The Ruthless Biker's Ex-Convict Bride

Chapter 13

Kael’s Point of View

I look at her, not sure I understand what she's saying. She's the only person I feel safe with. I don't know a single thing about my own past, but I know that much.

"Wren," I whisper, my hand not letting go of her wrist.

She looks at me with tears in her eyes, looking broken in a way that makes something twist hard in my chest. I swallow down whatever doubt's been sitting in my mind—the thought that she might already know where my family is and has just decided to keep it from me. It's an ugly thought. I don't like that I had it.

"I chose to stay," I tell her. "I chose to stay. Not you."

"But I should be helping you find your family. Not—"

"But I want to stay here."

"What if you have a family? A wife?" Her voice cracks on the word. "I didn't even take you to a hospital to check what kind of amnesia you have. I'm so f*****g selfish."

"You're not selfish for wanting someone in your life."

"What happens when you regain your memories and decide to leave?" she asks, her voice breaking, and it f*****g wrecks me. "What happens when you don't want to stay anymore?"

"Wren—"

"You should leave," she says, and I just look at her, not understanding how we got here. She smiled at me earlier in the bar. When she looked at my table, she was happy.

"We are not friends." Her voice slightly shakes. "And when you realize what everyone else has, you'll leave. So please, get your things and go." She pulls her hand out of mine and starts heading inside.

"Is it because of him?" I ask.

She stops mid-step, her shoulders rising and falling in a rhythmic way.

"Is it because he's having a baby with her?" My memory's gone, but I remember basic things. I remember the sound in that bar today, the way her face fell apart before she ran. I can tell what emotions someone is feeling. I'm not a child.

"Wren."

"You don't know anything about me, Ash." She doesn't turn around. "So please, stay out of my business." Then she walks into the bar without another word.

When I follow her in, I look around and ask the bartender where she went. He tells me she left early and said there was an emergency. I freeze because it's been less than five minutes.

I don't have a phone. I don't have anything. I try to look for her anyway, walk a few streets, and come up empty. Eventually I give up searching and head back to the house instead, waiting, anxious in a way I don't have a name for.

What if something happened to her? She is the only person who knows me. The only person I feel at peace with.

The door opens at half past one in the morning. She walks in with her shirt soaked through with blood and her hair pulled up into a messy bun.

"Wren?" I'm on my feet before I even decide to move.

She looks at me, shocked. "You stayed awake?"

"Yes."

Her eyes fill with tears. "You waited for me?"

"Yes." I cross the room, taking her in—the blood, the exhaustion carved into her face. "What happened to you? Why do you have blood on you?"

She sniffles, wipes at her face with the back of her hand. "There was an accident. I was helping out." She doesn't elaborate, and I don't push. I just nod. This…this right here is why I feel safe with her. She has a beautiful heart, even when it's breaking.

"Get changed. I'll warm your food," I tell her, already moving towards her tiny kitchen.

"You don't have to. I can—"

"Now."

She looks at me like she's shocked I'd do that for her, like nobody's told her what to do out of care instead of control in a long time. I know she's going through something. I want to help carry it, even if she won't tell me what it is.

"You don't—"

"Wren."

She nods and heads down to her room without another word. I hear the shower run. When she comes back out after half an hour, she's drying her hair, wearing an oversized shirt and sweatpants.

I narrow my eyes at the shirt, too big for her small frame, definitely not hers. Something ugly twists in my chest at the sight of it, sharp and unreasonable. Rage, if I'm honest with myself, at the thought of another man's shirt on her skin. I don't know why I feel that.

She sits at the table, and I pull the chair out for her before she can do it herself. She looks at the plate of warmed leftovers like she doesn't quite know what to do with someone taking care of her.

Halfway through the meal, she lifts her head.

"I want to help you find your family," she says.

"What?"

"I want you to go back home."

"Why?"

"Because you might have people waiting for you, and I don't want to be the reason they don't get you back."

"You're not taking anything from me, Wren."

"I am." Her voice is quiet but certain. "I want to start looking in the morning. If you don't mind…I can look at your tattoos. See if there's anything that points somewhere."

The thought of her hands on my skin, tracing over every mark, does something to me I don't have room to feel right now.

"Eat. Then rest," I say instead, standing, already retreating toward the small couch I sleep on. "We'll talk tomorrow."

"Ash, please."

"Goodnight, Wren."

I don't know what it is about my own past that scares me. I like this simple life with her, the quiet of it, the two of us against the odds. Something tells me my past isn't as clean as I want it to be. The bruises scarred into my knuckles, healed over rough and uneven, unsettle something in me I can't name. I had a flash of something earlier tonight, and it scared me.

I don't tell her that part—that I'm seeing glimpses of my past sometimes, and it scares me.