Page 133 of Wicked Truths
“Don’t think about that right now.” I guide her toward the house, nodding at the driver, who watches us with careful eyes. “Dom has security everywhere. Nothing’s going to happen.”
“You don’t understand.” Her voice cracks. “What if they try to kill Dom next? What if they come here?”
I usher her inside, locking the door behind us. “That won't happen. Dom knows how to handle himself.”
In the kitchen, I sit her down, but her hands won’t stop shaking.
“I’ll make you some tea,” I offer, reaching for a mug.
She rocks her head. “I’d love something stronger. Vodka and tonic, but tea will do.”
I pause, studying her face. The request isn’t unusual, but something in her tone catches my attention. The way she asked for it, like it’s a memory rather than a random choice.
After I make her a cup of tea, I pour myself two fingers of Dom’s expensive Macallan.
She takes a sip of her hot tea and finds me staring.
“What?” she asks, voice steadier now.
“When did you get your memory back?” I ask quietly.
“I told you I have some random memories popping up.”
I shake my head. “This is more. You’ve recovered."
Her eyes widen slightly, but she recovers quickly. “How do you know that I have?”
Amara’s fingers tremble as she places the cup on the counter. Something clicks in my brain—the way she asked for the vodka and tonic. It was so specific, so familiar.
I take a sip of my drink and set the glass on the counter.
“Remember your eighteenth birthday?” I ask casually, watching her face. “Dom bought you and Xander that ridiculously expensive champagne—the one that costmore than my monthly mortgage. But you decided as it was your birthday you weren’t drinking champagne.”
Her eyes flicker up to mine, cautious.
“You and Poppy got yourselves a vodka and tonic instead.” I smile at the memory of her and my daughter laughing and dancing just before the evening turned to chaos.
She drinks more of her tea, longer this time, avoiding my gaze.
“When I asked why you were drinking a spirit, you told me your theory,” I continue, “that vodka was less likely to make you fat than champagne. Some nonsense about sugar content.”
A small smile plays on her lips. “I was just repeating Mom...” Her voice trails off, and her eyes shift downward, staring at the floor. The slip is obvious, immediate.
My heart pounds as I pick up my tumbler and take another sip of the burning liquid. “Do you remember?”
She lifts her head and stares directly into my eyes. “Yeah.”
My glass nearly slips from my hand. I set it down carefully on the counter, my mind racing.
“Everything?” I ask, hardly daring to breathe.
“Not everything. But enough.” She takes another sip of her tea, her hand steadier now as she stares at the counter. “It started coming back in little pieces. Brief flashes at first—the sound of heels on tile, the smell of the chlorine in the pool. You…”
“When?” I step closer, needing to know. “When did it come back fully?”
“It doesn’t matter.” She meets my eyes unflinchingly. “What matters is that I remembered us. You and me.”
“Jesus, Amara.” I run my hands through my hair. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
