Eliott's silence was a physical blow, more devastating than any shouted accusation. It was a refusal, an impenetrable wall that confirmed every burgeoning fear in Maëlys's heart. The dog tag, now a symbol of his deceit, felt like it burned her palm. She wanted to scream, to shatter the very glass in the parlor, but a cold, heavy dread settled over her, chilling her to the bone.
"You're not going to tell me, are you?" Her voice was a strained whisper, devoid of its earlier fire.
Eliott's gaze remained locked on hers, a silent torment in their depths. He didn't speak, but a subtle shake of his head, a barely perceptible tightening of his jaw, was all the answer she needed. He wouldn't confess. Not yet.
A wave of dizziness washed over Maëlys. The air in the room suddenly felt thin, suffocating. The hum of the tattoo machine, now silent, seemed to vibrate menacingly in her skull. The smell of ink, once strangely comforting, now turned her stomach. Everything felt wrong, twisted, a macabre distortion of what she had believed.
Then, it hit her. A flash, sharper and more violent than any before. Not just abstract fear, but concrete images.
The screech of tires, too loud, too close.
A blinding headlight, searing into her eyes.
The sickening thud of impact, metal crumpling like paper.
A sound. A voice. Her own? A man's? A woman's? A terrified, guttural scream.
Pain. Unbearable, ripping pain through her head, through her body.
The scent of burning rubber and something else… something sweet and cloying, like blood and gasoline.
She stumbled backward, clutching her head, a gasp tearing from her throat. The walls of the tattoo parlor seemed to tilt, the vibrant art on the walls swirling into a dizzying vortex. She saw a face, contorted in fear, reflected in what looked like a shattered car window. Was it hers? Someone else's? The image was too quick, too fleeting.
Eliott moved instantly. He was by her side in a heartbeat, his strong hands grasping her arms, steadying her as her knees buckled. "Maëlys! What's happening?" His voice was laced with an urgency she hadn't heard from him before, a raw edge of panic.
She barely registered his touch, her mind trapped in the terrifying replay. "No! Get out! Get out of my head!" she screamed, pushing against him, tears streaming down her face, blurring the image of his concerned features. The anger was gone, replaced by pure, unadulterated terror.
A metallic taste in her mouth. Blood?
A whisper. A name? 'Léonie'? 'Liam'?
Darkness. Cold. So, so cold.
"Maëlys, look at me!" Eliott's voice cut through the chaos, firmer this time, commanding. He shook her gently, forcing her to focus on his stormy eyes. They were wide with a desperate plea, a reflection of his own fear. "Breathe with me. You're here. You're safe."
But she wasn't safe. Not with him. Not with the truth lurking just beyond the veil. As the most intense fragments receded, leaving her trembling and gasping, she felt a profound sense of exhaustion. The pieces were still scattered, but they were clearer now, sharper, hinting at a tragedy far greater than just her lost memory.
She ripped herself free from his grasp, stumbling back until her back hit the cold, hard wall of the parlor. Her eyes, wide and haunted, fixed on him. The man who had held her, comforted her, kissed her with such desperate hunger – he was tied to the wreckage. His silence, his secrets, they weren't just about his past. They were about her past. And the more she remembered, the more terrifying his presence became. He was not a cure. He was a symptom. And the full, horrifying picture was just beginning to emerge from the darkness.