Chapter 6: Buried Memories

I didn't remember him. That was the most painful part, the realization that made Niklas look as if I’d physically wounded him. He spoke of ten years ago, of a forest, a girl, and a bite intended to save, not harm. Yet, I retained nothing.

"No," I insisted, shaking my head. "You're mistaken. I would remember you. I would remember that."

Niklas recoiled, his hands trembling. His storm-gray eyes were wide with a desperate intensity. "You don't remember," he stated, the words devoid of a question.

"I don't. I'm truly sorry, but I don't."

A broken, hollow laugh escaped him. "Of course, you don't. Why would you? I was just a foolish boy who believed he could save someone, who thought he could matter."

"Niklas—"

"Don't," he commanded, holding up a hand. "Don't use my name like that. Don't look at me as if you care. You don't even know me."

"I do know you."

"You know what I've shown you. That’s not the same thing." He turned and walked away, not in haste, but with each step a definitive severing of our connection. I yearned to follow, to grasp his arm, to implore him to stay, to explain, to help me remember. But my feet remained rooted to the spot. I stood alone in the encroaching darkness, watching the man who claimed to have loved me disappear into the night.

Sleep eluded me. I lay on my cot, staring at the ceiling, desperately trying to dredge up any fragment from a decade ago. There was nothing. My childhood was a haze of cold rooms and silent indifference, my mother's detachment, the villagers' whispers, and a persistent, gnawing sense of not belonging. But a boy? A German boy who bit me in a forest? Utterly blank.

"Perhaps he's lying," I murmured to myself.

The wolf stirred within me. He is not lying, it communicated.

"How can you be so sure?"

Because the scar is real. And when he touched it, I remembered something.

"What did you remember?"

Warmth. Safety. A voice that said, 'I've got you. You're safe now.'

I pressed my hand to my chest, tracing the smooth, old scar. Beneath the surface, a faint pulse, an echo of something profound, seemed to resonate.

Perhaps you don't want to remember, the wolf suggested. Perhaps you're right.

Dawn arrived too swiftly. I remained on my cot, still clad in my torn shirt, when a knock sounded at the door. It wasn't Dimitri, nor one of the German guards. It was Anastasia Volkov.

She stood framed in the doorway, her ice-blonde hair neatly braided, her blue eyes sharp and observant. Dressed head-to-toe in black leather, she exuded an aura of lethal competence. "You look like sh*t," she stated bluntly.

"Good morning to you too."

She entered without invitation, her gaze sweeping over the sparse room: the thin mattress, the bucket of water. "The Council doesn't believe in luxury for prisoners," she remarked.

"I'm not a prisoner. I'm a 'guest.'"

"Same difference." She settled onto the edge of my cot. "I heard about last night. About you and Niklas."

My heart seized. "Who told you?"

"No one had to. I have eyes." She tilted her head. "The formidable Niklas Vollbrecht, brought to his knees by a half-blood. It's almost poetic."

"We didn't—nothing happened—"

"Something happened." Anastasia's eyes flickered to my chest, to the ripped fabric of my shirt, revealing the scarred skin. "And whatever it was, it terrified him. Profoundly."

I instinctively pulled my shirt closed. "Why do you care?"

"I don't. But I see an opportunity." She leaned closer. "Niklas possesses something I desire: information about the relic. And you possess something he wants."

"What's that?"

"You." A smile touched her lips. "He's utterly obsessed with you. I've never seen him like this, not even with Liesel."

"His deceased wife?"

"His conveniently deceased wife." Anastasia's smile vanished. "Liesel isn't dead, Elif. She's in hiding. And she was the one who told me about you."

A chill permeated the room. "What are you talking about?"

"Liesel faked her own death. She hired the half-blood who supposedly 'killed' her. It was all a fabrication designed to make Niklas despise half-bloods, to isolate him, to render him easily controllable." Anastasia rose. "She's been manipulating him for years. And now, she perceives you as a threat."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I share your goal: freedom. Freedom from the Council, from the packs, from all of this." She gestured around the room. "Help me locate the relic, and I will help you reclaim what Niklas is withholding."

"And if I refuse?"

Anastasia shrugged. "Then you remain here indefinitely, a pawn in a game you don't comprehend." She moved toward the door. "Consider it. I'll return tonight."

She departed, leaving me amidst a swirling vortex of doubt, questioning the sincerity of anyone in this place.

That night, I resolved to act. I would find Niklas's room, seek answers, and reclaim my lost memories. The stronghold was eerily quiet after dark. Torches cast long, dancing shadows across the stone walls. I moved through the corridors, my bare feet making no sound on the cold floor, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm.

Niklas's room, I recalled, was at the end of the east wing. The door was heavy, reinforced wood and iron. It was unlocked. I pushed it open and slipped inside.

The room was surprisingly small: a bed, a desk, a wardrobe, and a single window overlooking the moonlit forest. On the desk lay a leather-bound book—a journal. My hands trembled as I picked it up. The pages were aged and yellowed, filled with handwriting that shifted from neat to frantic, detailing dates, names, and places.

Then, I discovered it. A drawing. A young girl, perhaps seven or eight, with dark hair, dark eyes, and a solemn expression. Beneath it, a name: Ella.

