Chapter 5 Blood Wedding Memories

# Chapter 5: Blood Wedding Memories

I dreamed of drowning. Of salt water filling my lungs and darkness pressing in from all sides. But in this dream, unlike reality, I remembered everything.

I woke with a gasp, disoriented by unfamiliar surroundings. The gentle rocking beneath me wasn't the speedboat but something larger. Through a porthole window, I saw nothing but open sea.

"We're on my yacht," Cain's voice came from the doorway. He looked better than he had the night before—fresh clothes, his wounded shoulder professionally bandaged. "The Valkyrie. Seemed appropriate, given the circumstances."

"How long was I out?" My mouth felt dry, my arm throbbing where the bullet had grazed it.

"Almost fourteen hours. Doctor says it was mostly exhaustion." He approached cautiously, like one might a wounded animal. "You had nightmares."

I sat up, wincing. "About drowning."

"You called my name," he said quietly. "Several times."

I looked away, uncomfortable with the intimacy that implied. "Where are we headed?"

"International waters, for now. Until I can be certain you're safe." He sat on the edge of the bed, maintaining a respectful distance. "How's the arm?"

"I'll live." I studied him, this man who claimed to be my husband. In the soft morning light, he looked less dangerous, the harsh lines of his face softened by concern. "You took a bullet for me yesterday."

"Not the first time." His smile was wry. "Though usually you're the one taking bullets for me."

My hand instinctively moved to my back, to the scar tissue there. "Like this one?"

He nodded, eyes darkening with the memory. "That night changed everything."

"Tell me," I said, suddenly desperate to know. "Not the sanitized version. Not what you think I want to hear. The truth."

Cain was silent for a long moment, as if gathering his thoughts. "We were married for six months. In secret—your undercover status made it necessary. It was... complicated. Your department didn't know. My associates didn't know. We lived in separate worlds that only overlapped in stolen moments."

"That sounds... lonely."

"It was. But we made it work." His gaze turned distant. "The night everything fell apart was supposed to be a celebration. Your operation was nearly complete. You had gathered enough evidence to bring down the Donovan organization. We met at the cliff house—neutral territory where we could be ourselves."

I closed my eyes, trying to access the fragments of memory that had surfaced during our escape. "There was a storm coming."

"Yes." Surprise colored his voice. "You remember that?"

"Pieces." I frowned, concentrating. "The wind was picking up. You wanted to leave before it hit, but I insisted we had time for dinner."

"You always were stubborn." His smile was fond. "We'd just finished when they came. A dozen of Donovan's best men. Someone had leaked your identity—we never discovered who."

Another flash of memory—shattering glass, the dining table overturned for cover, my service weapon in one hand and the Beretta in the other.

"We were outgunned," I said slowly. "Trapped."

"We fought our way to the cliff path—it was our only escape route. The storm had hit by then. Rain, wind." His voice grew hoarse. "You were magnificent. Every bit the Valkyrie."

I could almost see it—rain plastering my hair to my face, the taste of gunpowder and salt spray, Cain's solid presence at my back.

"Then what?" I prompted when he fell silent.

"We ran out of ammunition. I was hit." His hand moved unconsciously to his side. "Not serious, but enough to slow me down. You..." He swallowed hard. "You created a diversion. Led them away from me, over the narrowest part of the path."

My heart pounded as the memory crystallized. "I wasn't trying to jump. I slipped on the wet rocks. Someone fired—"

"And you fell." The raw pain in his voice made me flinch. "I reached for you, but you were already gone. Into the storm. Into the sea."

I could hear it now—his voice screaming my name as I plummeted toward the churning water. The terror. The desperation.

"I tried to follow you," he continued, each word dragging as if pulled from somewhere deep and wounded. "My men held me back. The current was too strong, the rocks too dangerous. We searched for days. Weeks."

"But they found my clothing. Blood in the water."

"Enough to presume you dead. I refused to believe it." His eyes met mine, fierce with remembered determination. "I had search teams combing every inch of coastline. When they officially declared you dead after three months, I doubled my efforts."

Another memory surfaced—waking in a hospital bed, confused, in pain, with no identification except half a police badge clutched in my fist.

"I was found nearly thirty miles down the coast," I said slowly. "Fishermen pulled me from a tidal pool. Severe concussion, hypothermia, no identification. No memory."

"By the time I learned you'd been found alive, your department had already established your new identity." His jaw tightened. "They moved quickly. Too quickly."

"To protect me," I suggested, still struggling to accept the alternative.

"To control you," he corrected. "You knew things, Isla. Dangerous things. About Donovan's government connections. About operations that crossed lines."

I tried to reconcile this with what Coleman had told me—that Cain was the dangerous one, "The Ghost" whose shadowy operations required deniability.

"If what you're saying is true," I said carefully, "then you're not the one they were protecting me from."

