Chapter 7

“ANISSA”

I'm lying in the bed, staring at the wall. Trying to remember who I am or why I’m here. It’s strange having a vague sense of self, of purpose, and yet realizing I can’t quite grasp any of it. I think our identity is something we take for granted, the natural order of things, and when it’s gone, it’s as if the sun’s been turned off, and you no longer recognize the playing field anymore.

Zoya, the sweet girl that she is, has told me almost nothing.

I watched as she opened her mouth, then looked at her phone and promptly shut it again. She stood, pacing at the foot of the bed, and though she looked perplexed, she didn't respond when I asked her what was going on.

She says my name’s Anissa. I expect it should sound familiar, if that's my name, but it’s completely unnatural, like a shoe that doesn’t quite fit.

Zoya stands and flits toward me, wringing her hands, though her voice is steady and calm.

“Rafail is coming back to see you. He will answer your questions,” she says, a new hardness to her voice as if she’s angry with him.

"Did he give you permission to unfasten me?"

I imagine that I am a captured princess, with people out there who love me, coming to save me from whatever lies ahead.

I feel fragile and dependent, and I hate it.

"You can ask Rafail," she says quietly. “He's your…” She shakes her head. “No, I'm going to let him tell you that.”

She comes to my side and presses something cold and small in my hand—a tiny silver charm of a bird in flight. “For luck,” she murmurs, glancing nervously at the door as if we’re going to be discovered at any moment. “This is yours. Or it… was.” The delicate bird feels strangely familiar, like a piece of a lost dream.

Her voice trembles. "Anissa, I know he can be scary. I know he’s dangerous. They all are, really, though I think you’ll like Yana, and I think she’ll understand…” Her gaze trails off as her voice does. “But you're going to be okay." Giving my hand a gentle squeeze, her tone is vehement. "You're strong ."

"So are you," I whisper, even though I hardly know this woman. She’s small and fragile, and I know that whatever she's been through has made her stronger. I can see it in her eyes.

A ghost of a smile crosses her face as the door opens.

The air grows icy, sending a shiver down my spine. It’s utterly still.

My captor’s back.

Now that I’m a little more awake, I decide to assess the situation. He’s maybe in his mid-thirties, tall and commanding, rugged and dangerous. His dark, intense eyes seem to pierce right through me. Right through anyone, I'd imagine, with that laser focus. He has a sharp jawline and high cheekbones, and something tells me he is not a stranger to violence. Everything about him embodies raw power, but there's something more, something familiar… He's a man used to being obeyed.

Dressed in a white T-shirt, faded jeans, and leather boots, he feels oddly familiar, and even in casual dress, he exudes unbridled physical strength. His dark-brown hair is a touch too long, with a hint of curl that would seem playful if not for his cold expression and mask of control. The stubble on his chin is somewhere between rugged and five o’clock shadow, enough to give him an edge of dominance I crave. I shiver. He’s harsh and ruthless, there’s no doubt.

Zoya would tell me nothing, nothing of substance.

He walks over to me and folds his huge frame into the small chair at my side. "Feeling any better?” The rough, angry tone of his voice sets me on edge.

I shake my head. It feels like my brain rattles against my skull.

"No," I say. "I’m not. I have no memory of anything. I don't even know the name Anissa ; it's foreign to me. Don't know why I'm in this bed. And Zoya, as nice as she is,” I amend because she is kind, "won't tell me anything."

"That's because I ordered her not to,” he says sharply. He nods to her as if silently thanking her for her obedience.

"So you're the boss around here?" I don’t bother to hide my disdain.

"I am.” His cold, calculating gaze defies me to challenge him.

I swallow hard. "I have questions.”

Narrowed eyes meet mine, and he speaks in a half growl. "I'm sure you do."

Frowning at him, I try to sit up, but it proves impossible with my wrists restrained. I do, however, manage to keep my voice strong and sure. I don’t know who this arrestingly handsome asshole is, but I’d like to find that out as soon as possible.

“You act as if you hate me, and I don’t even know who you are. So do me a favor and fill me in so I know if I should hate you back and decide if your lack of hospitality is warranted.”

