Page 4 of Savage Lies

“How is she?” I ask, playing the concerned husband while studying Katya’s face for any sign of recognition.

Nothing. Just confusion and a wariness that tells me her instincts are still intact, even if her memories aren’t.

“Retrograde amnesia,” Dr. Novikov says. “No memory before the accident. It might come back slowly. Or not at all.”

Perfect.

“And her physical condition?”

“Healing well. The head trauma was severe, but she’s young and strong. With proper care and patience, she should make a full physical recovery.”

I cover my mouth like this news devastates me instead of solving every problem I’ve had for the past year. The Borisenkos thought they were eliminating a threat when they sent that car bomb to the gallery. What they actually did was hand me the perfect opportunity for revenge.

Joke’s on them. Alexandra Volkova is dead, but Katya Kozlov—my devoted wife—is about to be born.

This “marriage” gives me complete control over her recovery, her environment, and her world. No government handlers asking questions, no FSB colleagues wondering where their missing agent disappeared to. As far as the medical staff knows, she’s a civilian who survived a terrible accident, and I’m the loving husband taking her home to heal.

“Can I see her?” I ask.

Dr. Novikov steps aside, and I approach the bed where Katya sits propped against pillows, wearing a hospital gown that makes her look smaller and more vulnerable than she ever did during our encounters over the past year.

The small scar above her left eyebrow is the first thing I notice, just when I first met her a year ago. That scar always hooked me.A crack in her perfect facade that hints at vulnerability beneath the surface.

She’s stunning in a way that still catches me off-guard. Those ice-blue eyes that can make me rock-hard with a glance are clouded with confusion now instead of the intelligence I remember.

“Hello.” I lower into the chair beside her bed. “How are you feeling, kotyonok?”

The pet name slides off my tongue like muscle memory. I’ve called her that before, during those moments when she thought she was manipulating me instead of the other way around, though usually in English. The way she’s always watched me makes me think of a kitten tracking a mouse in the distance.

She looks around and touches her temple where a bandage covers the worst of her injuries. “I’m… confused. They say you’re my husband, but I don’t remember you.”

“That’s normal.” I reach out to take her hand. She doesn’t pull away, but I feel the tension in her fingers. “The accident was severe. The doctors explained that your memory might not return.”

She runs her fingers over the crescent moon tattoo on her inner right wrist, a nervous habit I’ve noticed since the day I met her. The small marking has always fascinated me, made me wonder what made the composed art curator choose such a symbol. Even now that I know she’s FSB, I want to know why she chose that to mark herself forever.

“What kind of accident?”

In my experience, the best lies come with a sprinkle of truth, so I reply, “We were at a fundraising event at an art gallery. A car drove through the building, and you hit your head. I tried to protect you, but I wasn’t quick enough.”

She studies me like I’m a puzzle she can’t quite solve. Do I look like someone she could have loved? Someone she could trust?

“Tell me about us,” she requests. “How long have we been married?”

“Two years next month. We met at an art gallery. You were curating an exhibit, and I was there for business. You walked up to me and started explaining the symbolism in a painting I was looking at.”

“I’m an art curator?”

I slide my hand up the back of her wrist to rest on her forearm and nod. “One of the best in Moscow. You have an eye for beauty and meaning that most people miss.”

“And you?” She nibbles on her bottom lip. “What do you do?”

“I run a shipping company. Import and export, mostly legitimate business dealings with some gray areas that keep things interesting.”

Again, not entirely a lie. My organization does run shipping operations, among other things.

“Do we love each other?”

Love? No. Obsession? Absolutely.