We stood there at the gas station, holding each other's gaze with both of us waiting for the other to say something or leave first and I felt her hesitation linger like the scent she left behind.
She made a move to leave, but I wasn't willing to let her go, not this time. My hand moved before I had a chance to stop it, fingers closing around her wrist. The grip was rougher than intended, and the instant I felt her pulse beneath my hand, I regretted it, letting go too quickly. But that brief contact, the warmth of her skin, left a tingling that was hard to ignore. I swallowed hard, feeling my voice come out lower than I intended. She was the key to my memories but letting her out of my sight that moment felt like I was letting go of a huge part of myself – of my memories and I would never be able to get them back.
"I think we need to talk." The words sounded almost foreign, but I couldn't hold them back. "Not here, not now. But… I need to know." I paused, trying to calm the rising frustration in my chest. "Gianna won't tell me anything. The doctor said to take it easy and not force, not to push it. But the idea that there's a part of my life I can't remember, it's eating at me and it just seems like you're the only one that has all the answers I need, the key to everything that is wrong right now"
Helena's lips parted, and for a split second, I was struck by an overwhelming urge to kiss her, to let the questions dissolve into instinct. But I forced myself to stay rooted, keeping my hands firmly at my sides. Her lips curved slightly, almost teasing.
"So…you want to take me out on a date?" Her voice was light, but the look in her eyes was calculating, as though she were weighing the risk of getting involved.
Her playful question caught me off guard, but she was right. Technically, I was asking for a date, though I hadn't thought of it in those terms. I hadn't exactly been in the habit of asking women for anything. That's what made her question so disarming. I tried to brush it off, but I couldn't ignore her beauty or the way her gaze made something within me stir. I wanted to remember, yes. But I also just wanted her.
"Yes," I answered, forcing the words out before I could change my mind.
Her coyness faded, replaced by something serious, something guarded yet vulnerable. Her eyes held mine, and it was like she could see right through to the mess of confusion I was trying to conceal. After what felt like an eternity, she nodded slowly, her gaze never breaking from mine.
"Fine," she said, her voice barely more than a murmur. "You're my husband, after all. Just because you don't remember it doesn't mean it's not the fact."
"Right." The word fell from my mouth, and I wondered if I sounded as hesitant as I felt. A part of me feared I'd never find the answers I wanted. And yet, standing this close to her, I realized I didn't only want answers. The mystery of her wasn't merely something I wanted to solve; it was something I craved to experience.
How was she so tempting without even trying – the way her lips curled when she tried to make a decision in her head, her eyelashes fluttering seductively when she blinked, the low neckline of her dress plunging down to her cleavage and I – I needed to stop these thoughts from spiraling in my head.
"You know my father's house right? You can pick me up at 8" she broke through my thoughts anyways and I had to think again for second, where was her father's house? It only took me a few moments to remember Anthonio's house, and for a moment it felt like my memories were getting better but still nothing tied Anthonio's house to a memory of her – it still felt like a black canvas, but maybe, just maybe I would be getting my answers tonight.
HELENA'S POV
As I slipped on the silver gown and caught my reflection in the mirror, my mother's voice sliced through my thoughts. "You said you're going out with who?" she asked, her brows raised over the rim of her teacup. She was perched in the doorway, half-ready for bed but clearly intrigued by the sudden turn of events.
"Dante," I murmured, attempting to tame the wild waves in my hair.
"So, he remembers you?" she probed.
"Not exactly. But he wants to know." I paused, feeling an ache I'd tried so hard to bury. "God, I miss him so much, Mom."
"Well, don't stay out too late," she finally said. "Be back before midnight."
"Mom, I'm twenty-five," I protested, smoothing my gown.
She shrugged, unfazed. "And under my roof. Don't stay out too late. If you want to gallivant around town at night, do it from your husband's house."
"Ouch." I feigned offense, though her words struck deeper than I wanted to admit.
Leaving my mother behind, I hurried down to meet Dante outside. When I stepped out, he was holding the car door open for me, his tall figure framed by the car's dark silhouette, a streak of mystery in the night. He looked every bit the brooding king of Algreen Cove, even with that bandage on his head-it only seemed to amplify his presence.
The drive to the restaurant was shrouded in silence. It wasn't until we were seated outside, sipping our drinks under the dimmed glow of string lights, that he finally spoke, his voice slicing through the tension between us.
"How did Antonio die?" he was asking about my father
My eyes widened at the question, unprepared. He kept his gaze on me, a steady, probing look that told me he wasn't letting it go.
"Well," he said, "if we're supposed to get my memories back, we might as well start at the beginning."
A chill ran down my spine. I held his gaze, searching for a flicker of recognition. "He was killed by the Anottis. Him and my brother Luca… you were there."
Dante's expression flickered, a brief ripple of something before he ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "I don't remember anything about it."
"It was my sister's wedding brunch," I said, the words catching in my throat. " and I was leaving for Paris that day." For a moment, something like recognition sparked in his eyes, but it passed just as quickly, a reminder of how fragile his memory was. "Then they attacked" I added and the memory brought so much hurt to my chest that I didn't want to talk about it anymore, Dante could sense and he changed the topic.
"How long were we married for?" he asked, as if each question was another attempt to reach me through the fog. But before I could answer, something cold and hard pressed against my temple. It was a gun
I froze.