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He got up and walked to the kitchen. “Let me see if we have all of the ingredients for it before I
say let’s make it.”
I admired his bare back as he went, my eyes scanning down his muscular form.
One particular spot caught my attention, and without thinking I decided to get up and ask him.
I lifted my hand once I got to him.
“What happened here?” I whispered, running my fingers along the length of his back.
There was what looked like a brand there.
Something that I could almost make out but wasn’t sure what it could possibly be.
“You really want to know?” he asked.
Did I?
I wasn’t sure.
I thought I did.
Which was why I said what I said next.
“Yes,” I confirmed. “I do want to know.”
“It’s a burn of my gun,” he said softly. “From as far as the doctors can tell, they heated the metal of my gun, then pressed it to my back as a brand.”
My breath hitched.
“And this?” I asked, pressing against the squares.
“Dog tags,” he answered.
I leaned closer, and my breath hitched.
“Those say Maldonado,” I breathed.
“Yes,” he confirmed.
I didn’t bother asking how or why.
He didn’t know.
I could practically see the frustration rolling off of him.
“If I’d seen this when I still thought you were Malachi,” I said. “I would’ve had some serious
questions.”
He snorted. “I did have some questions. I have a lot of them, actually. But nobody seems to have
the answers. Hayes might… but when he was done talking in there… I think he’s even more fucked up
than I am, even though he doesn’t look it. I swear to God, he spaced out about ten times there, and I thought he was going to have to be given something to calm him down after. He’s just as fucked up, if not more so, than I am.” He paused. “I’m beginning to think that maybe not having my memory might
be a good thing.”