"They created a convenient villain." His smile was bitter. "The mysterious husband with dangerous connections. Better that than admit their own corruption."

My head was spinning with implications. "But why would Coleman meet me at the archives facility if he wanted me silenced? Why not just... arrange an accident?"

"Because they needed to know how much you'd remembered. What evidence you might have secured." Cain's expression darkened. "A tragic shooting during a document retrieval? Much cleaner than an unexplained accident."

It made a terrible kind of sense. The secrecy around my file. The restricted access. The way Coleman had insisted I come alone.

"What about our wedding?" I asked, changing direction, needing something concrete to ground me. "Was it really on that cliff?"

Something softened in Cain's expression. "Yes. Small ceremony. Just us and a celebrant. You wore a simple white dress—nothing elaborate. Said you didn't need the fuss."

Another memory flickered—standing on the cliff edge, wind tugging at my dress, Cain's hands warm around mine.

"There were flowers," I said hesitantly. "Small white ones."

"Lily of the valley. Your bouquet." His eyes widened slightly. "You remember."

"I remember how they smelled. Like... like spring." I closed my eyes, chasing the fragment. "You said something about them being poisonous."

"Beauty with deadly potential." His voice was gentle. "It reminded me of you."

The compliment—if it was one—struck me oddly. Not because it was inappropriate, but because it felt familiar. Right. Like he'd said similar things before.

"The wedding dress," I said suddenly. "The one in the glass case on your yacht. It was bloody."

Pain flickered across his features. "That wasn't your wedding dress. It was what you were wearing the night of our anniversary. When you disappeared."

"Why keep it? Especially like that?"

"To remind me." His voice dropped to nearly a whisper. "Of what I lost. Of what was taken from us."

The rawness of his grief was undeniable. No one could fake that level of pain—not even someone as potentially skilled in deception as Cain Lockhart.

"After I fell," I asked hesitantly, "what did you do?"

He looked away, jaw tightening. "Things I'm not proud of."

"Tell me."

"I hunted every person connected to the attack. Every single one." His voice was flat, emotionless. "I knelt on that cliff edge in the pouring rain and swore I would dismantle their entire world."

I could see it—Cain on his knees, rain mixing with tears, rage and grief consuming him.

"And did you? Dismantle their world?"

"I tried." He met my eyes again. "I killed the men who chased you onto that cliff. Put seven bullets into the water where you fell—one for each month we'd been married."

The image was so vivid I could almost hear the gunshots echoing over the roar of the storm. Seven shots into the uncaring sea. A ritual of rage and remembrance.

"When they found me," I said slowly, "why didn't you come forward immediately?"

"I tried. Your department blocked me at every turn. Medical necessity, they claimed. That seeing me could trigger traumatic memories, set back your recovery." His hands clenched into fists. "By the time I managed to get access, you'd been thoroughly convinced of your new identity. You looked straight through me in that hospital corridor. No recognition at all."

The pain in his voice was unmistakable.

"So you watched from a distance," I concluded. "Built that shrine of photos."

"I protected you the only way I could." He stood abruptly, pacing the small cabin. "I kept my distance, but I never stopped looking for a way to bring you back."

"Back to what?" I challenged. "A life in the shadows? Divided loyalties?"

"Back to the truth," he said simply. "Whatever you chose to do with it afterward."

We fell into silence, the only sound the gentle hum of the yacht's engines and the splash of waves against the hull. I studied him—this man who had loved and lost and never stopped searching. Who had killed for me. Who had waited five years for a woman who no longer existed.

"I'm not her anymore," I said finally. "The woman you married. I can't be."

"I know." His voice was soft but steady. "But you're still Isla. Still brave and brilliant and stubborn as hell. The core of who you are didn't wash away with your memories."

"And if I never remember everything? If those five years stay lost?"

"Then we start again." He approached the bed slowly, giving me time to object, and sat beside me. "Or we don't. Your choice, Isla. It's always been your choice."

He reached out, his fingers hovering near my cheek, not quite touching—asking permission. I hesitated, then nodded slightly. His touch was gentle as he brushed a strand of hair from my face.

"There's something I need to show you," he said. "When you're ready."

"What is it?"

"The rest of your past." He stood, moving toward the door. "Get dressed. Meet me on the bridge when you're ready."

After he left, I found clothes laid out for me—simple, practical attire that fit perfectly. Of course it did. He'd been watching me for five years; he would know my size.

I dressed slowly, my mind racing with everything I'd learned. My fingers traced the ring on my left hand—the physical proof of a life I couldn't remember living. It felt both foreign and familiar, like so much about Cain himself.

Whatever waited for me on the bridge, I sensed it would change everything—again. The woman who had drowned five years ago was gone. The officer who had emerged in her place was built on lies.

Who would I be when the truth was finally, fully revealed?

I squared my shoulders and headed for the door. There was only one way to find out.