Chapter 2 The husband I can’t remember.
Now Anya Bellamy
I stared at him, waiting for the absurdity of his statement to crash down around us.
His wife? Me?
I looked from his tattooed neck to the hard, unyielding lines of his jaw, then back to his eyes. He wasn't smiling.
The two guards at the door didn't look surprised either.
He was handsome; I couldn’t deny that. There was something striking about his face, especially the sharp jaw, the dark stubble, and those green eyes that seemed to notice everything without revealing a single thought.
But his appeal was the sort that came with a warning label. The tattoos, the massive build, the scarred knuckles, and the intimidating stillness made him seem like the sort of man sensible women crossed the street to avoid.
I couldn’t imagine choosing someone like him, let alone marrying him. He wasn’t my type. Then again, I didn’t even know what my type was. I couldn’t remember a single date, a crush, or a face I had once found attractive.
For all I knew, I had always been drawn to men who looked like him. The thought made me stare at him in renewed disbelief.
“You’re telling me I looked at a man who looks like a walking felony and offered a ‘Yes, I want to marry him’?” I asked, my voice dripping with skepticism.
August’s eyes narrowed slightly, though a faint flicker of amusement crossed his features. “That’s exactly what happened.”
“I find that extremely hard to believe,” I remarked, folding my arms tightly over my chest, ignoring the throb in my ribs. “You look like the kind of man sensible women cross three streets to avoid. I might not remember my past, but I doubt my judgment was that compromised.”
His mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but a sharp shift in expression. “You always had a loud mouth.”
“And you have a terrible bedside manner,” I retorted, “If we’re married, prove it. Show me a wedding photo. Show me a marriage certificate. Show me a picture of us together on a phone.”
August leaned back in his chair, taking a beat too long before answering. “We got married in a quiet courthouse ceremony. No big party, no photos for social media. And your phone was shattered into pieces in the alley where I found you.”
I narrowed my eyes, watching him closely. There was a guarded stiffness to his posture, a tight control in the way he met my gaze. He didn't look like a grieving, panicked husband whose wife had just suffered a tragedy; he looked like a man calculating his next move.
He’s hiding something, my instincts screamed, even if I didn't have the memories to prove it.
“Convenient,” I noted dryly, deciding not to push it just yet. I was trapped in a hospital bed with zero leverage; backing him into a corner without an escape route wasn't smart. “What about my parents? You said you’re the only family I have left. Did I really lose everyone else?”
A subtle shadow passed over his face. “Your parents passed away years ago. You don't have siblings, and you kept your circle small.”
The thought of having no one else in the world hit me like a physical blow. A cold lump formed in my throat, but I forced my chin up, refusing to break down in front of him.
“Fine,” I hedged, keeping my voice level. “Since you’re my devoted husband, tell me how we met. Tell me how you proposed. Give me a single romantic detail to work with.”
August stared at me, his jaw flexing slightly. He didn't answer right away, his silence stretching out until the air between us felt charged.
“We met at a diner,” he finally offered, clearing his throat subtly. “You were arguing with the waiter about a charge on your bill. You were stubborn, sharp, and refused to back down until you got what you wanted. I liked that about you.”
“And the proposal?” I pressed, watching every micro-expression on his face.
“I bought a ring, handed it to you across my kitchen counter, and told you that you were staying with me.” His eyes locked onto mine, dark and unreadable. “You took it.”
I let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Good grief. Romeo could never. You really swept me off my feet, didn't you?”
“It worked,” he stated flatly. “You’re here.”
“I’m in a hospital bed with a head injury,” I corrected him, a spark of dry humor slipping through the tension. “What’s your full name?”
“August Bellamy.”
“August,” I repeated. It sounds far too gentlemanly for a man built like a brick wall and covered in street ink. “What do you actually do for a living, August?”
“I run a business,” he replied clipped.
“What kind of business requires two armed bodyguards to visit a hospital room?” I gestured toward the two silent men by the door, noting the winged-skull patch stitched onto their leather jackets.
August didn't flinch. “I’m the Vice President of the Iron Vultures.”
“A biker club,” I murmured, piecing it together. “An outlaw club, I assume? One that people whisper about?”
“You ask too many questions for someone with a head injury,” August warned softly.
“And you give far too few answers for a husband,” I shot back.
Before he could reply, the door clicked open.
“I see your visitor has arrived. How are you feeling?”
“Confused,” I replied.
Dr. Harris checked the latest results and explained that my vital signs had remained stable. My scans showed no new complications, and I could be discharged once the necessary arrangements were made.
However, he emphasized that I would need someone to help me at home and accompany me to follow-up appointments.
“And she won't be staying alone?” August asked.
“I wouldn't recommend it during the initial recovery period,” the doctor replied. “She needs supervision, particularly while she's still experiencing memory problems.”
August nodded once. “She'll stay with me.”
The certainty in his voice made it sound less like an offer and more like a decision.
Dr. Harris turned towards me. “Are you comfortable going home with your husband?”
I hesitated. “I don't remember him.”
“I understand. But he has identified himself as your husband and agreed to assist you during your recovery. If you have any concerns, you can tell me.”
I looked at August. He stood beside the window with his hands in his pockets, watching me without making any attempt to persuade me.
“Can I speak to the doctor alone?” I asked.
August's features remained on me for a moment before he stepped outside with the two men.
