The days following Maëlys's complete surrender in Eliott's arms became a continuous loop of rediscovery. The loft, once a cage, now felt like a cocoon, isolating them from a world that had no place for their kind of love. Eliott was her constant shadow, his presence a comforting weight, his touch an ever-present reminder of the fire that burned between them. He continued his meticulous work, not just on his own skin with his tattoo machine, but on her mind, painstakingly stitching together the fragments of her lost life.
He would talk to her for hours, especially in the quiet lull after their most intense moments of passion. His voice, a low, hypnotic rumble, would paint vivid pictures of their shared history. He spoke of the impulsive road trips they'd taken, fleeing responsibilities, chasing sunsets and dangerous thrills. He described the clandestine parties in abandoned warehouses, the raw energy of the underground scene, where Maëlys, fearless and vibrant, had shone like a dangerous star, always by his side.
"You had a particular laugh back then, little bird," he'd murmur, his lips brushing her hair as they lay entwined, "wild and free, like the wind off the cliffs. You didn't care what anyone thought. You just... existed. Unapologetically you." His hand would move, tracing the faint outline of a forgotten tattoo on her inner thigh – a small, fierce wolf, barely visible now. "I put this one there after a night we almost got caught. You just laughed, your eyes blazing with that same wildness. You said it was a reminder that we were animals, untamed."
Maëlys would close her eyes, and sometimes, a true, complete memory would surface, not a fragment, but a whole, immersive experience. She'd feel the adrenaline pumping, the wind in her hair, the intoxicating sense of rebellion. And she'd remember the exhilarating terror of Eliott's presence, his dark eyes always seeking hers, his hand always finding hers, pulling her deeper into the delicious chaos. This version of herself, reckless and vibrant, was no longer a stranger. She was emerging, piece by agonizing, beautiful piece, from the depths of her amnesia.
The physical connection between them had intensified, morphing into something almost spiritual in its depth. Eliott's touch wasn't just about pleasure; it was about recognition, about bringing her home to herself. He knew every curve, every secret tremor, every soft moan her body could produce. He used this knowledge, not just to pleasure her, but to guide her through the labyrinth of her own awakened senses.
One evening, after a particularly intense session of remembering – a vivid flashback of a wild argument with Liam that had ended with Eliott pulling her into a desperate, furious kiss – Maëlys felt an overwhelming need for solitude, for a moment to process the sheer weight of what she was remembering. She walked into the bathroom, closing the door softly behind her.
She looked at her reflection in the mirror, truly looked, perhaps for the first time since the accident. The woman staring back was different. Not just the physical changes of two years, but a new intensity in her eyes, a shadow that had not been there before, but which mirrored the storm in Eliott's gaze. Her lips were fuller, always slightly swollen from his kisses. Her skin, once pale, had a new flush, a vibrant pulse that spoke of a life lived on the edge.
As she stared, a chillingly vivid memory resurfaced, triggered by the sight of her own reflection. She saw herself, younger, standing in front of this very mirror, perhaps years ago, her eyes bright with a dangerous excitement. Eliott was behind her, his hands on her hips, his reflection dominating hers in the glass. He had been whispering to her, something dark and seductive, about breaking rules, about being untamed, about belonging only to him. Her past self had looked exhilarated, almost feral.
She remembered his hand reaching up, pulling at the straps of her dress, letting it fall to the floor. And then his mouth, tracing fire down her back, over her shoulders. The feeling of his cold metal piercing as he kissed the skin above a freshly done tattoo, a hidden mark she still couldn't recall. The thrill of being naked, utterly exposed, under his demanding gaze, knowing she was his, completely.
Maëlys gasped, clutching the edge of the counter. The ghost in the mirror was no longer just a reflection; it was her past self, vibrant and alive, reaching out from the depths of memory. She was that girl. The wild one. The one who craved chaos. The one who had fallen dangerously, irrevocably in love with Eliott.
Just then, the bathroom door creaked open. Eliott stood there, his eyes immediately locking onto her reflection, then to her. He hadn't heard the memory, but he felt the shift, the energy radiating from her.
"What is it, little bird?" he asked, his voice low, his eyes narrowed, sensing the profound change.
Maëlys turned slowly, her heart pounding. There was no more anger, no more denial. Only a terrifying, liberating acceptance. "I remember," she whispered, her voice raw with emotion. "I remember me. The real me. The one you loved. The one who loved the fire as much as you did."
A triumphant, almost predatory smile spread across Eliott's lips, a flash of pure, unadulterated satisfaction. He took a step towards her, then another, until he stood directly behind her, his large hands settling on her bare shoulders. He looked at her reflection in the mirror, his gaze possessive, devouring.
"Good," he murmured, his voice a guttural purr. "Because she's exactly who I wanted back. The one who belonged to me." He leaned down, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of her neck, sending shivers through her. "And now that she's here... she's not going anywhere."
His hands slid down her arms, pulling her back against his hard body, aligning their reflections in the mirror. He kissed the side of her neck, his touch possessive, undeniable. Maëlys saw their entwined reflections: a dark, powerful man and a woman who was no longer fighting, no longer running, but embracing the dangerous, consuming love that defined them. The ghost in the mirror had finally merged with the woman in the flesh, and in Eliott's arms, she found a terrifying, addictive sense of wholeness she hadn't known was possible. She was his, entirely, beautifully, terrifyingly. And she finally, completely, accepted it.