The raw honesty of Eliott's stories, whispered in the dim light of dawn, began to peel back the layers of Maëlys's amnesia. She saw glimpses of a life she couldn't fully grasp, but which felt intrinsically hers. The wildness, the fire, the reckless abandon – it was all unsettling, yet strangely alluring. She was drawn to this forgotten version of herself, desperate to understand the full extent of the dangerous woman she used to be, and the equally dangerous man she had chosen.
Later that morning, Eliott brought her coffee, strong and black, just as she liked it – a detail he remembered, but she didn't. He sat on the edge of the bed, watching her, his presence a heavy, comforting weight. The easy silence that settled between them was fraught with unspoken questions, with the lingering heat of their intimacy.
"You mentioned tattoos," Maëlys began, her voice tentative. "Hidden ones?"
A soft smile touched Eliott's lips, a rare, genuine expression that softened the hard edges of his face. He nodded, his gaze dropping to her inner wrist. "There's one here," he said, his voice a low rumble. "A small symbol. You got it the day we first... decided we were ours. Just ours."
Maëlys slowly extended her arm, her heart hammering. She'd examined her body countless times, searching for clues, but had never noticed anything. Eliott gently took her wrist, turning it over. He ran his thumb over a patch of skin, just above her pulse point, where a faint, almost invisible mark was etched. It was faded, barely there, like an ancient whisper on her skin.
"It's a tiny, stylized flame," Eliott explained, his voice tender. "For our fire. For the way we burned." He looked up, his eyes blazing with a familiar intensity. "It was our secret. Something only we knew about. A mark of our devotion, and our defiance."
Maëlys stared at the faded flame, a strange mix of wonder and unease swirling within her. This wasn't just ink; it was a ghost of a commitment, a silent testament to a love that had once consumed her. She felt a phantom ache in her chest, a longing for a past she couldn't fully reclaim.
"Are there others?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper, compelled by a need to uncover every hidden piece of herself.
Eliott's gaze deepened, turning possessive, almost predatory. He leaned closer, his warm breath ghosting over her ear. "More than you know, little bird," he murmured, his voice husky. "Marks only I know where to find. Marks I put there, claiming every inch of you, even when you weren't looking." His hand drifted from her wrist, tracing a path up her arm, over her shoulder, sending a delicious shiver down her spine. "Under your hair, behind your ear... a small moon, for the nights we spent lost in each other." His fingers brushed the sensitive skin of her neck, pulling a soft gasp from her.
"And here," he continued, his voice dropping to a seductive purr, his hand moving lower, over her ribs, his touch light, teasing. "A single, delicate feather, just above your hip bone. A reminder that no matter how far you tried to fly, you always belonged to me." His touch lingered there, warm and possessive, setting her skin alight.
Maëlys shivered, a wave of heat washing over her. His words, his touch, were painting a vivid picture of a past she was starting to remember with her very skin. These weren't just tattoos; they were intimate secrets, hidden maps of their history, laid bare only by his memory and his touch. The erotic charge was undeniable, but it was laced with a chilling realization: Eliott had known her, possessed her, claimed her in ways she couldn't recall, and now, he was systematically reclaiming her, piece by exquisite piece. The unseen marks were resurfacing, etching themselves not just onto her skin, but into the very core of her awakened desire.