“Lack of hospitality?” he snarls. “You’re warm and fed, and that’s more than you deserve.”

I purse my lips. "I don’t know much, but I can say with confidence you and I have very different concepts of hospitality. So why don’t you tell me what I supposedly did since it’s an obvious point of contention between us.”

Despite his stoic expression, mild surprise registers in his eyes before he leans forward. Rising to his full height, I half expect him to do something drastic, but he only stares down at me as if assessing me.

That's when I notice he has a small silver metal key in his hand. Thank god.

But he’s in no hurry. He takes his time unlocking me, his hands brushing mine. Rough fingers graze the tender skin at my wrists as he reaches for my hands above my head and slips the key in. With a soft click, my wrists swing free. God, it feels good to be able to move them again, even though it hurts.

Silently, still scowling, he takes my wrists in his large, rough hands and massages the chafed skin with his thumbs. I try to push away, to sit up, only to have him push me back down with a firm hand on my shoulder.

I swallow and stare up at him. I’m nothing close to free, even if I’m unshackled. I release a shuddering breath.

Leaning over, his voice is a low, dangerous murmur, each word a promise and a threat. “You say you don’t know who I am. We’ll cover that. I’ll explain in vivid detail what I expect of you. You’ve been brought here because you ran from me, and I had to make sure that never happened again.”

I blink up at him. “Excuse me?”

He says all this as if it’s just a matter of fact. With narrowed eyes, he shakes his head. “You think this is cruel, you being chained to a bed? Disobey me again, run from me again, and you’ll see firsthand what cruel really feels like.”

My jaw drops open as his hand drifts to my neck, his thumb pressing against my pulse, just enough to make it a little harder to breathe. I’m caught in his gaze, pinned into place by his oppressive, all-consuming presence.

I eye him suspiciously. I may not know much about my current situation, but I know this—nobody restrains anyone this securely, this uncomfortably, just to keep them safe .

What the hell did I do to this stranger?

"My ankles too," I remind him quietly. He moves the sheet at the bottom of the bed, and my cheeks immediately heat when I realize I'm wearing nothing but a short tee and a pair of panties. My instincts tell me to cover myself.

"Evacuate this room,” he snaps to everyone else as he pulls the sheet back over me. Everyone leaps to obey, even little Zoya.

We’re alone. I’m staring up at my captor, his angry eyes riveted on mine. “I know you say you don’t remember who you are, but I don’t buy it. It’s hard to imagine someone forgets her own husband that easily.”

My brain can barely catch up to the words. Husband ?

"I can't be your wife,” I whisper, trying to return an excuse. “I have no… I have no ring,” I say wildly. Doesn’t a wife wear a wedding band? “And you had me tied to this bed. Who does that to his wife?”

“A man afraid that she’ll run away again when given the chance.”

I stare at him, aghast.

“I ran?”

He reaches into his pocket with the sort of smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, but one that looks almost calculating. "You lost your ring in the accident. But I have it right here. And I told you, I had you restrained so you wouldn’t run again.”

Husband… I’m still reeling from the news. This apparently wealthy, powerful, dangerous man is my… husband ? What ?

I’m supposedly in one of the most intimate relationships two people can share, yet he’s a total stranger.

Zoya said my name is Anissa.

Anissa .

“Say my name,” I whisper, hoping that if he says it—if my husband speaks my name—it might trigger a memory, a hint of familiarity.

I don’t anticipate the note of pride in his voice when he responds. "Anissa Kopolova.”

Nothing.

I shake my head. "Why does that sound so foreign to me?"

I hate how small and vulnerable my voice sounds. I turn away from him. "Why did you look at me like you hated me? If I'm your wife… this doesn't make any sense.”

He doesn’t answer for long moments, his gaze trailing over me like… like he’s imagining the ways he could hurt me. I grip the sheets tighter. There’s no tenderness in his eyes, only cold hunger, a craving I don’t understand but feel deep in my bones.

And when he finally speaks, his voice is low and dark. “You don’t understand yet, do you?” I flinch when he reaches for me and he drags a thumb across my lower lip. Rough. Possessive. “You will.”

