Page 59 of Queen of Ruin

I wince, keeping my eyes closed as the doctor provided by these strangers tends to the wound on my head. We’ve been here an hour and she’s been all over my body, helping me understand what’s injured, what’s healed, and what could have caused my memory loss.

It all comes down to the blow to the head when Diego was run off the road, but the fact that small things have come back is a promising sign. Unfortunately, the speed at which things return can’t be increased. It’s all up to my own mind.

“He’s a good man,” I murmur. “I don’t know the extent of his medical capabilities but I know I’m alive because of him.”

“This will scar.” The doctor shifts beside me, and her coat brushes against my bare arm. “Even if you’d gone to a hospital, it still would have scarred. When you’re fully healed and the skin has grown back, there might be something we can do about the hair loss along the wound. Implants and things.”

“I don’t know if I care about that,” I admit. How I look hasn’t much crossed my mind these past few weeks since Diego’s been all over me like a horny fever and I haven’t minded one bit. If he can look past the wounds, the bruises, and the big old dent on my forehead, then so can I.

“The old you would,” the doctor remarks with a smile, and I finally open my eyes.

“Was she vain?” I ask, thinking back to the elegant, brand-name clothing I found in the closet.

“I wouldn’t say vain. You were… particular in what you liked and how you dressed. You treated that with as much care as any of your other weapons.”

“Wow…” Hearing myself be talked about in such a way is so strange when compared to how I feel… and what I feel. I felt no connection to the clothes, the makeup, or the jewelry, and yet it was clearly part of my identity.

“Okay, I think we’re good here. I’d like to keep you on some painkillers and we’ll wean you off slowly over time. Everything else looks good.” Her warm blue eyes lock onto mine. “And if you feel dizzy or nauseated at any point?”

“I’ll come find you,” I reply. “Which… would suggest everyone intends for me to stay here?”

Confusion flitters across her expression as she steps away and pulls off her medical gloves. “Of course. Why wouldn’t you?”

The why reveals itself moments later when a tall man with light brown hair, golden skin, and piercing blue eyes pushes the door open. I only spare him a glance because Diego pushes past him a second later and rushes inside.

“Valentina!”

“Diego!” I throw myself off the bed and make it two steps before I’m swept up in his tight embrace, and suddenly, the world is righted. My heart thuds against my ribs, threatening to burst free with each passing second, and Diego briefly tightens his grip.

Then he leans away and cups my face, running his eyes over me at breakneck speed. “Are you alright? Did they hurt you? I swear I’ll kill them if they hurt you.”

A snort rises up from the man at the door as I shake my head. “I’m okay. Anything new is from the crash, a few bumps and bruises but nothing else. They took care of me, even restitched a few things.”

Diego’s eyes dart down to where the wound he badly stitched exists under my clothes, and he winces. “I didn’t hurt you with my bad stitching, did I?”

“No,” I assure him. “You saved my life, Diego. That will never change.”

“Sorry to interrupt.” A woman joins the man in the doorway and her plump, red lips stretch into a warm smile as she tucks several strands of her fair blonde hair behind one ear. “I’m Ivy. This is Ruslan.” She tilts her head toward the man. “Welcome back, Valentina.”

Ivy. Ruslan.

Those names spark familiarity in my mind, and I step back from Diego, though he slides his hand firmly into mine. “I know your names.”

There’s an undeniable rush of hope in Ruslan’s eyes. “You do?”

“I had rings in my pocket. They were engraved with names. Your names.” My attention splits between them. “Were you two married?”

Ivy and Ruslan exchange a glance, then Ivy brings her hands together as she smiles. “We have a lot to catch up on. Are you hungry?”

Thirty minutes later, we sit at a large table in a spacious kitchen flooded with countless good scents. Diego sits next to me, his back as tense as a metal pole, and not once does he let go of my hand.

Not that I want him to.

There’s a certain uncomfortable sensation that comes with looking in the eyes of people who hold memories and feelings for me that I can’t reciprocate. They look at me like they know me, and from the snippets of information I’ve gathered so far, they do. I was part of this group of people, whoever they are, and I was important to them.

But I feel as alien as Diego appears to be as the tallest of them, Bradley, sets down two steaming bowls of pasta.

“It’s not much,” he grunts in a deep, gruff voice. “But it’s good.”