The Survivor

Brynn Hollis' POV

The first thing I noticed was the smell.

Antiseptic. Clean. The kind of clean that meant sickness and bandages and things going wrong.

The second thing I noticed was the ceiling. White. Tiled. A fluorescent light buzzed somewhere above me, flickering like a dying heartbeat.

I tried to move. My body screamed.

What happened?

I turned my head—slowly, because even that sent spikes of pain through my skull—and took in the room. Hospital. Pack hospital, judging by the silver wolf sigil embroidered on the curtains. Machines beeped beside me. Tubes ran from my arm to a bag of clear liquid.

My left arm was in a sling. My ribs ached with every breath. And between my legs, pressed low on my abdomen, was a strange, dull throb I couldn't name.

Something happened to me.

But what?

I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to reach for the memory. Nothing. Just darkness. A void where the past should have been.

Who am I?

The question should have terrified me. Instead, it just sat there, cold and heavy, like a stone I couldn't swallow.

I opened my eyes.

And saw him.

A man stood by the window. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair falling across a sharp jaw. He was watching me with an intensity that made my skin prickle—not with recognition, but with the instinctive wariness of a prey animal sensing a predator.

He was beautiful. And he looked furious.

"You're awake," he said. His voice was low, controlled. The kind of voice that expected obedience.

I stared at him. "Who are you?"

The question hung in the air. His jaw tightened. His eyes—gray, like winter storms—narrowed.

"You don't know who I am."

It wasn't a question. But I answered anyway.

"No."

He took a step toward the bed. I flinched. Not because I was afraid of him—I didn't know him well enough to be afraid. I flinched because my body remembered something my mind didn't. A muscle memory of shrinking.

He noticed. His expression flickered. Something unreadable crossed his face.

"I'm Alpha Dax Thorne," he said slowly, like he was testing me. "Your husband."

Husband.

I looked at him. Really looked. He was handsome, yes. But there was no warmth in his gaze. No softness. Just calculation.

"I don't remember you," I said. "I don't remember anything."

He studied me for a long moment. Then he laughed. It was a cold, sharp sound.

"You expect me to believe that?"

I blinked. "I don't expect anything. I'm telling you the truth."

"The truth." He ran a hand through his hair, pacing to the window and back. "You crash your car three days ago. You've been unconscious. And now you wake up with amnesia?"

Three days. I'd lost three days. And apparently, years before that.

"I don't know what to tell you," I said. My voice came out steadier than I felt. "I woke up. I don't know you. I don't know this room. I don't even know my own name."

"Brynn," he said. "Your name is Brynn Hollis."

Brynn. I rolled it around in my head. It meant nothing. It felt like a coat that didn't fit.

"Brynn," I repeated. "Okay."

He stopped pacing. His eyes drilled into mine. "What's the last thing you remember?"

I searched the void again. Nothing. Just fragments that slipped away when I reached for them.

"Nothing," I admitted. "There's nothing before this bed. Before the ceiling. Before your voice."

He didn't believe me. I could see it in the way his lip curled, the way his hands balled into fists at his sides.

"You expect me to believe that my wife—the rogue who chased me for three years, who cooked my meals and learned my pack's names and begged for my attention—wakes up and remembers nothing?"

Rogue. That word stung, even though I didn't know why.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I said. "I don't know if I chased you. I don't know if I cooked your meals. I don't even know what a rogue is."

He stared at me. Long and hard. Then he grabbed a chair, dragged it to the side of my bed, and sat down. Close. Too close.

"Look at me," he commanded.

I did. His eyes were searching, peeling, trying to find the lie beneath my skin.

"Who is the Alpha of Silver Creek?" he demanded.

"You," I said. "You just told me."

"What's your favorite color?"

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

"Your birthday?"

Nothing. "I don't know."

"How old are you?"

The void offered no answer. "I don't know."

His jaw tightened. He leaned closer. I could smell him now—pine and something darker, like smoke.

"What about this?" He pulled up his sleeve, exposing his forearm. On it was a mark. A bond mark. I recognized it from somewhere deep—instinct, maybe. The mark of a fated mate.

"Do you know what this is?"

I looked at it. Then at him.

"It's a tattoo," I said.

His eyes flashed. "It's not a tattoo. It's the mate bond. Our mate bond. You gave me that mark. You have one too."

He reached for my arm. I pulled back. Not fast enough. His fingers wrapped around my wrist—not rough, but firm. He turned my arm over.

There it was. A matching mark. Swirled patterns, silver and black. It looked old. It looked permanent.

And I had no memory of receiving it.

"I don't..." I swallowed. "I don't remember."

He released my wrist like it burned him. He stood up, pushing the chair back so hard it scraped the floor.

"You're lying," he said. But there was something in his voice now. Doubt. A crack in the certainty.

"I'm not," I said quietly. "I wish I was. Because at least then I'd know what's going on."

He walked to the door. Stopped. His back was to me, broad and rigid.

"The healer will be in shortly," he said. "She'll explain your injuries. Your... condition."

Condition?

"What condition?" I asked.

He turned. His face was unreadable again.

"You're pregnant. Twelve weeks. The baby survived the crash."

Pregnant.

My hand flew to my stomach. The dull ache I'd felt—that was a life. A life inside me.

"A baby," I whispered.

"An heir," he corrected. Then he walked out.

The door clicked shut behind him. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, my palm pressed against my belly.

I didn't know my name. I didn't know my husband. I didn't know why he looked at me like he hated me.

But I knew one thing.

Something was growing inside me. And whatever I'd forgotten—whatever he thought I was lying about—that baby was mine.

I closed my eyes and waited for the healer.