you wanted to go see the city? Let’s go, Mrs. Kopolov. You own this city.”