Wicked lessons by the rogue

What she knows and what she doesn't

*Odette*

This Lupo Tempest observes me as though I am some sort of curiosity, an odd contraption stumbled upon in a curio shop that he wants to dissect and examine. He grips the bedpost with his large hand, towering over me from my vantage point. Furrowing his brow, he sets his lips in a grim line. "You're undoubtedly disoriented from your plunge in the river. Take a moment. Think. You can't have forgotten everything."

His words carry authority, as if he possesses the power to extract my memories from the dark abyss they have fallen into. He is right, of course. I should be able to recall something, anything, but it feels as though I am knocking on a tin wall that only echoes through an empty chamber. "I remember waking up."

"This morning?" He asks.

His tone brims with hope, but I cannot share in it. "No, just now. Here, in this bed."

"Before that?" A new question.

Shaking my head, I contemplate whether I should fear this man. I do not know him, yet there is something familiar about him, and I instinctively sense that I am safe in his presence.

But how do I know that? How can I be sure this isn't my own chamber when I cannot remember what my chamber looks like?

How could I remember things like a bed, window, blankets, and fire, and yet not know my own name?

But I am certain that I should have a name. Dotty had sounded right... and yet it doesn't. I am bewildered, terrified, and perplexed. It seems he might be experiencing similar emotions, except for the terror. He does not appear to be a man who would fear anything, and it has little to do with his immense size. He simply carries an air of self-assuredness, a man who knows who he is.

I yearn for the same knowledge about myself. Who in the world am I?

He informed me that I had been in the river. Why would I find myself in such a situation? A cold shiver runs through me, and my head throbs mercilessly. I don't want to dwell on the river. I don't want to think about anything except the man standing at the foot of the bed.

His broad shoulders suggest that he can bear heavy burdens effortlessly. I ponder how he might have carried me here, cradled within those strong arms. Suddenly, I realize that I am without clothing beneath the covers. I clutch the blankets to my chest. "My clothes."

"I had to remove them. They were drenched and covered in mud." He says.

I blink. "You took liberties."

"Would you have preferred to risk falling ill?" He asks.

No, but I don't bother voicing the response. I am certain his question was rhetorical.

How do I know that word? How do I know any words? How do I know that it is inappropriate for him to remove my clothes? How do I know him? In what capacity? What is he to me? What am I to him? And why am I not certain if I want answers?

I run my fingers through my hair, only to encounter something sticky that makes my skin crawl. "What is this?"

"Mud. I was trying to clean it off, but you seemed to prefer that I didn't touch you." He mumbles.

His voice carries a touch of hardness, as if I have offended him. I am in no condition to decipher his moods. I can barely comprehend my own. Yet now, I become acutely aware of the dirt on my face and neck.

Extending my arms and examining my hands, I see the black grime clearly. "I need a bath. Ensure that it is prepared immediately with hot water, slightly warmer than usual."

He raises a dark eyebrow. "Slightly warmer than usual?"

Yes, that is how I prefer my baths. I know that much. What else do I know? "My clothing. Have someone remove the mud and dry it as quickly as possible. Since you seem to know who I am, I assume you can escort me back to my residence." I glare at him. "Why are you still standing there? Attend to these matters promptly!"

His jaw tightens, and a muscle twitches in his cheek. "As you wish."

My stomach quivers. He has uttered those words to me before. Dark and menacing, a promise that made me look away. What is his role in my life? A lover? Why else would he seem so at ease with me being unclothed in his bed? Why do I find myself comfortable with it? Why am I not trembling and filled with fear?

I am keenly aware of his footsteps reverberating through the sparsely furnished room. I hear the rustle of fabric as he picks up my clothing from the floor. The door slams shut as he departs.

No, he is not my lover. If he were, he would have held my hand, caressed my forehead, embraced me, and held me close. He would have done everything possible to provide solace. I would have appreciated his touch. I wouldn't have implied anything else.

I rub my forehead. How can I know all of that, yet not know my own identity? It makes no sense at all. What was I doing in the river? Do I know how to swim? Yes, I believe I do, but the windows reveal darkness outside. Why am I out alone at night? Was I truly alone? Was there someone else?

The pain in my head intensifies, like a relentless stabbing knife. I don't want to dwell on it or try to unravel it now. It will come to me eventually. I am certain of it. Once I am returned home, surrounded by familiar surroundings, embraced by my family. Another jolt of pain accompanies the thought of my family. Family, family. Who are they? Are they searching for me? Do they care? Of course, they care. I am loved...aren't I?

All will be revealed soon, once he escorts me home. Everything will become clear and make sense. I will no longer be trapped in this dark void of nothingness, nor feel like I am wandering through a dense fog. The agonizing throbbing in my head will cease.

Casting aside the covers, a shiver runs through me as I glimpse my legs, covered in mud. He had placed me in bed while I was filthy, dirty. What kind of man is he to disregard basic cleanliness?

And how is it that I am supposed to know him, yet have no recollection of him?

He does not strike me as someone easily forgotten. There is nothing soft or gentle about him.

I suspect he is a formidable man. Initially, he had been rather curt with me until he realized that I am struggling to remember.

