A small click and the pelt of rain against the windows are the only sounds as I enter the room. Isabel is asleep. Her body lies diagonally on the bare bed. The satin bedspread and sheets have been kicked to the floor. Suspended by the restraints, her arms are stretched above her, obscuring her face.

I switch on the lamp beside the couch. The tray of dishes remains untouched, and I’m momentarily grateful Karina didn’t return for them while I was gone. Isabel would have begged to be freed, unknowing that Karina is also Mateus’s lover and would never betray him.

I circle the bed without a sound, gaining a better view of Isabel’s face. Dried tears streak her cheeks. Her lips and eyes are puffy. I don’t enjoy the misery that’s only just begun for her. She’s trapped here, but so am I.

Every hour that passes with her in my world awakens compassion I didn’t know I possessed. I resent her for it, even if I can’t deny it.

I retrieve a knife from my pocket and cut through the plastic bonds. Her eyes open wide. She scrambles away from me the second she’s free enough to move. She glances around the room and then down at her wrists, which are red and will likely bruise by morning. She rubs them but says nothing.

“I’m sorry,” I finally say.

She laughs roughly. “You’re sorry?”

“If you understood the danger we’re in, you’d know leaving here without me is impossible.”

She swallows but doesn’t meet my eyes. “If you explained why we’re in danger, maybe I wouldn’t have wanted to leave.”

I reach for her, but she flinches back. She slides her stormy gaze to mine. Slowly, I take her hand, tracing the grooves at her wrist with my thumb.

I slide my hand into hers. I don’t know why I do it. But the contact, palm to palm, sends a shockwave over my nerves. It’s not the vague familiarity I’ve experienced before with her. It’s something more…something primal…deeper.

Her gaze settles there. Her lips part, as if she feels it too.

“You have something valuable of mine,” I say. “I have to protect you, even if that means protecting you from yourself sometimes. You’ll have to forgive me because I’m not in the business of protecting anyone. You’ll just have to learn to trust me.”

She doesn’t show acceptance in any way. She only stares at me. The mix of concern and devotion passing over her features is troubling, making me feel like a stranger in my own skin.

Exhaustion tugs at my body. Knowing she could run, or worse, will make it difficult to drift off, but the thought of lying down beside her promises something soothing.

“Come on. Let’s get some sleep.”

I get up and replace the blankets on the bed. I kick off my shoes and untuck my gun, placing it on the bedside table nearest to me. I hear Isabel’s sharp intake of breath before I catch the fear in her eyes.

“For protection,” I say, reassuring her. And myself.

I take life day by day, hour by hour. Everything could change tomorrow. But right now, she’s safe with me.

I move around the tiny kitchen. She’ll be home soon, and I’ll have food ready for her before I head to school. She’s been working all night.

That’s when I hear it. Gunshots. The familiar sound freezes me in place. My heart stops beating. They’re too close.

I fly to the door. Her car is parked in her usual spot, a few spaces down from the entrance to the house. The driver’s-side door is wide open, but she’s not getting out.

The distant sound of shoes scuffing swiftly on pavement tears my attention from the car. Gray sweatpants and hoodie… Running down the street. He’s too far away, going too fast. There’s no time if…

I run to the driver’s side of the car.

I can no longer feel my body. I’m dead inside, because in that instant, I know she is too.

No hope. No praying. Her body is punctured with wounds. All I can see is red. Her neck is twisted awkwardly, no longer able to support the weight of her head.

Her purse hangs from her lifeless arm. The possessions of her purse are scattered on the street.

She wouldn’t let it go.

I reach for her and pull her into my arms. Her weight is too much. I fall to the ground with her. She’s gone, but she’s still warm. The last of her life weeps from the holes he shot through her body. For the contents of her purse.

I hold her. I can’t let her go. I can’t leave her when this is all we have. Seconds…

Our silence gives way to sirens in the distance. Shouts and cries of people who mean nothing to me. Because she was everything. The beginning and the end.

Then all I can hear are screams. The screams are mine, and even as they pierce the air, I know they’re not enough to bring her back.

“Mom! Mom!”

Tristan’s low, painful moans cut through the night.

The lamp is off, so the faint moonlight through the window reveals just the basic outline of his still-clothed body. We’re only inches apart on the bed.

I’m afraid to move or touch him. The past several hours in Tristan’s presence has taught me at least one thing. He’s unpredictable. Even though he’s asked for my trust, I’m not sure I can give it. Not until he proves to me that he’s capable of being the Tristan I once knew. With his memory gone, I fear that’s an impossible dream.

I toyed with the prospect of escape as we fell silent in the darkness hours earlier. But I thought better of a renewed attempt, and eventually sleep overtook me once more. Now, no matter what logic and self-preservation shout at me, my heart is breaking at Tristan’s nightmare.

