CHAPTER THREE- A WOLF IN THE WOODS

CHAPTER THREE- A WOLF IN THE WOODS

Pain. That was the first thing I felt when consciousness crept back into my mind. Everything hurt, my head, my ribs, my arms. Even breathing was agony.

I tried to open my eyes, but the light was too bright. I squeezed them shut again, groaning softly.

Where was I?

The bed beneath me was soft but unfamiliar. The scent in the air was different too, pine and woodsmoke.

I forced my eyes open again, blinking against the sunlight streaming through a window. The room was simple, wooden walls, a stone fireplace, handmade furniture. Nothing fancy, but clean and warm.

"Easy there."

I turned my head toward the voice and immediately regretted it. Pain shot through my skull like lightning.

A man stood in the doorway, tall and broad-shouldered. He had the kind of build that spoke of hard work and strength, not the pampered softness of wealth, but the solid muscle of someone who used his hands for a living. His dark hair was slightly tousled, and his clothes were simple but well-made.

But it was his eyes that caught my attention. Gray like storm clouds, but warm. There was something in them—concern, maybe kindness.

"Don't try to move too much," he said, stepping into the room. "You took quite a beating."

"Where... where am I?" My voice came out as a croak.

"My cabin. About five miles upstream from where I found you." He pulled a chair closer to the bed and sat down. "I'm Carlos."

"Found me?"

"Floating face-down in the river. You're really lucky to be alive."

I tried to sit up, but he gently pressed me back down.

"Rest. You've been unconscious for three days."

Three days? "I don't... I can't remember..."

"What's your name?"

I opened my mouth, expecting nothing to come out. But somehow, one word surfaced from the fog in my mind.

"Amelia."

"Good. That's a start." He leaned forward slightly. "Do you remember anything else? How you ended up in the river?"

I closed my eyes, trying to grasp at memories that felt like smoke. Nothing. Just blank space where my life should be.

"No. Nothing."

"What about family? Friends? Where you're from?"

I shook my head, then winced as the movement sent fresh pain through my skull.

Carlos was quiet for a moment. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out something small and glittering.

"I found this in your dress pocket."

He held up a silver necklace. Even through my pain and confusion, I could see it was beautiful, a crescent moon pendant with careful engravings.

"There's a name on it," he said, turning it so I could see. "Lars."

I stared at the necklace, waiting for recognition to hit. But there was nothing. The name meant nothing to me.

"I don't know who that is."

Carlos studied my face. "Could be a husband. A brother. Someone important to you."

"I don't remember." Frustration built in my chest. "Why can't I remember anything?"

"Head injuries can do that. The memories might come back with time."

He set the necklace on the bedside table. "For now, you need to heal. Are you hungry?"

Now that he mentioned it, I was starving. "Yes."

"I'll bring you some broth. Nothing heavy while you're recovering."

He stood to leave, then paused at the door. "Amelia? You're safe here. Whatever happened to you, whoever hurt you, they can't reach you now."

The days that followed were a blur of sleep and soup. Carlos would appear at regular intervals, checking my temperature, bringing fresh water, adjusting the blankets.

"The fever's breaking," he said on the fourth day, pressing the back of his hand to my forehead.

"Good," I croaked. "I was starting to think I might cook from the inside out."

He smiled at that, the first real smile I'd seen from him. "Your sense of humor is intact. That's a good sign."

"Is it?"

"In my experience, people who can still make jokes are fighters. And you'll need to be a fighter to get through this."

I studied his face. There was something in his expression, not pity, exactly, but understanding. Like he knew what it meant to fight for survival.

By the second week, I could sit up without the room spinning.

After three weeks, I insisted on getting out of bed despite Carlos's protests.

"You're still weak," he said, hovering as I took my first shaky steps.

"I'm tired of being weak." I gripped the back of a chair for support. "I need to feel useful again."

"Useful?" He raised an eyebrow. "You nearly died. You're allowed to recover."

"But I didn't die. And sitting in that bed all day is making me feel like a ghost."

I took another step, then another. My legs trembled, but they held.

"There," I said, a note of triumph in my voice. "See? Not dead yet."

Carlos crossed his arms, but I caught the hint of a smile. "Stubborn."

"Is that a bad thing?"

"In my experience, stubborn people tend to survive."

