Demand (Careless Whispers #2)(32)

“Wait. Nathan.” He turns and arches a brow. “This room isn’t where Kayden and Elizabeth lived, right?”

“No. He left that part of the tower sealed, even after he opened this part. There’s a lot he keeps sealed, Ella. He’s his own best enemy. Not you.”

“Is that what you told him when he asked you about me?”

“Yes.”

The answer is too simple. “But he wanted more, just like me.”

“Of course he wanted more, and I had to tell him exactly what I’ll say to you. You’re suppressing something, and no matter how much you say you want to remember it, you don’t. Your mind is protecting you from what it thinks you can’t handle. You’ll remember it when you’re ready.”

He leaves, having confirmed that he’s all but told Kayden that I’m the potential time bomb I’ve feared.





eight




I stare after Nathan, watching him disappear around the corner, and I decide he’s done me a favor by removing any answer to my questions but me. I have to solve this. I have to remember and stop hiding from my past, and just deal with it. That means exposing myself to triggers in every way I can.

Doing what I can right here and now, I pick up the remote and begin flipping through channels, and sure enough, I find two American news stations: CNN and Fox. Memories don’t stir in my mind, but the familiarity is a welcome sensation and I keep the TV on. Obama is president. Biden is vice president. I know these things easily, but I have no clue how government works in Italy—which shores up my conclusion that I hadn’t been in Italy very long when I ended up in the hospital and with Kayden.

Unzipping my purse, I remove my journal and pen, and cautiously seal Charlie back inside. Opening to a blank page, I will memories to come to me and fill the pages . . . but I am as blank as they are. I start drawing the butterfly again, tracing it over and over, outlining the curves of the wings. The sound of the newscaster talking intrudes and I decide to give up on memories, changing the channel to an Italian station, making a list of words I want to look up. Music would be even better, since songs repeat words over and over. Yes, I decide. I need music, but this Italian thing isn’t going to work without a computer to look up words. I’m sure Kayden has one I can use, but for now, I start writing down words from the TV that sound familiar: ciao, bello, prego, la ragazza.

And suddenly, I’m back in that moment where I found David dying on the pavement.

I rush to him, and there is blood oozing from his chest. “I’ll get help. Hold on. I’ll get help.” I start to get up and he grips my arm.

“Wait,” he hisses. “Don’t . . . give . . . him the necklace.”

“Who?”

“Don’t give him the necklace,” he whispers. “Hide it. Hide . . . it. . . . Don’t let them have . . . it. He’s not what he seems.”

I blink back to the present and try to collect all of my thoughts, and I write them down. He is not what he seems and then THEM or HIM, as I remember David referencing both, which could have been a misspeak considering the circumstances. Or maybe he was referencing both Niccolo and his people? Or maybe Niccolo and whoever runs the French mob Kayden had mentioned? I write down: Who is the head of the French mafia? And it feels important for some reason. Who runs the French mob? Do I know?

The TV invades my thoughts, the Italian confusing me, and I switch back to the news. “Next in headlines,” a female newscaster says, her voice cutting through the memory as well, and I grab the remote to mute the volume when I hear, “Money and power—”

“Money and power,” I whisper, writing those words down and staring at them, another memory taking shape. I shut my eyes and am transported to another time.

I am sitting at a restaurant with HIM, who remains faceless and nameless. I can feel his energy. I know who he is in some part of my mind, but no matter how hard I try, I cannot picture him. But still I am there, at the table. I can even see the black turtleneck sweater I’m wearing when the waitress stops beside us, speaking in a language I don’t understand. HE rescues me, ordering for me, and I feel a little less out of my element.

But then the images shift and I’m back on his bed, naked and tied up. I’ve been there for hours. I’m cold. I’m scared and angry when finally he comes to me, but unlike the last time I lived this memory, I don’t experience the moment he enters the room. He, whoever he is, is just suddenly naked and at the foot of the bed. He is standing there but I refuse to look at him. I hate him. I thought I’d loved him.

The bed shifts and his hands come down on my knees, and before I realize what is happening, he’s pressing them to my chest. His fingers dig into my legs and he moves closer, leaning over me. And damn it, I am looking at him when I swore I would not. “You’re angry,” he says.

“Two hours,” I say. “Two hours, you left me here.”

“I told you not to leave the house.”

“You don’t own me. You can’t tell me—”

“I can and I will. And I left you here to make sure you think twice the next time you consider disobeying me. A painless punishment, considering how disobeying me might have ended. I am a powerful man, angel. You know this. My enemies will lash out at anyone I care for. And that’s you. So if I tell you to f*cking stay in the house, I f*cking mean it. Understand?”