How is it that I remember nothing about who I am, much less who he is, but I remember everything about human behavior?

For example, that muscle ticking in his jaw tells me he's having a hard time being patient. The tentative way his thumb rubs along my wrist, unaccustomed to being gentle. But when I saw him with his sister, he was gentle with her.

Why not me if I’m his wife?

And why was she afraid of him?

"We've had a… rocky relationship," he says. "Just because we’re married doesn’t mean we’ve gotten along."

Hmm.

"Well, why not?" I ask him. It seems stupid to me that people would get married because they supposedly loved each other or whatever, and then they fight.

"Why don't we get along?" he repeats.

Buying time? Looking for clarity. Or as baffled as I am?

I lick my lips. My voice is husky. Shaking. "Remind me why I hate you."

Something that comes close to humor ghosts his face. "It's actually not very complicated," he begins. "I like to be in charge, and you don't like to be told what to do."

"How's that working out for you?" I snap. Once again, his features register something close to humor. The way the corners of his lips twitch tells me he's not accustomed to smiling either. Why? Why is he so sober? So angry?

"Not very well. I have a wife who ran away from me because she was angry with me. She didn't want to be with me anymore."

"I ran from you," I repeat, as if stating this out loud would make it more comprehensible. For the first time since I woke up, something that rings with the smallest touch of familiarity hits my consciousness.

I do remember running. Yes. Yes, that part is true. "So I'm a runner, then?" I ask.

He lets out a sigh. "You could say that."

What does he mean? I look down at my body. I'm fit, I know that. It's not like I woke up in a body that's wholly unfamiliar to me.

I flex my toes and make a decision. I may not be able to run now, but I will run again. From him, too, if I have to.

"So here's a question for you," I say. Goddamn, it hurts to talk. "Why did you tell Zoya I'm not allowed to have morphine if I’m your wife?" My voice trembles, and to my horror, when I blink, a tear slips down my cheek.

"You misunderstood," he says quietly, releasing his hold on me. I shiver at his icy tone and the loss of his touch. I have the distinct feeling if wolves could talk, they’d sound just like this. "You've been disoriented, confused. I want you to have pain relief, but the sort that will allow you to talk and function. Like this, so you’re not confused anymore.”

"So I can have pain medication," I repeat, just to be clear. Is this guy gaslighting me?

Is that why I hate him?

I'm so tired of having all these questions, and it feels like I've just begun.

I try to sit up in bed, but the pain is killing me.

"So I ran from you, and I was hit by… what, exactly?"

At his murderous look, I clutch the warm fabric of the duvet cover in my fist for protection. I’m doing my best to feign bravery, but something tells me that even if I could remember who he was, I would still be terrified. Maybe even more than I am now.

"You were hit by a car. That's one of the problems, Anissa. You’re impetuous and disobedient and ran wildly into oncoming traffic."

Impetuous? Disobedient ? I feel my brows lift in surprise. "One of the problems you have with me ? I'm not a child. I know that much. I’m sorry, I know I was in an accident, but did I somehow go back in time ?”

He growls and doesn't speak for a moment as if he's trying to compose himself. "You’re definitely no fucking child.”

His gaze grows hungry as he licks his lips, and I’m once more reminded of a wolf, but this time, he looks ready to eat me alive. I blink and stare, trying to compose my thoughts and my expression all at once and failing at both.

I chatter on, trying to regain some control. "So far, we've established that I'm your wife. I ran from you heedlessly and was hit by a car. My reason for running from you had something to do with your high-handed ways? And I'm guessing you must have a ring that I lost in the accident."

"Yes," he says, and something like regret crosses his face. There’s a vague familiarity about all of this, but just enough off-kilter to make it feel like I’m staring into the mirror at a funhouse. The truth is distorted. His ragged voice utters a low, harsh command. “Give me your hand.”

When he takes my hand in his much larger, much rougher one, I note the golden ring that glints in the overhead light. “Your ring,” he says, slipping it back onto my finger. It’s heavy and cold. I notice a small engraving inside—a twisted line that looks as sharp as barbed wire. In hardship and loyalty, it reads.