His voice belongs to the old Tristan. The boy who shared his tears and racking sobs only with me in the days after his mother’s tragic death. I know the source of his pain. The thought that in consciousness he may not tugs at my growing pity for him and his situation.

To the point where I can’t stay away.

I roll slowly toward him so my front is barely pressed to his side. His breathing catches, and then he stills. Unsure if he’s awake and aware of me, I don’t dare speak. I press my nose against the collar of his shirt. I couldn’t forget that smell in a million years. The smell of Tristan in my arms, in my bed.

As his breathing evens out, I ease my arm across his torso. As soon as I’m there, his hand is wrapped over mine, tucking me tight against him. I tense at the sudden contact and then relax, melting into his warmth and unexpected affection.

“Sleep, Isabel.” The command is almost tender in his sleepy rasp.

“You were dreaming.”

He’s silent for several seconds. “I’m awake now. Get some rest.”

I lift my head from his shoulder and take in his shadowed features. Indeed, he appears fully awake now. Any vulnerability from the dream has fallen away.

I inch my palm up, resting it over his heart. Its rapid beats don’t match his measured breaths or guarded expression. If only I could reach into this man and find the lover I once knew. What would it be like to escape into the deep, haunting bliss of our bodies finding perfect harmony?

His shadowed gaze offers no consolation, no promise that he’ll ever be more than the kind of man who can tie me to a bed and leave me screaming for help without a second thought. Yet having him near—blood and heat and his inexplicable intensity humming against my skin, searing me despite our clothes—is both the answer to a prayer and the beginning of what I fear could become a nightmare worse than his disappearance.

I withdraw my touch and turn from him. Far enough so I can no longer feel his heat. I close my eyes and hug my pillow. Wanting anything more from him is dangerous. In less than twenty-four hours, he’s simultaneously turned my world upside down and ripped me from it. I need answers. I need rest. God knows what tomorrow will bring.

The sound of the shower running wakes me. I blink against the late morning sunrays blasting through the barred window. This isn’t a dream. I’m still in Mateus’s home, which means Tristan is in the adjoining bathroom.

I’m furious to find that he’s bound one of my wrists to the bed. I survey the room, wondering where he keeps his stash of zip ties. I kick the sheets and prepare to start screaming my head off again, when my foot touches something cool and hard on the side where Tristan slept. I grasp it with my toes enough to draw it into view. It’s the pocket knife he used to release me from the ties last night. He must have forgotten about it in the moments after.

I nudge it up the bed a few inches at a time.

Water crashes in the shower, competing with the loud drumming of my heart in my ears. Every second that passes seems perilous, knowing Tristan could return before I have a chance to cut myself free.

I twist and maneuver until I can reach it. Finally I’m able to unlatch the blade. The simple act releases a shot of adrenaline to my system. The hit is so strong, I can hardly think through what I need to do next.

I’m trembling but manage to cut the thick plastic zip tie. I roll off the bed swiftly, my muscles charged and my head buzzing. With the weapon in my hand, I have options I never had before.

Tristan is only a few steps away. The man I never stopped loving. The stranger he’s become.

I’m at war with his contradicting interactions with me. His unexpected tenderness mixed with his unforgiving tones and domineering behavior. But this could be my only chance to break free during daylight.

All I can do is act. Run.

I put on my shoes and grab my backpack. I quietly exit the bedroom. My heart hammers in my chest anticipating Tristan’s reaction when he finds out I’m gone. Will he try to find me? Somehow I already know he will. But for how long?

The more pressing question is how the hell I’ll get out of Mateus’s compound. I reach the front door and remember the armed guards who manned the gates down the path. I know nothing about this place or Tristan’s so-called friend, but I’m guessing leaving undetected may not be as straightforward as waltzing out the front door.

All too aware of the dwindling moments before Tristan discovers I’m missing, I venture into other rooms of the house. The foyer opens into a sitting room with several accent chairs around a coffee table. I walk along a wall of bookshelves without making a sound. I peek through a doorway into a kitchen decorated with hand-painted tiles. Karina’s back is to me as she chops food facing the farthest wall.

I step back into the sitting room and consider the double doors that open to the back of the property. Carefully I slide open the door, step onto the patio, and glance around. The gardens behind the house are vast, lush, and mercifully empty of people. I move quickly, eager to reach the perimeter of the property, when a familiar voice stops me.

“Isabel. It that you?”

Panic seizes my breath. I turn my head. Mateus is coming toward me from some hidden place in the gardens. He doesn’t rush. His gait is casual and comfortable, as if all of this is perfectly normal. Tristan’s knife is hidden in my fist. I ready myself to use it, an anxious tremble taking over my limbs once more.

But as Mateus slows before me, his countenance is so easy and warm, I can’t help but relax a little. I exhale shakily. Maybe he can help. Maybe he could be a friend…

“Isabel. Where are you running to?”

