Chapter 2: The Stranger

His hand clamped over my wrist like a steel trap before I could even draw breath to scream.

I thrashed backward, kicking violently against the mattress, but Lucien was an immovable force. His weight pressed down on the edge of the bed, trapping my legs while his free hand pinned my right shoulder. He didn't strike me. He didn't even use a fraction of his actual strength. But the sheer, oppressive dominance of his body paralyzed me.

"Let go of me!" I shrieked, twisting my trapped hand. The paper in my pocket crumpled against my knuckles.

"Open your hand, Nadia," he commanded, his voice a lethal, vibrating baritone right next to my ear. His dark eyes were fixed on my fist, burning with a terrifying mix of fury and calculation. "Do not make me hurt you."

"You already tried!" The accusation tore out of my throat before I could stop it.

Lucien froze.

The absolute stillness that overtook him was more terrifying than his sudden movement. The muscle in his jaw stopped ticking. His eyes hollowed out, transforming into twin black abysses.

"What did you just say?" he whispered. The temperature in the room seemed to plummet.

I had made a fatal mistake. The note in my pocket burned against my skin—*He is the one who tried to kill you.* I couldn't let him see it. If he knew what I had written, if he knew my past self had figured him out, I wouldn't make it out of this hospital alive.

I yanked my arm upward with every ounce of adrenaline flooding my system.

The violent motion tore the remaining stitches on my wrist. A fresh, hot wave of blood spilled down my forearm, splashing onto the pristine white hospital sheets.

"Dammit, Nadia!" Lucien snarled, instantly releasing my fist to grab a thick gauze pad from the bedside tray. He pressed it brutally hard against my bleeding wrist. "Doctor! Now!"

The doctor scrambled forward from the shadows, a syringe gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights.

"No!" I sobbed, kicking frantically as the doctor uncapped the needle. "Don't touch me! Help!"

"Hold her still, Mr. Voss," the doctor said, his voice shaking.

Lucien shifted his weight, pinning my hips to the bed while his large hand cupped the back of my head. He held my neck in a vice grip so the doctor could access the IV line still taped to my arm.

"Get off me!" I choked out, tears of absolute terror blurring my vision. "You're a monster! Don't let him do this!"

"Look at me," Lucien demanded, his face hovering mere inches from mine. His thumb stroked my cheekbone—a jarring, horrifyingly tender gesture amidst the violence. "Look at me, Nadia. Focus on my eyes."

I couldn't look away. I was trapped in his intense gaze as the cold burn of the sedative hit my bloodstream.

"You belong to me," Lucien murmured, his voice softening into a dark, possessive lullaby as the edges of my vision began to turn gray. "And I protect what is mine. Go to sleep."

"I... hate... you," I slurred, the fight draining from my muscles against my will.

"I know," was the last thing I heard him say before the darkness swallowed me whole.

I woke up to the smell of rain and expensive cedar.

There was no hospital monitor. No blinding white lights. I lay perfectly still, my eyes closed, assessing the damage. My head throbbed with a dull, rhythmic ache, and my wrist burned, but the heavy leather straps were gone.

Instead, I was buried beneath a mountain of heavy silk bedding.

I snapped my eyes open and sat up, ignoring the sickening rush of vertigo.

The bedroom was massive, modern, and suffocatingly luxurious. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased the glittering, rain-slicked skyline of Paris in the dead of night. Charcoal-gray walls, a massive black marble fireplace, and a king-sized bed that felt like an isolated island in the center of the room.

Panic surged anew. I looked down at my body. The cheap hospital gown was gone.

I was wearing a thin, black silk nightgown.

My breath hitched in my throat. Who had changed my clothes? The thought of Lucien’s hands on my unconscious body made my stomach heave. I threw the covers off and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. My bare feet hit a plush, ice-cold rug.

The room was utterly silent. I was completely alone.

I needed to get out of here. I needed a phone. I needed to call the police.

I stumbled toward the heavy oak door on the far side of the room, my legs trembling like a newborn fawn's. I grabbed the brass handle and pulled.

Locked.

"Hey!" I screamed, slamming my fists against the thick wood. "Open this door! Let me out!"

Silence answered me.

I spun around, my chest heaving, scanning the room for a weapon, a phone, anything. My reflection caught in the massive mirror above a marble vanity table.

I stepped closer, staring at the stranger looking back at me. I looked hollowed out. Pale. My blonde hair was tangled, and a thick, white bandage was taped tightly over my left temple. But it was my hands that drew my attention.

The enormous emerald-cut diamond ring caught the dim light, mocking me.

A wave of violent rejection crashed over me. I grabbed the platinum band, twisting it frantically, pulling it over my knuckle. It was tight, scraping my skin raw, but I yanked it off with a sharp gasp of pain.

I slammed the ring down onto the marble vanity, breathing heavily.

As it hit the stone, the heavy ring tipped over, rolling onto its side.

I froze.

There was an inscription engraved deep into the inner band of the platinum. It wasn't a wedding date. It wasn't a romantic quote.

I leaned in, my heart stopping completely as I read the tiny, jagged letters etched into the metal.

"CHECK YOUR SCAR."

My hands flew to the bandage on my head, but the engraving wasn't talking about my temple. With shaking fingers, I pulled down the thin strap of the black silk nightgown, exposing my left shoulder.

There, carved perfectly into the skin just above my collarbone, was a brand-new, healing scar.

And it wasn't from a car crash.

It was a perfectly straight line of small, dark numbers tattooed directly over a fresh surgical incision.

Someone had planted something inside of me.