I stare in wonder as he slides it onto my finger. It feels vaguely like Prince Charming sliding the glass slipper on Cinderella's foot because it fits perfectly.

I rub my thumb along the ring, waiting for it to feel foreign, but it doesn't. It’s a perfect fit. At the same time, though, it's reminiscent of the cuff he just took off. A teeny, tiny perfect handcuff. I can’t remember the ceremony, but the words resonate. I note the matching ring of gold that glints on his finger.

"How long have we been married?" My voice feels detached and hollowed like I’m speaking in a tunnel. I’ll ask questions until I know who I am.

"One week."

My jaw drops. My god . "One week, and we already hate each other?"

A ghost of a smile crosses his features again. "We never liked each other, Anissa. You were given to me by your father. He owed me a debt, and he paid it with you."

I blink in shock. "Jesus," I mutter. "What a dick move."

This time, he actually does laugh. I start at the sound.

"Some men value their lives more than their virtue," he finishes.

"I see." I’m quiet for a moment before I continue. “So I was angry with you or… something,” I begin.

"Or something," he finishes with a nod. "Yes."

"And I ran from you, and I got hit by a car. Wow. I suppose I'm lucky to be alive.”

His gaze grows murderous, his tone chilling and laced with danger. "Lucky for the person driving that car that you're alive."

I lick my lips and swallow hard. "So… what happened to the person who hit me?"

He sits up straighter, and his eyes darken. His muscles tense. "What do you think? I did exactly what a husband is supposed to do when someone hurts his wife."

I stare at him. Again there's a twinge of familiarity, but I'm not sure if it's him that triggers it. There's something about his undeniable protection, cloaked in danger… Something about his violent, unbridled strength that makes me feel like I'm protected in a gilded cage. It’s all so familiar to me, and yet it makes my heart race. I lay my head on the pillow because the effort of talking is exhausting.

“I’m tired." I rest my head back and sigh. "And I'm sorry that we didn't get along before. Maybe you'll remind me why I don't like you. But for now, I'm glad you've given me some answers."

Something tells me we're going to have a lot more questions before this is through, I think, as sleep beckons.

"Those pain meds… okay, can you hook me up?" I'm guessing he doesn't really know that much about me. I was given to him in marriage, which doesn't actually surprise me. The arranged marriage idea is strangely familiar. Maybe it's because I was married to him, or maybe it's for another reason altogether. "I think I need a pair of crutches," I tell him. "I can't walk like this. And I really need to get out of this bed."

His phone rings. With a scowl and a curse, he shuts it off and shoves it into his pocket so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t crack.

“What’d your phone ever do to you?” I mutter, but he only grunts in response.

"I'll get you whatever you need," he says. "For now, I'll carry you."

Panic flits across my chest. I don't know him at all, but if what he tells me is true, I know we've already shared… something . I bear his last name and his ring. This stranger of a man knows more about me than I do.

What else does he know about me?

"You'll carry me," I repeat, licking my lips. That's going to mean me coming in much closer contact with him than I'm comfortable with. But I can't walk. I'm completely consumed with pain. Something has to give.

"Do you want me to get your wheelchair?" he asks with a hint of a sneer and narrowed eyes. I can tell he's testing me.

"Absolutely not," I insist. "Fine. I suppose you can carry me, then.”

“I wasn’t asking for permission.”

Argh. Of course not.

“So where are you taking me, then?"

I feel like a child… as if everything is out of my control and I'm completely dependent on someone I don't know. But what's most disturbing of all is that I'm someone I don't know.

"To our bedroom. You obviously need some help. You need rest."

I nod, not trusting my voice enough to say anything else.

Our bedroom.

Our bedroom .

It feels oddly intimate, and I can't reconcile intimacy with a stranger. I’ll be alone with him, a thought that both terrifies and exhilarates me.

I stifle a scream when he scoops me into his arms, cradling me like I’m weightless. But there’s nothing even remotely gentle with the way he grips me, his fingers pressing into my skin as if branding me. I feel his strength, his power, and for one terrifying second, one wild thought arrests me: is this how it will feel when he claims me? No softness. No tenderness. Just raw power?

