Staring at the painting in front of me, I feel empty. A girl sits obediently on her knees, her hands lay perfectly palms up, her spine is straight and firm, and her eyes stay glued to the man in front of her. It only shows his back, all his detail is in his stance, in the way he controls her… owns her. With his hand gripping her chin, he has his thumb in her mouth proving just what she is.

A slave.

Since my dream, I haven’t left my room. I haven’t wanted to face anyone…not even myself. I feel so hollow.

“Can I come in?” Bailey’s soft voice asks from my doorway.

Placing my paintbrush down, I turn and give her a small smile.

“Buck and Drifter left for the night. They said they had business in the city and won’t be back until tomorrow,” she says, shutting the door behind her and walking over to me. Something in the way she moves draws me to her. She looks…healthier, happier.

My shoulders sag in relief and in disappointment at the knowledge. Relief that I don’t have to face either of them and disappointment because I don’t like leaving things like this.

Standing beside me, her pale eyes move to my painting. “This is really beautiful, Emmy.” Reaching out she runs her fingers over the edge of the canvas. “I don’t know if I’ve told you this but your paintings bring me as much comfort as they do you,” she says, her voice low as if she is lost in the picture. “Do you ever miss it?” she asks, her stare turning to me, her eyes glossing over.

Confused I stare from her to my painting, “Miss what?”

“The feeling of having no control. Of pain?”

A sinking feeling causes tingles to erupt through me. “Do you?”

“Yes,” she whispers and the feeling in me grows stronger, my body inching with unease.

“Bailey, what are you saying?” I ask not understanding, not wanting to understand.

Watching her eyes slowly clear, she shakes her head quickly and takes a step back. “I heard about your dream, about what you remembered. Are you okay, Emmy?” she asks dropping the subject, forcing my unease to turn to despair.

Letting out a sigh, I shrug. “I don’t know.” My honest answer hurting to say. “I hate not knowing who everyone around me really is.”

Hurt flashes in her eyes and I instantly regret what I said. “You know who we are, Emmy.”

“I didn’t mean you, Bailey,” I correct. “I really don’t even know what I meant.” Looking down at my hands, tears start to build again and I swipe them away in frustration. I am so tired of crying. I am so tired of feeling like this.

“You know who Buck is, too,” she says drawing my attention back to her. “He is the same man who has held us up for the last five years. I knew him, too, Emmy, not like you did but I still saw who he was, what he did. When he first walked into our hospital room that day, I thought he was there to take you back. I was terrified, but he…” Looking away she continues, “I don’t think I would be alive without him.”

Sucking in a breath, my eyes shoot down to my hands. “I don’t think I would be either,” I say to myself. “But how am I supposed to move on from what happened?” I ask looking back up, begging her to have the answer.

“Maybe it’s not about moving on,” she says staring behind me at my painting. “Maybe it’s just about accepting.”

“I just can’t deal with this right now,” I say, moving my hand to my face and wiping the sweat that has beaded there. “I just need some time.”

Taking my hint, she turns and heads back for the door, but before leaving she turns back to me. “I don’t know why Buck did what he did at that place, but he would do anything to take back what happened to you… you don’t have to forgive him today, Emmy. But don’t hate him.”

Watching her go, my body physically aches at the thought of hating Buck. There is still so much that I don’t know, pieces I still have yet to put together. I don’t know why Buck did what he did either, the dream I had was the only memory I have of him.

Feeling no better than when I woke up, I look back at my painting. I just need to remember.

* * *

Like usual, I feel him before I see him. Standing against the railing of my balcony, I let the breeze from the night air cool my heated skin. Trying to steady my heart I take a couple deep breaths.

Despite the last few days, Romeo has been true to his word, only leaving when he has to. Even though I know I haven’t been the best person to be around, he doesn’t leave. He’s just there for me. We don’t talk about the past and we don’t even talk about the present, we just cling to each other, enjoying the moments together, like we have been waiting years for this. In some ways, I guess we have. Most days he just lays in bed with me or watches me paint. He’s always holding me and touching me, keeping me grounded. He can read me better than I can read myself. He knows when I need to be distracted or when I need to be held, and he knows when I need to be alone. We haven’t kissed since that night two weeks ago. Even though our bodies sometimes buzz with need, he holds back. I can see my lack of memory still hurts him. I see it when I ask him a question I should probably already know the answer to… or when I call him Romeo. I don’t want to hurt him, but with each memory comes more pain… What if I can’t handle who he really is? Who we really are?

“What are you doing out here all by yourself, baby?” His rough voice goes right to my heart. Crowding behind me, the heat of his body pressing against my back has me seeing totally different stars than the ones above.

“Just thinking,” I whisper. His nose runs along my exposed neck leaving goosebumps in its wake.

“About what?”

“Who I am,” I say, answering honestly. “Who you really are. What you truly mean to me.” Tears spring to my eyes as I whisper, “I’m scared.”

As he wraps his arms around my waist, my head falls back to his chest.

“What are you scared of, Emmy?” he asks against my ear.

“I’m scared that remembering will bring more pain,” I choke out. “I’m so tired of hurting.”

Distress sounds in his throat as he pulls me impossibly tighter to his chest. “Close your eyes,” he demands, his voice both strong and desperate. Following his orders my eyes flutter closed.

Running his hand that lays flat on my stomach up my body he places it against my heart. “What do you feel?”

His question catches me off guard, but I answer with the first word that comes to my mind. “Loved”.

“That’s good, babe.” Placing a kiss to my temple he continues, “Right now, what do you picture?”

My breath catches at the image behind my closed eyes. “A boy.”

Tensing he asks, “Does it scare you?”

I shake my head no.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, his voice full of emotions.

“Yes.” I breath in pain.

“Tell me why it hurts, baby.”

“Because… I know it’s you,” I whisper.

Not missing a beat, he answers, “It will always be me.”