Violinist (CENTURIES series: Book #4)

12

Nothing.

Nothing but that violin.

As his grip around my throat loosened and his vice on my soul did the same, my eyes drifted to the side and pinned on the bulging suitcase lying on my coffee table.

That violin.

A hand gripped my chin and turned my head back to meet a pair of thundering blue eyes, yet for some reason... they were calm. In control.

"Do you know who I am?" He asked again, watching me so closely I swore he could see all the way through to my soul.

I shook my head. I had no idea who he was. He was a broken soul, a broken man, but as a human... I didn't know anymore than he did.

"If you don't know me," He gritted out through clenched teeth, "Then why did you ask me what I remember?"

My eyes flicked up to the white scar running along his hairline. My answers all laid there. All my suspicions. Paired with everything he did, the way he carried himself, his deep, haunted eyes... it painted a dark picture.

But that's all it was; a dark picture. Suspicions. Inklings.

"I've been watching you," I therefore replied, my whole body aching from being pressed up against his for too long. He was like fresh iron; Burning, hard and unyielding. I knew he wanted answers from me, but all I had were guesses. They weren't good enough for him. Not right now. He didn't need maybe. He needed certainty. "I see you... struggle. You... you have no memories, do you?" I whispered, full and well knowing the answer as his eyes darkened.

He narrowed his eyes at the condemning word, but then drew back, letting go of my throat. I sucked in a breath, not that I hadn't been able to breathe. I'd just forgotten to.

"Tony—"

"What else?" He tore his eyes away from mine, disappointment flickering through them. Or was it anger? What else had I seen?

"The blood," I whispered, seeing his eyes stay on the floor, listening to my words. "I've seen people with hemophobia before, but your reaction was nothing like that. It was... deeper. Like... PTSD." It was imbedded in his psyche like a red flag, a trap never to trip on or come near. The kind of trap a soldier was trained to stay clear of.

At the sound of the big word leaving my mouth, his eyes flicked up. He studied me for what seemed like forever, until, finally, he leaned back against the couch, his knuckles turning white against the fabric. "You're a waitress at a club." Translation; You are more.

"Downsized." Just like him, there was so much more to me that he shouldn't prod into, and like me, I'm sure he had his own theories.

"There's one thing I don't get, though," I said, hearing my voice speak the words out as they passed through my mind. "Your loss of memory hasn't wiped out your PTSD... you don't remember, but you still get triggered. How?"

"What do you mean how?"

"If you can't remember, then how—"

"I don't know. Same way I know the grass is green. Same way I know what's right and what's left. Same way I know how to fucking speak. Some things just can't be forgotten."