As his fingers brush my skin, I notice a thin, worn leather bracelet on his wrist. A charm dangles from it—a tiny wolf’s tooth. Something tells me this bracelet has significance and has witnessed things, dark secrets held by men like him.

I’m momentarily dazzled by his strong, calming, masculine scent. They say that smell is one of the strongest triggers, but I still can’t remember a thing. I’m only aware that he smells clean and strong and utterly masculine.

His arms are warm, his grip certain as he straightens with effortless ease. My leg aches, but I bite my lip and bear it. I want to get out of here.

Maybe if we don't get along, we can bury the hatchet. Maybe there's hope— no . I can't trust him. I can’t trust him.

"Do I have family?" I ask him.

Am I all alone in this world?

For some reason that I can't put my finger on, I believe that I do.

I remember being… loved. I remember laughter. I remember feeling like I belong. But I also remember being oppressed. Wanting to escape…

Is that what I did?

"I told you about your father, who sold you to get out of debt. You have no mother and no siblings."

Right. Wow. Okay, then. Just a father. I’m like Beauty from Beauty and the Beast ; only her father actually cared about her. Lucky me.

"Just so we’re clear, I will not have my wife communicating with someone who would sell her off like that."

I turn this over in my mind. I don't know how to mourn the loss of someone I don't even remember, but it still hits my heart. People should have mothers and fathers. And some people maybe should have siblings too.

“I don't know why I would want to be in touch with someone I don't know, much less someone who thought so little of me, but okay then.”

We are approaching a doorway at the end of a hall, and my heart beats frantically faster. I don't know what's coming.

“You haven’t answered all the questions.” I’m buying time, terrified about what he’ll do when we’re alone in our bedroom.

His brow furrows as if he's puzzled or he's confused. "I've answered everything you asked me."

"Not quite. I asked you what happened to the people who hit me with the car."

I watch as his jaw firms and his shoulders seem to expand. I’ve stoked his anger. "I’ll admit, I may have lost my temper."

Oh god. Somehow, I knew he’d respond like this, but I’m still unprepared for the way my heart races in fear. I don't know what it would look like if a man like him lost his temper. Even when he's on his best behavior, he's terrifying.

"Oh?" I ask. I wince when he steps over the threshold.

"I'm sorry," he says softly. "I'm trying not to jostle you."

"It's fine," I lie. It's not fine. It hurts so badly I'm crying. I turn my face away from his so he doesn't see it. I know intuitively that he wouldn't like that. And I want to hear him answer the questions I asked.

"They were reckless. You could've been killed." His voice is choked, his anger palpable. I look down to note the veins in his arms, strong muscles, tan skin, and black marks of ink that are vaguely familiar but not identifiable, like markings out of focus.

"I told you I took care of it. Someone was reckless enough to hurt my wife, and I handled it the way I had to. Trust me—no one will make that mistake again."

His voice is as dark as a whispered threat. “When someone hurts what’s mine, they live to regret it. If the streets of St. Petersburg could talk…” His gaze is distant for a moment, as if he’s remembering past deeds. What has he done?

I bite my lip, unsure if I want details and uncertain if I want to stay ignorant.

“Right,” I whisper.

“You’re mine,” he growls, his voice a low, dangerous whisper without a hint of comfort or love, nothing but stark obsession. It seems as if this assurance should bring me a measure of comfort, but the latent warning in his tone makes me tremble.

He continues in a low rumble. "I made an example of the person who hurt you," he says. "It wasn't pretty, and you don't need the details. Do you know who I am, Anissa?"

I shake my head. "My husband," I say, my voice wobbling. The medication he gave me has made me sleepy, and I want to go to bed, but I have to push through. “All I know is that you’re my husband.”

"Yes, but since you don't remember who you are, I'm going to assume you don't know what my job is." He blows out a breath. “We’ll get there.”

