Chapter 308: Memory Loss

Chapter 308: Memory Loss
"Where is he?"

Isolde's eyes found me immediately. She rushed forward, gathering me and the children into her arms without regard for my blood-stained clothes. "Oh, my dear girl. Are you hurt? The children—"

"We're okay." I leaned into her embrace, grateful for the motherly comfort. "Physically, anyway."

Fenris's hands shook as he gripped the back of a chair. "My son. How is my son?"

"The doctors saved him." My voice sounded hollow even to myself. "But they don't know... they can't say if there will be lasting damage."

Isolde pulled back to study my face. Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks as she cupped Lyra's sleeping form. "My precious grandbabies. They've been through so much."

"The surgery took four hours," Kieran reported quietly. He'd been handling logistics while I held my children. "Alpha Tristan is stable, but critical."

Fenris sank into the chair across from me. For the first time since I'd known him, he looked every one of his sixty-plus years. "What happened? Kieran told me there was an attack, that someone took the children..."

"Rylan." The name tasted bitter. "He was working with enemies of our pack. He kidnapped Orion and Lyra to lure us into a trap."

"Rylan is dead," Kieran added grimly. "Took his own life when he realized the plan had failed. Marcus Blackthorne is in custody."

I should have felt satisfaction at Rylan's death. Instead, I felt nothing but emptiness.

Orion stirred in my arms, his gray eyes opening slowly. "Grandpa Fenris?"

"I'm here, little warrior." Fenris leaned forward, his voice gentling. "Grandma and I came as soon as we heard."

"Daddy got hurt saving us," Orion whispered. "The bad man hit his head really hard."

Isolde smoothed his hair with trembling fingers. "Your father is the strongest Alpha I know. He'll fight his way back to us."

I wish I shared her confidence.



Eight hours later, sunlight streamed through the hospital windows. The waiting room had filled with flowers and well-wishes from both packs. News of the attack had spread quickly.

I hadn't left Tristan's bedside since they'd moved him to the VIP room. Machines beeped softly around his still form. Bandages wrapped his head, hiding the surgical site. His face looked peaceful.

The children slept curled against their grandparents on the room's couch. Fenris held Lyra while Isolde cradled Orion.

"Miss Lysandra?" A soft voice made me turn.

A young nurse stood in the doorway. "There's been some improvement in his brain activity. The doctor thinks he might wake up soon."

My heart leaped. "Really?"

"His responses to stimuli are stronger. It's a very good sign."

I turned back to Tristan, studying his face for any change. His eyelids fluttered slightly, and I caught my breath.

"Tristan?" I whispered, leaning closer. "Can you hear me?"

His fingers twitched against mine. Such a small movement, but it felt like a miracle.

Slowly, his eyes opened. Those familiar gray depths looked unfocused, confused. He blinked several times, trying to orient himself.

"I..." His voice came out as a rasp. "Where am I? Why does my head feel like it's splitting open?"

"You're in the hospital." I kept my voice steady despite the emotions churning in my chest. "You were injured last night. How do you feel? Any pain besides your head?"

He tried to sit up, then winced and fell back against the pillows. His gaze found Fenris first.

"Dad? What are you doing here?" He looked genuinely puzzled. "Did something happen at the pack?"

Fenris rose quickly, hope lighting his features. "Son! Thank god you're awake. You remember me?"

"Of course I remember you." Tristan's frown deepened. "You're my father. But why am I in a hospital? The last thing I remember was reviewing security reports in my office..."

Isolde approached the bed carefully. "Darling, you've been unconscious for hours. You suffered a severe head injury."

"Head injury?" Tristan's hand moved toward the bandages, then stopped. "How? What happened?"

I took a shaky breath. This was the moment of truth. "Tristan, do you remember the forest sports day? We took the children to a pack event..."

He turned toward me, and my world tilted.

There was no recognition in his eyes. None. He looked at me like I was a complete stranger.

"I'm sorry, but... who are you exactly?" His tone was polite but distant. "You said 'we' took children somewhere?"

The words hit me like physical blows. I gripped the bed rail to keep from falling.

"I'm Lysandra." My voice cracked on my own name. "I'm your... we were married. You're the father of my children."

Confusion clouded his features. He looked to his parents for confirmation. "Married? I was married?"

His gaze moved to the couch where Orion and Lyra still slept. "Those children... they're mine?"

"Orion and Lyra," I whispered, tears flowing freely now. "Your son and daughter. They're five years old."

Tristan stared at the sleeping twins for a long moment. No spark of recognition crossed his face. No fatherly love or protective instinct. Just blank confusion.

"I'm sorry," he said finally, his voice carrying genuine regret. "I don't remember any of this."

Fenris's face went ashen. He gripped the bed rail so hard his knuckles turned white.

"Son, you really don't remember Lysandra?" His voice cracked. "She's the woman you love most in this world..."

Tristan's frown deepened. "The woman I love most?" He shook his head slowly. "Dad, I've never been deeply in love with anyone. What are you talking about?"

I pressed my back against the wall, needing something solid to keep me upright.

Isolde moved toward the bed. Her hand shook as she pointed toward the couch where the children still slept. "Those are your children, Tristan! Orion and Lyra! Your own flesh and blood!"

Tristan turned his attention to the sleeping twins. For several long moments, he studied their faces with clinical detachment. When he spoke, his voice carried no emotion at all.

"They do have some of my features." He tilted his head slightly. "But I have absolutely no memory of having children."

Fenris and Isolde exchanged looks of pure horror. I could see the terrible understanding dawning in their eyes—their son's amnesia wasn't random. It was precise. Surgical. Cruel.

"How is this possible?" Fenris whispered.

Before anyone could answer, Dr. Helena returned with a thick file tucked under her arm. Her expression was grim as she approached the bed.