“I have to leave.” I try to keep my tone even and calm. Like I’m not a prisoner on the run. Like I’m a free woman with the right to come and go as I wish. I fear I’m anything but.

He assesses me quickly, his eyes lighting on my backpack slung over my shoulder and then my closed fist.

“Where is Tristan?”

His tone doesn’t change. But in his question lies another… Does he know you’re trying to leave?

I shake my head. “Please. Just let me go.”

His gaze drops again to my closed fist. “What have you got there?”

I swallow hard. I grip the knife tight again, but my palms are so slick with sweat, it slips from my grasp, rattling on the pebbled stone patio.

I curse my foible as Mateus bends to retrieve the knife. Straightening, he rolls it around in his palm, eyeing it carefully.

“Is this yours?”

I clench my jaw and lower my voice. “It’s Tristan’s.” I pause a moment. “Can you help me leave?”

His gaze is like a tractor beam on me, full of knowing. Not unkind. A hint of compassion, maybe a touch of humor, but nothing that tells me he’ll help.

“You may already know that Tristan is a very dangerous man. He’s also my friend. I would never betray him.”

“But he’s keeping me prisoner here.” I can barely contain the outrage in my voice. No one’s been able to hold me against my will since… I clamp my eyes closed and reason that the emotional prison of my youth is nothing like the situation in which I now find myself.

“I keep my treasures locked away as well. You must be very important to him.”

“He doesn’t seem to think so.”

The humor flees Mateus’s features. “He does, Isabel. You are a miracle. The key—”

“To his memories. I know.” I toss up my hand and try to ignore the burn of the truth.

“It hurts you,” he says with a cadence that feels like a direct hit, “that he doesn’t remember you.”

“How could it not?”

“Do you think you can get him to remember again?”

I shrug. “I have no idea.”

He gazes at me silently, as if in challenge. I’ve been so busy making sense of our mad dash from the city and his odd confession that I’ve hardly considered the possibility. Could I really make Tristan remember what he’s lost? Could I possibly have that much power?

“Isabel! Where are you?”

I jolt back at the sound of Tristan’s voice bellowing through the house.

Precious seconds pass, and then he’s at the sliding door. He looks around the garden but doesn’t notice us right away.

“Right here, friend,” Mateus says loudly but with that even quality he possesses that seems to lull one into believing everything is as it should be.

Tristan is there a moment later, and then I have two men staring at me like I’ve just committed a cardinal sin. Tristan is wearing only his black jeans, a dark T-shirt twisted in his fist. His skin is flushed, and his wet hair sends rivulets down his neck. A few travel down his chest, journeying across a map of scars that mar at least a dozen points on his skin. Most are white with age, ghosts of the pain inflicted upon his flesh. Some are clean and straight. Others are jagged and ugly, raised and broad from lack of proper suturing. Each one is a fresh tear in the inner fabric of my being, claiming space on the landscape of my own invisible scars.

“Tristan…” I whisper his name as heat burns behind my eyes. Who did this to him?

“What are you doing out here?” He darts his gaze over me, no doubt arriving at the same conclusions as Mateus.

I tighten my grip around the strap of my backpack and speak as calmly as my clenched jaw will allow. “You can’t keep me here against my will.”

Mateus’s raised eyebrow answers for him. Still, my focus is on Tristan. I cling to the anger that motivated me to run. But his scarred body has me in knots, the compass of my will spinning wildly.

Mateus offers the knife. Tristan swipes it from him and jerks his thumb toward the house.

“Inside. Now.”

“Karina will have lunch for us shortly.” Mateus hesitates a second. “Or perhaps you should go into town. Explore a little,” he says coolly as he turns toward Tristan. “You have things to discuss, after all.”

Hope springs in me at the prospect of escaping the property, even with Tristan, but his grimace dashes every ounce of it.

“We’re not leaving.”

Mateus squares his body with Tristan’s a fraction more. “Why? Petrópolis is big enough to get lost in. You said yourself you have time.”

I still at the firmness in Mateus’s tone. I care less about his cryptic challenge than the fact that he’s facing off with Tristan, a man he’s already admitted is truly dangerous. Can Mateus set him off as easily as I seem to be able to?

“Is this your way of asking me to leave?”

“You know it isn’t.”

A moment of silence passes between them, and I resist the urge to back away and give the two men space.

“To capture what we most desire, sometimes we must first learn to let go,” Mateus utters quietly.

Tristan is silent, his body a physical representation of his mood, rigid with frustration.

He looks at me, jerks his shirt over his head, and punches his arms through the sleeves. He motions for my bag. “Leave your things.”

I don’t move. My grip tightens on the bag. My identity. Money. I’m wary to part with either under the present circumstances.

“Isabel.” His sharp tone nips at the edge of my control.

I sling the bag at him in one sudden motion. “Tristan,” I hiss.

I pass him and return to the house, but not before catching the curl of Mateus’s lips and a flicker of mischief in his eyes.