My breath hitched. Ella. Not Elif. Ella. I stared at the drawing, at the subtle curve of the girl's smile, the way her hair fell across her forehead, the small scar on her chin—a scar identical to my own. It was me. It was undeniably me.

I frantically turned the pages, devouring the words:

"Today I met her. She was crying in the forest. Alone. Scared. I asked her name and she said 'Ella.' I told her mine. She smiled. I think I'm in love."

"Ella showed me how to catch fish with her bare hands. She's faster than anyone I've ever seen. Faster than the purebloods. I asked her how she does it. She said 'The wolf helps me.' I asked if the wolf helps me too. She laughed. I love her laugh."

"They found out about her. The Council. They say she's a half-blood. They say she's dangerous. They want to kill her. I won't let them. I can't let them. I'll protect her. I'll always protect her."

"I bit her. To mark her. To claim her. Now they can't kill her without killing me too. She cried. I held her. I told her I would come back for her. I lied."

"They took her. I don't know where. I've been looking for three years. I can't find her. I can't find Ella. I can't find her. I think I'm going mad."

The entries ceased. I closed the journal, my hands shaking uncontrollably. Ella. He had called me Ella.

I walked to the small mirror on the wall and met my reflection: dark hair, dark eyes, a small, serious face. The same face from the drawing. The same face he had been searching for, for ten years.

"Ella," I whispered. The name felt foreign, yet profoundly right—like a key turning in a lock, a door swinging open.

Suddenly, a growl echoed. I spun around. Niklas stood in the doorway, his eyes not gray, but a burning, ember red. His chest heaved, his fists clenched.

"That journal," he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Does not belong to you."

I clutched it to my chest. "Niklas—"

"Give it to me."

"Who is the girl in the drawing?"

His eyes flared. "Give me the journal, Elif."

"Not until you tell me the truth."

He moved with astonishing speed. One moment he was in the doorway; the next, he stood before me, his hand clamped around my wrist, his face mere inches from mine. "The truth?" he snarled. "You want the truth?"

"Yes."

"You are the girl in the drawing. You are the one I bit. You are the one I loved. And you are the one who forgot me."

His grip tightened, and the journal slipped from my fingers, falling to the floor. "Niklas, I didn't—I couldn't—"

"You couldn't remember?" His laugh was laced with bitterness. "Or you chose not to?"

"I didn't choose anything! I have no memory of my childhood before the age of ten. My mother claimed it was trauma, that I blocked it out."

"Your mother." He spat the word like a curse. "Your mother sold you, Elif. To the Council. For money. She told them where to find you. She told them your real name."

"My real name is Elif."

"No." He released my wrist and stepped back. "Your real name is Ella. Ella Vollbrecht. Because I claimed you. Because you were mine."

The room swam. "I was yours?"

"You are mine." His voice cracked. "You've always been mine. Even when you forgot me. Even when I tried to hate you. Even when I convinced myself you were dead and I needed to move on." He sank to his knees, Niklas Vollbrecht, the most powerful shifter in Germany, kneeling before me. "I've been searching for you for ten years," he choked out. "And now that I've found you, you don't even remember me."

I knelt before him, reaching out to touch his face—his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. "Then make me remember," I whispered.

He looked up, his eyes still red but softening, regaining their human hue. "How?"

"Tell me everything. Don't leave anything out."

He closed his eyes, his hand covering mine, pressing my palm against his cheek. "You were seven," he began. "I was fifteen. I was hunting in the Black Forest—my family's territory—when I found you. You were hiding in a hollow tree, crying. You had run away from your mother because she locked you in the basement."

Memory flooded back. God help me, I remembered. The cold. The darkness. The chains. And then a boy's voice, gentle, kind. "Hey. It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you. What's your name?" "Ella." "I'm Niklas. Come on. Let's get you somewhere warm."

I opened my eyes, tears streaming down my face. "I remember," I choked out. "I remember you."

Niklas's eyes flew open. "You do?"

"You carried me on your shoulders. You showed me the stars. You told me stories about wolves who could fly."

His breath hitched. "And then the Council found us. And you bit me. And they took me away."

"You screamed for me," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "You screamed my name. And I couldn't reach you. I couldn't save you."

I leaned forward, pressing my forehead against his. "You saved me," I said. "You marked me. You claimed me. I've been yours ever since. I just didn't know it."

His arms encircled me, pulling me against his chest. His heart hammered against mine, a frantic, desperate rhythm. "I'm sorry," he murmured. "I'm sorry I didn't find you sooner. I'm sorry I let them take you. I'm sorry for every cruel thing I said to you. I'm sorry for—"

I kissed him. Not with hunger or desperation, but softly, gently, forgivingly. "I'm here now," I whispered against his lips. "That's all that matters."

He pulled back just enough to meet my gaze. His eyes were gray again, soft, brimming with tears. "Ella," he breathed.

"Elif," I corrected him. "I'm not that scared little girl anymore."

"No." He smiled, a genuine smile, the first I had ever witnessed. "You're so much more."

He pulled me to my feet, his hands resting on my waist, my hips, my back, holding me as if I were something precious. "I'm not going to lose you again," he vowed.

"Good. Because I'm not going anywhere."

He kissed me again. And this time, I remembered everything.