Submitting To The Devil - The Devil's Snare - Book 2

Chapter Eighty One

Bianca

"Reset?" I echo his words, overwhelmed by a surge of emotions, including anger rising to the surface like a temptress. "You can't just reset a human," I shout, snatching my hand away to create a palpable distance between us—a barrier for my turbulent thoughts.

He regards me with an expression of concern, his posture shifting as he widens his stance. He leans slightly forward, as if ready to spring into action at any moment.

With each cautious step backwards, I carve out the space I desperately need, the distance mirrored in his anxious gaze.

"Bambi," he warns softly, a hint of urgency in his voice.

"I just need space. I need to breathe," I insist, my words tumbling out like waves crashing against the shore. To calm my racing heart, I lower myself onto the soft, golden grains of sand, sinking my toes into the warmth the sun generously spreads beneath me. The gentle sound of the rolling waves provides a soothing backdrop, momentarily easing my turbulent thoughts.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to come off as overbearing," he says, his voice laced with sincerity. "I'm taking a significant risk by bringing you up here. If he finds out...he'd kill me, I'm certain of it," he confesses, his expression darkening at the thought.

"My husband?" I ask, glancing down at the exquisite red ring resting delicately on my finger. It's weighty and beautiful, seemingly my favourite colour, yet I struggle to remember how it came to adorn my hand or who placed it there in the first place. But how he held me, kissed me, possessed me...it would make sense if I was his.

"My father?" Benji scoffs, his eyes flicking between the ring and my own. I'm drawn to him, unable to look away as he chuckles softly. It's not a joyous sound; it's laced with sadness and perhaps a tinge of jealousy.

It's ironic, really. Just this morning, I awoke next to him, a rush of confusion swirling in my mind when something deep inside me told me I shouldn't be lying in such a precarious position with him, and now I'm faced with this strange laughter.

"Yes, Derek," I nod.

"He's not—not your husband, Bambi." Then why the hell was he holding me so possessively before, like a husband would?

"Bambi or Bianca?" I need to clarify and understand who I am.

"Bianca. Your name is Bianca Ro—," he begins but then hesitates as if the very utterance aches him.

"Why do you call me Bambi? Your father did, too."

"That's on me," he shrugs, the weight of guilt evident in his eyes. "The first time you were here, you were like a deer caught in headlights—terrified in the medical bay, hiding beneath the table and repeating things my father could only dream of understanding. He tried to conceal you there, but I sneaked in. I named you Bambi because I didn't know your moniker then. Anyway, Bambi suits you better. You're strong. You've overcome so much."

"Is that why I can't remember things? It feels like whispers of the truth are sitting half-spoken. Nothing adds up."

"No, it's because they activated your reset response. I'm unsure whether they were aware of the gravity of their words when they uttered your name or if they intentionally sought to induce this state in you."

"Reset?" I repeat, my anxiety worsening once again. He talks about me as if I were some programme. It's degrading. I hate it.

"Do you want to remember, Bambi?" he asks, shuffling to sit close to me. I turn my chin to him, and our gazes lock in a charged moment of pure silence. His thumbs stroke my jawbone, and his soft, warm fingers send a chill through my body.