Then, he had become somewhat more compassionate until I requested a bath. I don't understand him, and I'm not certain if I want to.

I walk over to the wardrobe and open the door. It contains very little. Is this man a beggar? No, he has a residence and knows me. I wouldn't associate myself with someone of a lower status.

Pausing, I wonder where that thought came from. Lower status. Who am I? A princess? A queen? Maybe he is a guard. He saved me from the river because it is his duty. It doesn't matter who he is. What matters is that I return home as quickly as possible and try to piece things together.

I take a coat from a hook. A large, heavy coat. His coat. I put it on, and it immediately provides warmth, making me feel protected. I glide over to the fire and welcome the heat tickling my toes. I can hear activity in the adjacent room. The servants are probably preparing my bath.

I attempt to envision the image of servants, but I can't. Some things I seem to know, to instinctively comprehend. Why can't I remember everything about my life?

Tears well up in my eyes, and I quickly blink them away. I will not cry. I am not allowed to cry. It shows weakness and allows others to take advantage. I haven't cried in years, not since...

Oh dear Goddess, my head. That dreadful, persistent throbbing returns. Suddenly, exhaustion overtakes me. However, there are no plush chairs or sofas to curl up in. Spotting a hard wooden chair against the wall, I drag it closer to the fire and sit down with a heavy thud.

It's not at all ladylike to drop down like a sack of flour.

I don't want to think, nor do I want to question the things I know and the things I don't.

Instead, I focus on the man. He is quite handsome, in a rugged and rough manner... like the northern coast. How do I know about the northern coast?

I suppress the fear that threatens to rise and consume me. I mustn't show fear, ever. That much, I know.

Be strong. Never display any weakness, any doubt, any lack of confidence.

Concentrating on the dancing flames, I struggle to regain my bearings. A masculine scent lingers in the air. I have encountered it before, been surrounded by it. It evokes a strange flutter in my stomach, a wild pounding of my heart. Lifting the collar, I press my nose against it. Lupo.

What is his significance in my life that I can simultaneously be cautious of him yet trust him completely?

I long to remember his role in my existence. He appears to be the only concrete thing in this moment.

Why is he taking so long to return to me? Countless questions flood my mind.

He can provide answers to all of them.

A gentle knock resonates at the door. Slowly, I stand, straighten my posture, and lift my chin.

I refuse to exhibit any sign of fear. This immense void where my memories once resided threatens to engulf me. "Come in," I command.

The door opens, and Lupo enters, causing the room to shrink. Just like that. He commands it with his presence. Not only his physical stature, but also his demeanor. He is not one to be trifled with. He possesses this room, this residence, and, more importantly, himself.

How marvelous it must feel not to answer to anyone?

I furrow my brow. To whom do I answer? An image flickers through my mind, but I cannot grasp it long enough to examine or identify it.

"I have a bathing room," he indicates a door near the fireplace. "The bath is ready."

"It took the servants long enough," I remark, walking towards the door and opening it. "I suppose you coddle them."

Overwhelmed by the scent, the masculinity of it, I hesitate for a moment before calmly entering the room. It is essential to never reveal any doubts with a misstep, slumped shoulders, or averted gaze.

These rules have been instilled in me until they became second nature, demanding that they never be forgotten, unlike other aspects of my life.

I am astounded by the sheer size of the tub awaiting me. Have I ever seen one so large? But then, it would have to be to accommodate his frame. I don't want to envision his long limbs sprawled over the expanse of copper, or his movements causing ripples in the water.

I don't understand why I suddenly feel heated. It seems indecent to bathe in a tub that belongs to someone else. Surely I have my own, but it is not here, and I cannot possibly travel through Blackrock City covered in mud.

My head jerks up, and I swiftly turn around. I freeze in my tracks. He leans against the doorframe, his arms crossed over his broad chest, his shirt unbuttoned to reveal a sprinkling of hair. He has rolled up his sleeves, revealing bronzed and sinewy forearms, with muscles bunched and veins prominent. There is strength in his appearance. Power. I yearn to run my hands over those arms, to have them envelop me as I rest my head on his chest.

Comfort. He could provide immense comfort. But it would be wholly inappropriate.

"Are we in Blackrock City?" I inquire.

"Yes," he responds.

"It's strange... the things I know and the things I don't."

His brow furrows. "You still don't remember anything about your life?"

Slowly, I shake my head. "No, but I am certain that everything will become clear once I am reunited with my family."

Another pang shoots through my head. They are becoming quite bothersome. Doing my best to ignore it, I dip my fingers into the water. "It's too hot. I'll have to wait for it to cool. Rather inconvenient. Please instruct the girl who is cleaning my clothing to bring the items as soon as they are ready. Meanwhile, find another girl to assist me with washing my hair."

Glancing over my shoulder, I notice that he hasn't budged, except for the muscle along his jaw, which appears as though it has turned to stone. "Don't just stand there as if you have all day. Summon the girl and arrange for a carriage."

"You are the girl."

"I beg your pardon?"

He unfolds his arms, one inch at a time, before prowling towards me like a large, imposing cat. "To put it bluntly, Dotty, you are the servant here."