Page 6 of Lupo

But the darkness pulls at me, insistent and irresistible.

I let it take me.

When I wake again, someone's here.

I hear her before I see her. Soft movements. The sound of water. A quiet breath.

I force my eye open.

She's kneeling beside me, an arm's length away. Dark hair pulled back from her face. Late twenties, maybe. She's holding a wet cloth, and there's a bowl of pink-tinged water beside her.

She's cleaning my wounds.

I must make a sound because she goes still, her eyes meeting mine. Brown eyes. Wary.

"You're awake," she says quietly.

I try to speak. My throat is raw, my tongue thick. "Where?" The word comes out as a croak.

She reaches for something beside her, a cup, and holds it toward me. "Try a sip of water. Slowly."

I try to sit up enough to drink. Pain shoots through my ribs, my head, everywhere. She hesitates, then moves closer, supporting my head with one hand while holding the cup to my lips with the other.

The water is cool, clean. I drink too fast and choke.

"Slowly," she says again, pulling the cup back.

When I can breathe again, I try once more. "Where?"

"My farm. In Tuscany." She sets the cup down, retreating to her previous distance. "I found you yesterday morning. In the olive grove."

Yesterday. I've lost a whole day.

"What happened?"

"I don't know. You were unconscious when I found you." She gestures vaguely at my face, my body. "You’re injured."

I look down at myself again. The torn, expensive clothes. The blood. "Accident? Car accident?" I can’t seem to form sentences.

"I didn't see a car." Her voice is careful. Scared.

"How did I—" I stop, trying to piece it together. Trying to make sense of any of this. "Who am I?"

Something flickers in her eyes. Not surprise. Like she was expecting this.

"You don't remember?"

"No. Don't—" Frustration chokes the words. "Don't remember. Name."

She's quiet for a moment. "You didn't have any identification. No wallet, no phone. Nothing in your pockets."

I struggle to reach for my pockets instinctively, patting them. She's right. Empty.

"Clothes," I say, looking at the torn black shirt. "Expensive."

She nods in agreement.

"Farm work? Worker?" But even as I say it, I know it's wrong. These aren't farm clothes.