I’ve never been this far outside the city. Every instinct is shouting at me. It’s the same voice that keeps me on high alert when I’m in uncharted territory or edging outside my comfort zone. Tristan leaves the vehicle and pops the trunk, while I hold on to the door handle with a white-knuckled grip. What if this was all a terrible mistake?

I want to trust him. I told him so, but that was two seconds after he kissed me like the Tristan I remember. The second our lips touched, an avalanche of memories rushed in. Stolen moments, heated touches, and forbidden nights. Everything precious that clung to the hurt he’d caused me, making him impossible to forget.

In my periphery, a man descends the white stone steps that lead to the grand entrance of the home. He smiles warmly, and I hear his muffled greeting to Tristan from inside the car. I take a deep breath, gather my resolve, and step out.

“It’s good to see you, meu amigo.” The man’s gaze shifts swiftly to me. “And who is this?” His accent is thick and brusque.

“I’m Isabel.” I smile weakly and take his outstretched hand to shake it.

In one fluid motion, he brings it to his lips and brushes a kiss against my skin. The warmth in his dark eyes chases away the discomfort the gesture should give me. The man has charm, and even though my entire life changed a few hours ago, somehow I’m grateful we’re here and not someplace even more frightening.

“I’m Mateus da Silva. Muito prazer em conhecê-la. Welcome to my home.”

“Obrigada,” I mutter.

Tristan’s eyes darken as he hauls our bags over his shoulder. “Shall we?”

“Of course.” Mateus hesitates a moment before easing away, nodding toward Tristan, and leading us toward the house.

We step inside onto a well-worn Persian rug that stretches into an expansive living area. The walls are covered with dozens of paintings of varying sizes. Each is trimmed with gold leaf and light dust. Antique furniture hugs the walls and completes several small entertaining areas. The tables are decorated with ornate lamps and bronze statues.

The guards at the gate and the heavily barred windows tell me whatever he keeps in this house is worth protecting. I’m telling myself it has to do with the wall-to-wall antiques and nothing to do with the danger that Tristan insists we’re running from.

“Are you hungry from your travels? I can have a meal prepared.”

“We’ll eat in the room,” Tristan answers quickly. “Where are we staying?”

Mateus motions us to follow him down a hall. He seems unaffected by Tristan’s grim mood. A sinking feeling washes over me. If this is normal behavior for Tristan, who has he become? Is there anything left of the man I fell in love with so many years ago? I can’t think that way…

We pause outside one of the doors, which Mateus pushes open. “The honeymoon suite,” he says with a smirk.

Tristan frowns but doesn’t reply. He only guides me into the room that matches the rest of the house—rich textures and deep colors. The bed is draped in a red satin bedspread, its ornate metal headboard pressed to the wall like a piece of art in itself.

“I will have Karina bring you dinner. I’ll be in the den if you need me, Tristan.”

“Thank you,” Tristan says after dropping our bags to the floor. He meets Mateus’s gaze briefly, and I swear something passes between them. An understanding, a wordless exchange.

“Good night, Isabel.” Mateus bows his head before retreating, leaving us alone again.

I walk to the window. Through the bars, all I can see are trees and the winding drive up to the house. I wrap my arms around myself and turn to face Tristan.

“Are you going to give me my phone now?”

My first two requests were refused, which only ramped up my panic on the ride here.

“Not yet.”

I tense with renewed anxiety. Then I remind myself that I know Tristan. Maybe he doesn’t know me, but once upon a time, he was a man I could trust. A good man.

“I left with you without telling anyone. I have a job and a life and friends who—”

“I’m sure your boyfriend can live without you for a few days.” He stands in the middle of the room with his arms crossed. The muscles in his jaw tighten, and the air becomes thick with tension I don’t understand.

Then I remember the photos of Kolt and me together in his file. “Are you talking about Kolt?”

He shrugs slightly. “The American who can’t keep his hands off you.”

My cheeks heat like I’ve been caught doing something wrong. “Kolt isn’t my boyfriend.”

He lifts an eyebrow but otherwise maintains an inexpressive countenance. In an instant, I want him to be jealous, because it means something still exists between us. He was so possessive once. So convinced that we were meant to be together, two halves of a whole that no amount of time or distance could keep apart.

I drop my hands to my sides. “Would you care if he were?”

“No,” he says flatly.

His blunt answer lashes back at me, reward for an indulgent moment of yearning for his affection again after such an absence. “What do you want from me, Tristan?”

He stares at me a moment before turning toward the crushed-velvet couch that lines one wall of the room. He sits down and drops his head into his hands. “I’m still trying to figure that out.”

For the first time since he kissed me, I sense his vulnerability. I fight the urge to go to him and wrap my arms around him. My fingers itch to touch him. But what good can my touch do when he doesn’t know me? I still can’t fathom that our entire history has been erased. A part of me refuses to believe it’s true.

I swallow over the painful tightness in my throat. “What really happened to you?”