We're walking down a long hallway. The rubber soles of his boots are practically silent on the gleaming hardwood floors. It's simple, sophisticated. The home smells like old wood, reminiscent of a library. Large blossoms in a rust-colored glass vase sit on a side table. Everywhere I look, there's bright light. I have the strange thought that someone like him needs a lot of light to give him something to hope for. To shine light in the darkness. If he lived in a cavern or a place with closed blinds, the abyss would swallow him. It hurts to turn my head, so I only take in what's in my immediate surroundings.

If he's my husband… "Is it just the two of us? In a house like this? It looks enormous."

He shakes his head gently, careful not to disturb me, careful not to jostle my cast.

"No," he says quietly. "Definitely not just us." When he doesn't offer any more information, I push a little more.

"Zoya? Your sister?" And then a horrible thought strikes me. "Not your parents," I add, unable to imagine being married to a man like him in the presence of his parents.

"I suppose we're jumping right into the middle, aren't we?" he says with a thoughtful look. His face deepens into a frown, and he doesn't speak for long minutes, as if he's trying to condense a lifetime into just a few sentences

He continues to walk with purpose, taking large strides, but careful not to jostle me too much.

"My name is Rafail Kopolov," he says. "Does that mean anything to you?"

His name stirs something faint but nothing familiar, an echo bouncing in a vast, empty room. I remember a chill in the air, distant city lights blinking like stars. I remember the shout of a voice… anger. A chase.

But no, his name is unfamiliar.

I shake my head. Nothing.

"My own name doesn't mean anything when you say it," I tell him. "I'd like to talk to a doctor. I need to know when my memory will come back."

"Your father is involved in various aspects of organized crime," he continues quietly. "And I am the head of the Kopolov Moscow branch. My father died young, like his father before him. A curse, some say, though I don’t believe in superstition the way most here do. But the Kopolov name carries with it a legacy.” His voice sharpens. “One I intend to protect.”

I swallow and nod.

“We’re Bratva, Anissa.”

I blink.

Bratva. Familiarity rings with fear and awe. I know the Bratva. Russian organized crime. Lethal. Powerful.

Familiar.

“ Eleven years ago, my parents were killed. As the eldest, I became the legal guardian of my family and pakhan .”

Wait. Legal guardian of his family ?

“Oh. Oh, wow. How many of you are there?”

His jaw firms. “I have two brothers and two sisters under my care. They came into my care as minors. My brothers work but sometimes stay here as well.”

"I see. So you're the legal guardian of Zoya, that sweet girl I met earlier?"

He nods. "And a few other not-so-sweet siblings you'll meet eventually."

Alright then.

My mind wanders. It's beautiful, in a strange way, this concept that maybe it's just the two of us. I can still hear him, though, and it would be foolish to ignore what he's saying.

"Say that again." I wonder what his expectations are. "How long have you been your siblings' guardian? Eleven years?”

“Yes.”

Yikes. I always thought it was kind of sweet, even poignant, when a brother stepped up to guard his siblings in the role of father figure. Maybe my primal instincts tell me he’d do well as a father to my own children. Maybe it shows he’s dependable and trustworthy.

But I don’t know anything about him, not really. Perhaps he's incredibly permissive, letting them get away with murder. I give him a second look. No, that definitely wouldn't be his downfall. He’s probably the opposite—overbearing and authoritarian.

God. Maybe I should just wait and see and not make any rash judgments. I should probably stop trying to figure it all out right this minute.

"I have an uncle and aunt who live nearby," he says, "but they don't live here. I have staff as well. You did, too, Anissa."

That triggers a faint memory. I can't give him names or places, but I remember someone cooking in the kitchen, mopping the floors, folding laundry.

"Mmm. Yes. So what will you expect of me ?" I ask, suddenly unsure. Am I supposed to be cooking? Cleaning? Taking care of the younger ones? Would that be strange? No, they're probably old enough not to need anyone like a mother.

"I’ve told you," he says, his voice soft but firm. "You’re expected to do what you're told."

Right. I blow out a breath, unimpressed with the platitude or threat. "For someone who's trying to improve his first impression on me, you could do a lot better, you know." I roll my eyes. "I just meant, do you expect me to cook? Clean? Things like that. Do I even know what I'm doing in the kitchen?"