By the fourth week, I was helping with small tasks. Carlos protested at first.

"You don't have to do that," he said when he found me mending one of his shirts.

"My hands work fine. And you've been taking care of everything else."

"I don't mind."

"I do." I looked up from my stitching. "I need to feel like I'm contributing something."

"You are contributing. You're getting better."

"That's not enough for me."

He sat down across from me, studying my face. "You really don't remember anything about yourself, do you?"

"Fragments. Sometimes I'll smell something or hear a sound, and I'll think I'm about to remember something important. But then it slips away."

"Like what?"

"Yesterday, when you were chopping wood, the sound reminded me of something. But I can't grasp what." I set down the shirt. "It's frustrating. Like trying to hold water in my hands."

"It'll come back. Memory is like that sometimes—it returns in pieces."

"What if it doesn't? What if I never remember who I was?"

Carlos considered this. "Then maybe you get to decide who you want to be instead."

I stared at him. "Is that what you did?"

"What do you mean?"

"Decided who you wanted to be. Instead of who you were."

For a moment, his gray eyes looked almost vulnerable. "Maybe we both did."

"You don't have to do all this," he said one evening as I served him dinner. "You're still recovering."

"I want to help. You've done so much for me."

"You don't owe me anything, Amelia."

I set down my plate and looked at him. Really looked. Somewhere along the way, I'd started noticing things about him. The way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. How gentle his hands were when he tended my injuries. The sound of his laugh when I said something that amused him.

"I know," I said softly. "But I want to."

Our eyes met across the table, and something passed between us. Not love, not yet, but the beginning of something. A warmth, a connection.

He looked away first, clearing his throat. "I managed to remember something today."

"What?"

"Ashbourne. I think... I think that's where I'm from. Ashbourne village."

Carlos nodded. "I know it. About a day's ride south of here. Do you want to go back?"

I considered it. The name Ashbourne felt familiar, but not in a way that made me homesick. More like remembering a place you'd visited once.

"Not yet. I still don't remember enough."

"That's fine. You can stay as long as you need."

Two more months passed. Carlos taught me to read the weather by watching the clouds. I learned that he'd been living alone in this cabin for years, that he preferred being alone, away from the troubles that come from being in a pack

We didn't talk about the attraction growing between us, but it was there. In the way his fingers lingered when he handed me something. In how I found excuses to stand close to him. In the comfortable silences we shared.

But the necklace, Lars's necklace, sat on my bedside table like a question I couldn't answer.

The dream came on a night when the moon was full.

I was standing in a place that felt familiar but strange, a grand room with high ceilings and elegant furniture. Everything was bathed in silver light that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once.

"You need to remember."

I turned toward the voice and gasped.

A woman stood across the room, and she looked exactly like me. Same face, same build. But her hair was silver instead of brown, gleaming like moonlight. And her eyes, her eyes were red as blood, glowing with an inner fire.

"Who are you?" I asked.

"I am what you were meant to be. What you still could be, if you'd only remember."

She stepped closer, and I could see that she moved with a grace I'd never possessed. Like she was floating rather than walking.

"I don't understand."

"You are more than you know, Amelia. More than they ever told you." Her red eyes bored into mine. "You have power sleeping inside you. Power they feared."

"What power? I don't have any power."

"Don't you? Why do you think he wanted you? Why do you think he tried to kill you when you proved... difficult?"

Images flashed through my mind, a cliff, a man's face twisted with rage, the sensation of falling. But they were gone before I could grasp them.

"Remember," she said, her voice growing urgent. "Remember who you are. Remember what was done to you."

"I'm trying..."

"Not hard enough." She reached out as if to touch my face, but her hand passed through me like mist. "They are coming for you, Amelia. He is coming for you. And if you don't remember who you truly are, you won't survive it."

"Who? Who's coming?"

But she was already fading. "Remember," she whispered as she disappeared. "Before it's too late."

I woke with a gasp, my heart pounding. This was the third time I was having this same dream. The cabin was dark and quiet, Carlos breathing softly in his bed across the room.

But the dream felt more real than any memory I'd recovered so far. And somewhere deep in my chest, something stirred. Something that felt like power, like strength I'd forgotten I possessed.

I touched the necklace on my bedside table, and for the first time, the name Lars sent a chill through me.

Not recognition. Not yet.

But fear.