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Chapter 6 - Chapter 6: The Right to Question

The scent of ink and Eliott's lingering presence followed Maëlys out of the tattoo parlor and back to the quiet solitude of her house. His question — Do you have any marks, Maëlys? Any stories etched on your skin... or your soul? — echoed in her mind. It wasn't just a question; it was an invitation, a challenge to confront the terrifying blankness that defined her. The idea of him, this intense, mysterious man, seeing beyond her amnesia to the deeper, unseen wounds, was unsettling. And yet, she couldn't deny the flicker of desperate hope it ignited.

Later that evening, a knock at her door startled her. She rarely had visitors, and her heart pounded with a mix of apprehension and a strange, unacknowledged anticipation. Through the peephole, she saw him. Eliott. Leaning casually against the doorframe, a faint smile playing on his lips, his stormy eyes already fixed on the door, as if he knew she was there.

She hesitated, her rules screaming at her to keep the door shut, to maintain the distance. But a stronger force, a magnetic pull she couldn't explain, compelled her to open it. Just a crack.

"Problem, little bird?" he asked, his voice a low, teasing rumble that sent a shiver down her spine. His gaze was intense, dissecting her, seeing past the carefully constructed facade.

"What do you want, Eliott?" she asked, her voice tight, betraying her unease.

He pushed off the frame, taking a step closer, his mere presence filling the small space between them. "Just checking on my damsel in distress," he mused, though his eyes held a seriousness that belied his playful tone. "You seemed... shaken, earlier."

Maëlys bristled. "I'm not distressed. And I don't need checking on."

He chuckled softly, a deep, resonant sound. "Right. You just run out into the night and collapse on a cold beach for fun." His eyes narrowed, losing their playful glint. "Look, Maëlys. Something happened to you. Something bad. And it's still haunting you."

His directness stunned her. No one had ever addressed her amnesia so bluntly, so fearlessly. Her throat tightened. "It's none of your business."

"Maybe not," he conceded, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "but I saw you out there. You were in pain. And I don't walk away from someone in pain." He paused, his gaze fixed on hers, unwavering. "So, tell me. What are you running from? And why are you trying so hard to forget?"

His questions were precise, cutting through her defenses with brutal honesty. They weren't casual inquiries; they were a demand for truth, an insistence on seeing the person beneath the layers of denial. Maëlys felt a surge of anger, a desperate need to push him away, to make him stop digging. But beneath the anger, a raw, aching vulnerability surfaced. He was touching the deepest, most wounded parts of her soul, the parts she herself couldn't access.

"You don't have the right to ask me that," she finally managed, her voice trembling.

Eliott took another step, his shadow falling over her. His hand reached out, not to touch her, but to brace against the doorframe beside her head, trapping her gently. His scent, that intoxicating mix of musk and ink, enveloped her. "Maybe I do," he murmured, his gaze dropping to her lips, then back to her eyes. "Maybe it's the only right that matters when someone is as lost as you are."

His words, infused with a strange, possessive intensity, sent a shiver through her. He wasn't just asking questions; he was staking a claim, asserting a connection she didn't understand, but which resonated deep within her. Maëlys felt the fragile walls she had erected around her heart begin to crack under the weight of his unwavering stare, under the dangerous promise in his eyes that he wouldn't stop until he found the truth, even if it meant shattering her completely. She hated him for it. And a terrifying part of her, the part that craved answers, silently begged him not to stop.

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