"If you want to." He shrugs like it's no big deal. "Of course, for now, you're going to have to get better. Heal from your injuries. And you haven’t been in the kitchen yet, so time will tell.” He raises a brow to underscore his words. “ After your leg is better.”

Great. I’m handicapped in more ways than one. I frown. "What exactly was my prognosis?"

"You’ll have the cast for a minimum of eight weeks. I’m watching you for signs of a concussion. You have no internal bleeding or bleeding on your brain, but I'm insisting you get a second scan in two days. You have lacerations on your back and arms and a sprained elbow."

"My god!" I gasp.

"You're lucky you're alive," he says, his voice low. "They said if you had been standing still and not running at the speed you were, you wouldn’t have made it."

I need to know the answers to the questions that haunt me. Why was I running? Why was I running from him ?

"No running for a while, Anissa." It’s far from the first concern on my mind.

He stands in the doorway of a bedroom. The open door reveals a large primary suite. The room is grand, with high ceilings and soft, elegant lighting. A plush, deep indigo-colored rug covers the hardwood floor, and tall windows flood the space with light. The furniture is dark wood, rich and commanding, and there's a fireplace in the corner, unlit and cold. But what I notice most, of course, is the imposing bed in the center of the room. It dominates the space, draped in luxurious fabrics and surrounded by tall, intricately carved posts.

Again, this room looks somewhat familiar—and I wonder if I've seen it before. Or is it just that I've been in a place like this before?

No, no… he said that we were married. Not for long, but I have definitely been in this room before. Then why does it all look so new? I close my eyes because a headache is forming behind my temples, throbbing. I try to take in the details, but it's overwhelming. It feels as if someone's holding a metal pot in front of me and clanging it with a wooden spoon, the noise reverberating in my skull.

"Remember what I told you," Rafail says.

"You told me a lot of things," I say, trying to hide the petulant tone of my voice and failing. I’m tired. Overwhelmed.

"The doctor said too many questions or pushing too hard will impede your recovery. No more questions, Anissa. The doctor's coming in to check on you. I want you to rest. Are you hungry?"

I shake my head and resist the urge to lay it on his chest. It feels nice being carried like this, as if I'm weightless, by a strong man like him. I'd have to be immune to every female instinct in my body to not enjoy the way he holds me, nestled in his arms. I can feel the strength of his muscles and how he's not even struggling to carry me.

There's a couch in the bedroom with an array of pillows on it. Beside it is a small table and a few books. I look around the room, but there's not much to see. It's well-appointed but simple, not unlike a luxury hotel room. I half expect to see small bottles of body lotion and shampoo in the bathroom when I go, maybe white hand towels twisted into the shape of a dove.

"So this is my new prison," I say dryly. Silk sheets as soft as a lover’s touch brush my skin, and yet I feel caged. Gilded chains in the form of rare paintings line the walls, and fresh-cut roses—too perfect, staged—sit on every surface. It’s beautiful but as suffocating as iron bars.

He looks at me sharply and doesn't reply.

When his phone vibrates, he answers it and turns away from me, speaking in Russian. I realize it's easier for me to understand Russian than English. Russian must be my first language, then. How strange to need to remember that.

He told me to rest. He told me that if I push it, I will impede my recovery. Rest it is, then, but it's a lot easier said than done with my brain.

It's human nature to want to sift truth from lies, but how does one do so without a foundation of memory? I try to piece together what he’s said without taxing my brain. He says he's my husband and that we didn’t like each other. That I was hit by a car after running away from him and lost my memory.

I have two choices then: believe what he tells me or don’t and seek the truth.

Overcome with exhaustion, the pain becomes too much. I close my eyes, thankful for the clean sheet beneath my chin and the soft mattress. I like the sound of his voice, I think, as I start to drift off to sleep. He's confident. Commanding. And somehow, that brings me no small measure of solace.

As I drift into darkness, faint images glimmer at the recesses of my mind. Laughter. A shadowy figure. A whisper in Russian.

Maybe when I wake up, I'll remember who I am. Maybe when I wake up, I'll remember everything. Maybe when I wake up, I'll be able to distinguish truth from lies.

Or will I?