I smile at him. Nolan’s my favorite. “Aye, you could say that.”
“Go on, then, if he’s waiting,” Keenan says, his phone still to his ear.
I walk up the stairs toward our bedroom, but hear their voices behind me.
“Could’ve set something up in the garden, no? Need to see if we’re tapped.”
A flash of memory hits me so quickly, it’s nearly physical. I grab the rail to steady myself, allowing the memory to wash over me all at once.
My mother… it’s my mother, I know it… standing in the window of our living room, peeking from beneath a slit in the blinds to the street below our window. “He kissed her. He kissed her, right there on the street where anyone could see.”
“Bloody hell.” My father sits in the corner of the room with a tumbler of whiskey. Who is the “her” they’re talking about? It isn’t me. I’m just a child.
“She isn’t allowed out with him again,” my father says. “Never should’ve let her out to begin with.”
“Aye. And the boy?”
“My men will deal with him.”I close my eyes to steady my nerves. My older sister. I have several sisters. There were many of us. My memories flood back to me in bits and pieces. My older sister snuck behind their backs and met a boy she crushed on. She was punished for that, grounded to her room and disallowed anything socially for months on end.
Nausea rolls in my belly again.
I remember. God, I do.
She was punished by watching on screen the way my father’s men tortured and beat her friend to teach him a lesson.
The chilling memory makes the nausea return.
She married the year after that. A different man, of course, one she’d never met. I remember. God, why do I have to remember that? Why can’t I remember something good?
Do I even have any good memories? I must.
The door downstairs opens and closes, and Cormac enters. He talks to his brothers and looks up to me.
“Aileen,” he says, his brows drawing together. “Y’alright, lass?”
I must look a sight, gripping the bannister and standing here frozen like I’ve been turned into stone.
“Fine,” I lie. Even my voice wants to betray me, wobbling like I’ve been gargling with stones.
He holds my gaze, then finally nods. “I’ll be up in a minute.”
I turn back to the stairs, and keep walking up them. One foot in front of the other. One at a time. I finally get to the landing and head to the room.
I have few memories of this house, but Cormac says it’s because I haven’t been here long.
What would happen if I were to go back to my childhood home?
Would I remember what it was like to live under that roof? I shudder to think of it. Cormac told me I’m not allowed contact with them. At first I wondered if it was Clan law, then I wondered if it was his own doing, and he’s a control freak. Now I suppose he feels he has good reason.
But how will I remember who I am if I don’t? How will any of it come back to me? Maybe I need to find a way to go back home, safely, without him finding out and losing his mind. I’m scared of what I’ll remember, but it scares me worse to be assaulted with memories as I just was now.
I could ask him to take me back. To protect me while he did. But he won’t. And then he’ll know I’m planning to go back. But he won’t.
I go to my room and nausea swirls in my belly again. I haven’t eaten in hours, so I figure I’m hungry. There’s a platter left from breakfast on the table, some soda bread and butter still waiting to be picked up. I slather some butter on a slice and eat it, and my nausea abates for a bit.
I pick out some nice clothes, dark colored jeans and a cropped light blue top that matches my eyes. None of these clothes are familiar to me, but I’m okay with that. He provides well for my needs, and I sort of like having new clothes, even if they’re only new because I can’t remember them.
I dress quickly. I want to get into town, to go see the shops. And he’s promised me tonight he has other plans for me as well.
I still hardly know the man, so it’s almost like a date. Almost. We share a bed, a last name, and vows that bind us. I brush my hair, quickly apply some makeup, and slide lip gloss on my lips, when the feeling I’m being watched returns. It’s disconcerting. I wonder if it’s because my memory’s coming back. Do I only feel as if I’m being watched? How could I be, anyway, in a room like this, with bars on the window and guards at the door?