I shot to my feet as he tumbled from the chair, face-planting to the white tile below. I rushed forward, grabbing his cold bicep, hoping I could stop him from damaging himself further. But it didn’t do any good. He collapsed into a pile of black clothing and blood, his jaw-length hair sticking to his five-o’clock shadow.

Those beautiful eyes that lived in my soul—those eyes that haunted me—closed.

The hum of the computers carried on but the rest of the world went silent. Without his green eyes teasing my heart, I breathed hard, trying to unscramble everything inside. Was this a cruel joke? Being held hostage by a man who held the eyes of someone who possessed my love and soul?

Why couldn’t I remember?

My stomach ached with pain… with grief—to have lost something I couldn’t recall. It hurt worse than anything that’d happened since I woke.

Kill’s breathing was shallow but he was alive. His arm lay outstretched, cheek pressed against the hard floor, body twisted at a painful angle.

My heart lurched, staring at his unconscious form.

I live alone.

My head snapped up, gaze locking onto the exit. Here was my chance. The only one I would get before my life turned from nightmare to horror show.

Run.

I stood there, locked in place as scenarios and horrible conclusions filled my brain.

If I ran, I would be at the mercy of doctors, tests, and interviews. If I ran I would be running from one unknown to so many others.

If I didn’t run, I would be destined to a world where I wouldn’t be human but a toy. I’d be abused and raped and treated like dirt.

Sold.

I couldn’t let that happen.

Biting my lip, I prodded Kill with my foot. I needed to make sure he was out cold before I made my escape. He didn’t groan or twitch. Completely unconscious.

The sinister gun glinted beneath the glare of the computer screens. I picked it off the desk, shocked and slightly horrified at the weight. I didn’t know what model it was, how many rounds it held, or even how to shoot the damn thing, but I cupped the handle, resting my finger on the oh so dangerous trigger.

Arthur Killian didn’t move.

I should’ve felt powerful—safer with the loaded weapon in my hands, but I didn’t. I felt exposed and a fake.

Just go.

I tiptoed toward the exit, looking over my shoulder, fearing he’d wake up. I stopped at the door frame, breathing hard.

He still hadn’t moved.

My heart thundered in my ears. This was my chance to bolt—to be free. But the thought of leaving him to bleed out on his floor—to die all alone—I…

The connection I suffered fisted my heart. What if you let the only person who might be able to grant you answers die?

I swiped a hand through my hair, hating the confusion inside.

I couldn’t let him die.

I stiffened.

But he wasn’t a nice man—by his own admission.

Spinning to face him, I leveled the gun at his head. Could I heal him, then walk away? I was the one with the gun—he would do what I demanded.

But where would I go?

I still had the impossibility of being homeless, clothesless, and nameless.

Perhaps, I should take myself to the hospital?

But if I did that, then I would only come back—driven by the itch to know—and be in the same predicament I was currently in with no bargaining power. Kill groaned, struggling to wake up. His outstretched arm tensed to push himself upright. He cried out, throwing himself onto his back.

My heart beat harder.

His eyes opened, confusion bright, even from the distance between us. Then recollection slammed into him, and he angled his head toward the door.

He froze when our eyes connected, the muzzle of the gun aimed at his skull.

It felt like an eternity that we stared. The challenge in his eyes. The threat. It danced between us, lacing with my rebellion and need for freedom—not just from him but this blank reality I’d awoken in.

I wanted to remember.

Ask him. Demand.

Kill laughed, his mirth echoing with pain. “You’re a good little liar, I’ll give you that.”

“Excuse me?”

“All that talk of healing me? What were you going to do? Grab the medical kit and find a way to stick a needle in my eye?” He writhed on the floor, slapping a hand over the injury in his pectoral. “I’m such a fucking idiot. Should’ve kept you at the compound. Let them deal with you.”

I inched forward, despite myself. “Why didn’t you?”

He glowered. “Why didn’t I what?”

“Why didn’t you leave me there? You left all the other girls there.”

Was it because you’re as intrigued with me as I am with you?

He growled, “You think you’re in a position to ask questions?”

The gun was warm and friendly in my hands, rather than an enemy. I dashed forward, standing just outside of grabbing distance but definitely in range to shoot, even as inexperienced as I was. “I think I’m in a perfect position to ask questions.”

Kill smirked. “Only until you screw up. Then I’ll take back my fucking gun and you’ll wish you’d squeezed the trigger when you had the chance.”

I ignored that.

Leveling the weapon at his forehead, I said, “A new deal. I’ll help heal you if you answer some of my questions. If I like your answers, I’ll stay. I won’t put up a fight, and I’ll give you back your gun.”

He frowned. “Why would you stay? You know what will happen to you.”