The promise in Eliott's kiss, the possessive depth of his gaze, left Maëlys reeling. She was a woman caught between two lives: the blank slate of her amnesia and the terrifying, passionate history he was relentlessly resurrecting. The weight of Léonie's death and Liam's madness was a constant ache, but Eliott's physical presence, his unwavering desire, was a powerful, almost addictive antidote. He was her pain, and he was her most potent pleasure.
The days that followed blurred into an intense, suffocating intimacy. Maëlys rarely left Eliott's loft. It became their bubble, a haven from the outside world where the secrets of their past could be whispered in the dark, and their bodies could speak a language of raw, untamed desire. He wasn't just her lover; he was her guide through the labyrinth of her own mind, her captor in a gilded cage of reclaimed passion.
He initiated new "memory sessions," not with words, but with touch. He would run his calloused fingers over her skin, tracing the faint lines of her hidden tattoos, whispering the stories behind them. Each touch, each whispered memory, was a sensory explosion, igniting a cascade of forgotten sensations. He'd kiss the curve of her neck, just behind her ear, describing the night he'd first put the small moon tattoo there, a symbol of their secret nocturnal encounters. Maëlys would gasp, a phantom echo of pleasure, as fragmented images of moonlit beaches and whispered promises flooded her mind.
His methods were deliberate, almost methodical, designed to break down her remaining walls. He'd pin her against the wall, his body pressed against hers, mimicking the possessive intensity of their past arguments that always ended in explosive passion. "You used to fight me, little bird," he'd murmur, his voice rough with remembered heat, "until I broke you. Until you begged." And his eyes would burn into hers, daring her to remember, daring her to resist the powerful current between them.
And she did remember. Not consciously, not perfectly, but her body remembered. It would tremble under his gaze, ache for his touch, respond to his dominance with an instinctual submission that both thrilled and horrified her. Their lovemaking became an act of aggressive reclamation, Eliott re-etching his claim onto her flesh, demanding her full, unforgotten surrender. He would call her his, a low growl torn from his throat, his hands gripping her hips, pulling her flush against him until she could feel the undeniable proof of his complete possession.
One afternoon, as he tattooed a new, intricate design onto his own forearm – a snarling wolf, its eyes sharp with predatory hunger – Maëlys watched him, captivated. "What's that one for?" she asked, her voice hushed.
He looked up, his eyes burning into hers, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across his lips. "This one," he said, his voice husky, "is for the hunt. For the chase. For the moment I finally caught what was always mine, no matter how much she tried to run." He reached out, his tattooed fingers tracing the delicate line of her jaw. "It's for you, Maëlys. A reminder that my desire for you is as untamed as ever. And that you can't escape it. Not anymore."
His words, infused with possessive warning, sent a shiver through her. She was not just falling; she was plummeting into the depths of their dark, consuming love, bound by invisible chains of desire, forged in a past she was only now fully remembering. Eliott wasn't just her lover; he was her addiction, her beautiful, dangerous obsession, and she was willingly, terrifyingly, letting herself be consumed. The thought of escape now felt impossible, almost undesirable.