Forget Me Not_ The Mafia's Lost Queen

Chapter 4

SELITHRA POV continuation

"Because it paid well, because I'm desperate, because" I stop because the truth is I don't know why I chose this particular posting, I just saw it and something about it felt right, felt familiar in a way I didn't understand and I applied without thinking too hard about why.

"Because it felt familiar," he finishes for me, and the way he says it makes it sound like an accusation. "Because some part of you recognized this place even if your conscious mind doesn't remember it."

"No"

"Yes," he says, and he moves closer, closing the distance between us until he's standing right in front of me, close enough that I can smell something expensive and subtle on him, cologne or soap or just the scent of his skin. "You came back here because this is where you belong, whether you remember it or not."

"I don't belong anywhere," I say, and my voice breaks on the words because it's true, I've spent three years drifting from place to place with no home and no family and no idea where I came from, and the loneliness of it hits me suddenly and completely.

Something changes in his expression and he reaches out like he's going to touch my face but stops himself at the last second, his hand hovering in the air between us.

"You're trembling," he observes.

"I'm scared," I admit, because there's no point in lying about it, he can see it anyway.

"Of me?"

"Of this, of all of it, of you telling me I'm someone I don't remember being and that I killed someone and" I have to stop because my throat is closing up and if I keep talking I'm going to cry.

"I'm going to ask you a question," he says, and his hand drops back to his side. "And I want you to answer honestly."

"Okay."

"Do you have any memory at all of this place? Any flash of recognition, any feeling of déjà vu, anything?"

I want to say no, I want to tell him I feel nothing, but that would be a lie and he'd probably know it, so I swallow hard and force myself to be honest.

"When I walked through the gates," I say slowly, "something felt familiar but I don't know what, I thought it was just because the place looks like something out of a movie, but maybe—maybe it was more than that, I don't know."

He nods like this confirms something for him. "And the gun? When you took it from the guard during the attack?"

"I don't know how I knew what to do with it," I admit. "My hands just moved on their own, like my body remembered even though my brain doesn't."

"Muscle memory," he says. "You were trained in combat and firearms from the time you were sixteen, taught by my best people because your father insisted you be able to protect yourself."

"Stop," I say, and my voice is shaking again. "Stop telling me about this person like she's me, I'm not her, I can't be her"

"Why not?" he asks, and his voice is gentle now, almost kind, which somehow makes it worse. "Why is it so impossible to believe that you're Selithra Noctis?"

"Because she sounds like someone important, someone who belonged somewhere and was loved by someone, and I'm nobody, I'm just a girl who wakes up every morning not knowing who she really is!"

The words come out louder than I meant them and I press my hand over my mouth to stop myself from saying anything else, anything more that will make me sound pathetic and broken.

Zephran is quiet for a long moment, just looking at me with those silver eyes that don't give anything away, and then he moves back to his desk and picks up his phone.

"Darius," he says into it. "I need you to prepare the east wing guest room, the one with the reinforced door, and post guards outside, no one goes in or out without my authorization."

He's talking about me, I realize, he's making arrangements to keep me here, and panic rises in my chest.

"Please," I say, and I hate how desperate I sound but I can't help it. "Please don't lock me up, I haven't done anything wrong—"

"I'll determine that," he says, and he ends the call and sets the phone down with careful precision. "Until I know who you really are and why you came here today of all days, you're staying in this estate under my supervision."

"You can't just kidnap people!"

"I'm not kidnapping you," he says, and his voice is calm, reasonable, like he's explaining something simple to a child. "I'm protecting you."

"From what?"

"From whoever sent those men to attack my estate today."

The words take a second to sink in and when they do I feel cold all over.

"What do you mean?"

He leans against his desk, crossing his arms over his chest, and the lamplight catches on the silver cufflinks at his wrists.

"The attack that happened when you arrived wasn't random," he says. "It was coordinated, professional, and it happened within minutes of you walking through my gates, which means someone knew you were coming here and used your arrival as either a cover or a distraction."

"That's not possible, I didn't tell anyone I was coming here, I didn't even know exactly where I was going until I got on the bus—"

"Then someone's been tracking you," he interrupts. "Following you, monitoring your movements, waiting for you to lead them to me."

"Why would anyone do that?"

"Because you're valuable," he says simply. "Because you're Selithra Noctis, heir to your father's estate and empire, and because there are people who would very much like to get their hands on you for reasons that have nothing to do with your wellbeing."

I shake my head because this is too much, too impossible, like he's telling me I'm a character in a story instead of a real person.

"I don't believe you."

"You don't have to believe me," he says. "But you're going to stay here anyway until I figure out what's really going on."

"And if I refuse?"

"Then my guards will carry you to your room," he says, and there's no threat in his voice, just simple statement of fact. "I'd rather you walk there yourself with some dignity, but the choice is yours."

I look at the door and I know he's right, I know the guards won't let me leave, and I look back at him and I know he's not going to change his mind, he's made his decision and nothing I say will matter.

"How long?" I ask, and my voice sounds defeated even to my own ears.

"How long what?"

"How long are you going to keep me here?"

He's quiet for a moment, considering, and then he says something that makes my blood run cold.

"Until I know who sent you and why," he says. "Until I know if you're really my wife who lost her memory or if you're something else entirely—a weapon, a trap, a lie designed to look like the truth."

"I'm not a weapon," I whisper.

"Maybe not," he agrees. "But you walked into a gunfight and disarmed a trained operative without hesitation, so forgive me if I don't take your word for it."