“I don’t know very much,” he says. “When I woke up… Everything was kind of a blur. Jay—” A deep groove cuts between his dark brows. “I had been on a tour overseas, on a special ops team. A mission went wrong…really wrong. I guess it was bad enough that my life in the military was over and my freedom would be in jeopardy if I didn’t disappear. Someone on the inside pulled strings to give me a second chance. A chance to start over as someone else.”

“When did this happen?”

“Three years ago. Everything before that…it’s just flashes. So small that I can’t tell if it’s real or just my imagination. Kind of like a dream you can’t fully remember.”

The last letter from Tristan had come to me six months after his enlistment. Long before this incident occurred. When he said goodbye and ended things between us, he had his memory. Six agonizing years compound onto my heart. The emotional pain turns physical as my chest constricts and pinpricks cut into my palms.

He looks up at me, his eyes clear and wide. For the first time, I’m convinced of the emptiness of his memories. I push my pain away and reach for compassion. If he brought us here to fill in the gaps, I’m probably the only one who can help.

“Why did you bring me here?”

His lips thin and his features tighten. “It’s not safe for you in Rio. Not anymore.”

I jump at a knock at the door. Tristan rises as a beautiful young woman arrives with a tray full of dishes in her arms. He relieves her of it, and she closes the door. He sets the tray on the table by the bed and gestures toward it.

“Eat.” He turns away and shoves his hands into his pockets.

“Aren’t you hungry?”

“No.”

I huff, cross my arms, and ignore the pang in my stomach. I powered through my lunch, but the stress of the afternoon and the hours passed have me starving. Still, bigger issues loom. I’m not ready to accept his silence and avoidance.

“You need to talk to me, Tristan. You can’t leave me in the dark.”

He spins back, his eyes narrowed. “In the dark? My past is pitch black, Isabel.”

I hesitate, momentarily thrown by his anger. “I’m sorry, but—”

“You’re sorry? You have no idea who or what you’re dealing with.” His tone is low and, if I didn’t know better, threatening. “And I don’t need your goddamn pity. Eat your dinner.”

My temper flares at his words. In an instant, I forget that Tristan is essentially a stranger off the street. I push to my feet and get so close our faces are mere inches apart.

“You either talk to me or I’m going home. I don’t care how dangerous you say it is.”

I expect anger, but his expression flattens into a hard calm. Somehow that’s even scarier.

“You’re not leaving here, Isabel.”

There’s something final about his tone, nearly knocking the wind out of me.

I maneuver past him and go for my bag. Before I can get to it, he’s between me and the door.

“I don’t think you heard me. You’re not leaving.”

I place my hands on his chest to push him away, but the second I attempt it, I’m stumbling backward. He bands his arms around my torso, dragging us toward the bed. My hands are free, so I pound against his shoulders and struggle against his massive strength.

“Let me go! Let me go, or I’ll scream!”

I’m already yelling, but he doesn’t seem to care. My heart is racing, and hateful tears burn behind my eyes. Inside, I’m at war with my innate trust in him and the fear he inspires.

Any possibility of escape is squashed when I realize he’s got me entirely immobile—hands around my wrists and his hard, heavy body pinning me flat to the bed, my legs kicking feebly off the edge. He repositions my wrists into one of his hands, reaches behind his back, and retrieves a sliver of plastic.

I scream and pray that Mateus’s earlier affection might save me now.

But he never shows, and Tristan has deftly cinched each wrist to the metal bedposts. The cable tie is thin enough to sting me when I test it but thick enough that I don’t have a chance of breaking it without really hurting myself.

As quickly as he secured me, he lifts off me twice as fast.

He paces once around the room.

“Why are you doing this?” My voice is weak and watery. I can’t fight him now. I can only appeal to his humanity.

He stops and pivots in my direction. His eyes are ice. No shred of the man I knew. A second later, he’s out the door and I’m alone. I cry and then I scream. I scream until my throat burns. Until the sky fades into a black night and sleep overwhelms me.

“Who is the girl?”

Mateus shuffles barefoot toward the sideboard that holds a few bottles of his favorite liquors and a set of cut glasses. His linen clothing hangs loosely on his short and stocky frame. His calm expression and easy movements are perfectly relaxed. He’s at home, appearing so comfortable that I have no choice but to feel at home myself, as much as I ever could.

Part of Mateus’s gift is his ability to put people at ease. That’s also what makes him lethal. No one ever sees him coming.

“No one of importance, as far as I can tell,” I say.

An old girlfriend. I chastise myself for this new fact as a smirk curves Mateus’s cheek.

“You don’t expect me to believe that, do you?”

He brings me a tumbler of clear liquid muddled with limes. One sniff, and I identify the local brand of cachaça. The essence of sugarcane fills my mouth, but the lime clears it away, inviting me to another taste. I swallow, welcome the sensation, and exhale a sigh.

I close my eyes and think about her taste. The way it consumed me when I had it on my tongue. Then doubt and rational thought wash it away.

When I open my eyes, Mateus is sitting on the adjacent couch watching me. Tan leather cracked with wear and use slides under his palm as he rests it on the arm.