Once the door closed, I leaned towards Dr. Harris.
“What if he's lying?”
The doctor lowered his voice. “What makes you think that?”
I shook my head. “I don't know him. He walked in here and told me we're married, but he hasn't shown me a single thing to prove it. He won't tell me how we met or anything about our life together.”
“I understand your concerns. I can't verify the details of your marriage from your medical records alone, but I can check the identification details he provided when he signed your admission forms.”
I looked down at my hands. “Please verify it. If he's lying, I need to know.”
“I will handle it right now,” Dr. Harris assured me. “Sit tight.”
He stepped out into the hallway, leaving me alone with my racing thoughts. A few excruciating minutes passed before the doctor returned, closing the door behind him.
“I checked the identification and emergency forms he filled out,” Dr. Harris informed me in a low, measured voice. “His state driver's license matches the address and legal information on file, and his details are formally logged as your primary emergency contact. Legally, everything checks out.”
I nodded slowly, swallowing the lump in my throat. I still needed answers, and August was the only person who had come forward claiming to know me. I couldn't blindly trust him, but I couldn't afford to dismiss the possibility that he was telling the truth either.
When the door opened again, August returned alone.
“Are we finished here?”
Dr. Harris explained the discharge instructions once more, including my medication, the importance of rest, and the symptoms that would require immediate medical attention. August listened without interrupting.
“I'll make sure she follows the instructions.”
I glanced at him. “You make that sound very simple.”
His eyes met mine. “It isn't complicated.”
“For you, perhaps.”
He ignored me.
He held out his hand to help me out of bed. I stared at it briefly before accepting. His fingers closed around mine, firm and warm, as he steadied me while I swung my legs over the side.
The moment my feet touched the cold floor, a wave of dizziness washed over me, and pain shot through my ribs.
I stumbled forward, my knees buckling.
Before I could hit the ground, August’s large hands caught me. One arm wrapped securely around my waist, hoisting my weight effortlessly, while his other hand steadied my shoulder.
He pulled me flush against his chest. I gasped, acutely aware of the hard muscle beneath his shirt, his heat, and the faint scent of leather and cedarwood clinging to him.
He was solid as iron, but his grip on my waist was remarkably precise, firm enough to keep me upright without pressing into my bruised ribs.
For a sharp, terrifying beat, my mind braced for the reaction I had learned to expect from men, a flicker of hesitation at my size, an awkward shift to adjust for a body that wasn't small or fragile, or a subtle grimace of judgment. I braced myself for him to handle me like a heavy burden.
However, August didn't even blink. He didn't shift his stance or struggle with my weight; his arm locked around my waist like a steel band, holding the fullness of my hips against his frame as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Maybe he really is used to holding me, a treacherous voice murmured in the back of my head. Maybe my body isn't a surprise to him at all.
“Easy,” he murmured, his voice dropping into that quiet, raspy register right beside my ear.
I looked up, meeting his eyes. Up close, I could see the golden flecks in his green irises. His gaze didn't linger on my bandaged head or my swollen lip; it swept down over my body, taking in the full, soft curves beneath the thin hospital gown with an intense, raw appreciation that made my skin prickle with unexpected heat. He looked at me like a predator admiring something that belonged to him.
I quickly cleared my throat and pushed against his chest, regaining my footing. “I can stand. Now if you don't mind stepping out, I'd like some privacy to change.”
August’s lips twitched, his eyes glinting with a slow, wicked humor as he let his hand drop from my waist.
“Privacy? Sweetheart, I’ve already seen everything you’re hiding under that gown.”
I crossed my arms over my chest, tilting my chin up despite the blush burning my neck. “Well, consider this a refresher course in basic manners, husband. Out.”
A low chuckle hummed in his throat. Without another word, he turned and stepped out into the corridor, pulling the door shut behind him. I released a sigh I hadn’t realized I was holding.
After changing into the fresh clothes the hospital had provided, I opened the door. The two men were waiting by the end of the hallway.
“The bikes are ready VP,” one of them informed him.
I looked between them. “Bikes? As in motorcycles?”
August glanced down at me. “Yes.”
“Am I supposed to ride a motorcycle in this condition?”
“You won't be riding alone.”
“That wasn't what I meant.”
He studied me briefly before turning towards one of his men. “Bring the car around.”
The man nodded and walked away.
I watched him leave, then looked back at August. “You have a car too?”
“I have several.”
Of course, he did.
Nothing about this man seemed ordinary, and the more I learned, the more convinced I became that my missing memories had left me in the middle of a life I might never have chosen for myself.
He guided me through the hospital doors, one hand steady at my back. Outside, the afternoon air touched my face, and the distant rumble of motorcycles drifted across the parking lot.
A few bikers stood beside their machines, their leather jackets bearing the same winged-skull emblem. They glanced towards August, and one lifted his chin in greeting. August returned the gesture with a brief nod.
There was a hierarchy here, a world of rules and loyalties I didn't understand. And my supposed husband appeared to occupy a position of considerable authority within it.
I tightened my fingers around the discharge papers.
I had no memories to guide me, no idea what kind of woman I had been, and no way of knowing whether the man beside me was my safest option or my greatest mistake.
All I knew was that he was taking me home, and until I could establish who I really was, I would have to be very careful about the man who claimed I belonged to him.
