The aftermath of their raw, consuming reunion left Maëlys in a tangle of limbs and conflicting emotions. Eliott lay beside her, his heavy arm draped possessively over her waist, his steady breathing a stark contrast to the storm still raging within her. Every nerve ending in her body hummed with the aftershocks of their passion, a pleasure so profound it terrified her. It was a potent drug, dangerous in its ability to eclipse the pain, the betrayal, the lies.
She shifted slightly, just enough to meet his gaze. His eyes, usually fierce, were softened by post-coital haze, yet held an unyielding intensity. "This doesn't fix anything, Eliott," she whispered, the words catching in her throat.
He leaned in, his lips brushing her temple, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "Maybe not. But it's a start, little bird. It's us." His hand moved, his fingers tracing the curve of her hip, sending a fresh shiver through her. "You remembered. Didn't you? In here," he pressed his thumb gently against her temple, "and here," he moved his hand to her heart, "you remembered."
And he was right. During their lovemaking, fragmented images had surfaced, propelled by the intensity of his touch, the familiar press of his body. Not just the pain of the accident, but flashes of laughter, of whispered secrets, of arguments that ended in scorching reconciliations. She saw a younger version of herself, reckless, passionate, completely entangled with Eliott, and often, with Liam too, in a complex, volatile dynamic she was only beginning to grasp.
"It's like looking at a stranger," she confessed, her voice thick with a strange mixture of fascination and fear. "That girl... she was so different. So wild. So... drawn to the chaos."
Eliott chuckled softly, the sound vibrating against her. "You always danced too close to the edge, Maëlys. And I was always right there with you, dragging you deeper into the fire." His voice was devoid of judgment, almost nostalgic. "Liam... he couldn't stand it. He wanted to control you. To control us."
The mention of Liam brought a chill. "What was he to you?" she asked, her voice barely audible.
Eliott stiffened, the tenderness in his gaze hardening into a familiar anguish. "My brother," he said, the word heavy with a thousand unspoken burdens. "My shadow. The one who always wanted what was mine." He pulled her closer, his embrace tightening, a possessive instinct taking over. "But he was never you. Never like us."
He began to share more, small, intimate details of their past life together. Not just the grand, destructive moments, but the mundane, the tender ones. A favorite coffee shop they frequented, a secret spot on the cliffs overlooking the ocean where they'd watch storms roll in, entwined and fearless. He spoke of the tattoos he'd given her, hidden marks she couldn't yet see or feel, tiny, intimate symbols of their secret world. Each revelation was a delicate, dangerous thread pulling her deeper into the tapestry of their shared history.
Maëlys listened, a strange dichotomy warring within her. She resented him for choosing what she remembered, for taking away her autonomy. Yet, his voice, deep and resonant, was a balm to the aching void within her. With every story, every shared memory, the past felt less like a nightmare and more like a stolen reality. She began to see not just the chaos, but the undeniable, visceral connection that had bound them, a bond that even amnesia couldn't fully sever. The girl she was, the one Eliott described, was terrifyingly reckless, but also fiercely alive, and she was starting to understand why Eliott had been so drawn to her, and why she, in turn, felt so drawn to him. The echoes of her past self were loud now, demanding to be heard, demanding to reclaim what was lost.