“She is very beautiful,” he says.

I nod. Isabel’s beauty is indisputable. I just wish it was the only thing drawing me to her.

“She looks at you like you are precious to her. I had no idea such a creature could exist in your world.”

I take another swallow and weigh my next words. Everything about this situation is uncomfortable for me. My past is foreign soil, a battleground I’ve never seen before. I’m unarmed and completely unready for it.

“I knew her once,” I finally admit.

“And now you are protecting her?”

“The opposite, actually.”

I don’t need to say any more. Mateus can put the pieces together. He frowns, and his lips form a wrinkled line.

“I see. So why have you brought her here?”

“I need time. She knows things…” I pinch the bridge of my nose, still uncertain how long it’ll take for me to explore this newfound curiosity about my past. “Someone will notice she’s gone soon enough. Probably her boyfriend or her coworkers. Then her family back in the States will know something’s gone wrong. I don’t have much time. You don’t have to worry. We won’t be here long.”

He sweeps his hand in a gesture between us. “You can stay as long as you need to.”

“I won’t make this your mess. Not in your home.”

He lifts an eyebrow and cocks his head. “If you must, you know I will oblige. Even if it costs me this refuge. My debt has not been paid.”

“I’m in no rush for you to pay it.” Calling Mateus’s debt over this would be foolish. I may have left Rio in a rush, but I still have time and space to maneuver.

Mateus sighs heavily. “Perhaps one day, if the devil doesn’t take us too soon, you’ll tell me your story.”

I muster a laugh. “Perhaps if I knew it, I’d tell you.”

Mateus’s eyes soften with understanding. We’ve hardly bared our souls to one another, but he knows my past is beyond reach. Oddly I think he counts my anonymity as an asset to our friendship.

“If your past is dark, how do you know who she is?”

I pause and relive that moment of recognition as she sat in the café this afternoon. Life had been different seconds before.

“She recognizes me. She knows me.” I frown hard. “We were lovers. She hasn’t forgotten, and I have no way of remembering.”

“Meu Deus, Tristan! How can you let her go?” Mateus’s cool calm breaks as he leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs.

I shrug. “It’s her or me.”

He cusses under his breath and rises to his feet. He crosses the long room, opens a drawer at his desk, and returns.

“Here,” he says, pushing a blackened silver frame into my hands.

I open it like a book, and it parts stiffly. Inside, two ornately trimmed ovals reveal faded photographs. On each side, a woman and a man are dressed in clothing from a couple generations past.

I lift my gaze to him. “Your parents?”

He nods. “My sister raised me. My father opposed the regime, so they burned down our home. My parents were tied down, brutalized while my sister and I sneaked away. We couldn’t save them. Days later, we found this in the rubble. A miracle.” He’s silent a moment, his gaze on the frame. “Their enemies wanted them to disappear. No body, no voice, no grave beyond the ashes of our home. But this…” He leans in and drops his thick fingertip onto the center of his mother’s photograph. “This is a memory they could not destroy.”

When he pulls back, I close the frame gently and hand it back to him. “You’re lucky to have found it.”

He whips it from my grasp. “And you, idiota, are lucky to have her. She is your memory. She is your living and breathing miracle.” He shakes the frame at me once more before returning it back to his desk, slamming the drawer firmly shut.

He returns and drops on the couch. I marvel at Mateus’s break in composure. I’ve only seen him beyond reason one other time. Those were memories neither of us wished to relive. But this is different. He’s emotional over memories he holds. I have nothing like that.

“She’s going to get me killed,” I finally say. Suddenly, despite everything I’ve told myself, I know this to be true. Isabel is difficult and impulsive. No reasonable person would leave her life behind on a whim to come with me—a stranger. She’s unpredictable and far too attached to the person I once was. And already I can feel her reaching for more.

Mateus rests his empty glass on the table beside him and spins it rhythmically.

“People are always wishing away their bad memories. Meu Deus, I wish I could forget. Make it go away. Ah!” He flicks his hand. “They only wish away the pain it brings them. Me? I would rather die than live as you have, Tristan. Nothing but death to drive you forward. If hers will keep you on this path, you have nothing to live for.”

I hold my teeth together, bearing down against the impact of his words. “And what do you live for? Vengeance? How is that life better?”

Mateus’s expression relaxes a fraction. “Tristan… You are vengeance for hire, for those who don’t have the heart or the colhões to pull the trigger themselves.”

I down the rest of my drink and rise to my feet. I pace around the room, chasing the flurry of thoughts that accuse and contradict and provide no true answers. Mateus is perhaps my only friend, and he could be right. If Isabel dies, by my hand or any other, her memories of my life die with her.

I shove my hands through my hair with a pained sound. Why do I fucking care? Living with darkness might not be a life worth living, but it was vastly simpler. Nothing is simple now.

“Tristan.”

I turn as Mateus speaks. His eyes are soft with understanding, but everything else—his posture, the tension that lines his shoulders—speaks of his newfound determination to guide me through this.

“Go to her. She has the answers.”