The Actress

Brynn Hollis' POV

The healer came and went.

She told me about my injuries—cracked ribs, a hairline fracture in my left arm, deep bruises across my torso and legs. She told me about the crash—how I'd gone over a guardrail, rolled twice, and been found unconscious by a patrol wolf.

She told me about the baby.

"Twelve weeks," she said, her voice gentle. "The heartbeat is strong. You're both lucky to be alive."

I nodded like I understood. But I didn't understand anything. Not the crash. Not the baby. Not the man who called himself my husband and looked at me like I was his enemy.

After the healer left, I lay in the dark and tried to remember.

Nothing.

Just a vast, white emptiness where my past should have been. No childhood. No parents. No first kiss or first heartbreak. No memory of walking down an aisle or saying wedding vows or waking up next to Alpha Dax Thorne.

He said I chased him.

The thought made my stomach turn. I couldn't imagine chasing anyone. I couldn't imagine begging for love.

And yet.

There was a bruise on my wrist that wasn't from the crash. Old. Yellowing. The shape of fingers.

I didn't want to think about what that meant.

---

The door opened at dawn.

Dax walked in without knocking. He was wearing the same clothes as yesterday—gray Henley, dark jeans—and he looked like he hadn't slept. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. His jaw was tight.

"We're going to talk," he said. Not a question.

I pushed myself up against the pillows. My ribs screamed. I didn't let him see me wince.

"About what?"

He pulled the chair to the side of my bed again. Sat down. Leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. His gray eyes pinned me like a butterfly to a board.

"About your act."

Act.

I stared at him. "I don't have an act."

"Everyone has an act." His voice was low, almost casual. But there was something dangerous underneath. "The question is: how long are you planning to keep this one going?"

I didn't answer. I didn't know what to say.

He tilted his head. Studied me. "You expect me to believe that you—Brynn Hollis, the rogue who followed me around like a lost puppy for three years—wake up from a car crash and remember nothing?"

"That's what happened."

"That's what you're saying happened."

I felt a flash of something hot in my chest. Frustration. Or maybe the ghost of anger I used to feel before I forgot how.

"I don't know what you want me to tell you," I said. "I don't remember you. I don't remember following you. I don't remember being a rogue. I don't even remember what I ate for breakfast yesterday because I don't know what yesterday was."

He didn't flinch. Didn't blink.

"Then answer a few questions," he said. "Simple ones. If you really can't remember, it won't be a problem."

I knew a trap when I heard one. But I also knew I had nothing to hide.

"Fine."

He smiled. It didn't reach his eyes.

"What's my mother's name?"

I opened my mouth. Closed it. "I don't know."

"We've been married three years. You've met her a dozen times."

"I don't know her name."

He wrote something in the air with his finger, like he was keeping score. "What's the name of my Beta?"

"I don't know."

"The name of the pack?"

"Silver Creek." I grabbed at the memory like a lifeline. "You told me. Yesterday. When I woke up."

His smile tightened. "Convenient."

"It's not convenient. It's what happened."

He leaned closer. I could smell him again—pine and smoke. His voice dropped to a whisper.

"What about the night we met? Do you remember that?"

No. The void offered nothing. Just cold, white nothing.

"No," I said.

"Interesting." He sat back. "Because I remember it perfectly. You were working at a diner off the highway. You dropped a tray of glasses when you saw me. You knew who I was before I said a word. The mate bond hit you like a truck."

I said nothing.

"You cried," he continued. "You told me you'd been praying to the Moon Goddess your whole life for a mate. You said you couldn't believe someone like you—a rogue, an orphan—could be chosen for someone like me."

My throat tightened. The woman he was describing sounded pathetic. Desperate. Nothing like the person I felt like now.

"That doesn't sound like me," I said quietly.

"No," Dax agreed. "It doesn't. That's why I know you're lying."

I met his gaze. Held it.

"I'm not lying."

"Then prove it." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a photograph. He held it up.

It was me. But older. Thinner. Dark circles under my eyes that matched the ones I'd seen in the hospital bathroom mirror. I was standing in a kitchen, holding a tray of food, looking at the camera with an expression I didn't recognize.

Hopeful. That was the word. I looked hopeful.

"Recognize this?" he asked.

"No."

"That's you. Six months ago. Cooking my birthday dinner. I didn't eat it."

Something twisted in my chest. Not memory—something deeper. Muscle memory. The echo of a pain I couldn't name.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked. My voice cracked.

"Because I want to know what game you're playing."

"It's not a game." I felt tears prick my eyes—not from sadness, from frustration. "I don't remember. I wish I did. I wish I knew why you hate me so much. I wish I knew why I stayed married to someone who looks at me like I'm garbage."

He went very still.

"You think I hate you?"

"I don't know what you feel. I don't know anything." I wiped my eyes with my good hand. "But I know one thing. If the woman in that photograph was real—if I really spent three years begging for your attention—then I'm glad I forgot her. She sounds exhausting."

Dax stared at me.

For a long moment, he didn't speak. Something shifted in his face. A crack in the armor. Doubt, maybe. Or something else entirely.

Then he stood up. Pushed the chair back.

"The healer will check on you this afternoon," he said. "Don't leave this room."

He walked to the door. Paused with his hand on the frame.

"You're good," he said quietly. "I'll give you that."

Then he was gone.

I lay back against the pillows, my heart pounding, my hand pressed to my belly.

He doesn't believe me.

But for the first time, I wondered if maybe—just maybe—he wanted to.