Page 221 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

“A lot.”

I raised my brows, letting my voice go light, teasing. “You sure? You don’t want to be at some bar, celebrating with your team?”

His eyes narrowed. Then he said, dead serious: “I’d rather eat a cockroach than be anywhere but here.”

“Ew. Why would you say that? Now that’s all I’m going to think about when I—”

This is your moment if you want to run.

The words hit me from nowhere. A voice. My voice. But not now. Not here.

You have you. That’s all I want.

Cassian’s voice. Or my memory of it. Or something else entirely. My head swam.

He was saying something now, his mouth moving, but the sound was distant. Another voice, softer, older, layered over his.

Is this how our marriage is going to be? You just roasting me at every possible turn?

Another one. The same voice, different day. Laughing, exasperated, hopelessly fond.

Let’s not think of how to murder him just yet.

The balcony tilted. Or maybe I tilted. I grabbed the railing, but it felt like grabbing air.

A real date ends with a kiss.

The words came faster now, tumbling over each other. My head spun. The world tilted. Black spots bloomed at the edges of my vision, spreading like ink in water.

“Alessia?” His voice came from somewhere far away, stretched thin, like he was calling to me from the other end of a tunnel. “Alessia!”

My head was too heavy. The black spots were everywhere now, swallowing the light, swallowing his face, swallowing the last thread of the voice that had been calling to me from somewhere I’d forgotten I’d been.

Let’s get married.

The words echoed in the dark. And then there was nothing.

Chapter 36

Déjà vu

That was the first thought that surfaced as I blinked awake. White ceiling. Fluorescent light. The thin, sterile smell of sheets that weren’t mine. A hospital bed. Again.

I turned my head slowly toward the window. Dark outside. A sliver of moon. Let’s hope it was the same day, just night. Not years gone. Not again.

My hand was warm. I looked down.

Cassian was sitting on a stool beside the bed, his head resting on the mattress, his fingers wrapped around mine. His shoulders rose and fell with the slow rhythm of sleep.

I stared at him. At the curve of his shoulder, the line of his jaw, the way his hand held mine even in sleep.

I forgot him. I forgot him.

I had been so angry that night. So hurt. I had wished he was a stranger. I had wished I had never met him, never married him, never loved him. I had wished it so hard I had made it true.

I never actually wanted it.

I didn’t want to forget him. I wanted to stop hurting. I wanted to be free of the ache he’d left in my chest.