My Dark Prince: An Enemies-to-Lovers Romance (Dark Prince Road)

I opened my eyes with a horrifically horny moan.

A flood of bright fluorescent lights blinded me, chasing away the memory of Ollie’s magic touch on the lake. Within seconds, reality dispersed the delicious dream. I slammed my eyes shut again, too scared to face reality. Everything ached. I felt numb, and wrong, and Jesus, where the hell was I?

It felt like I’d tumbled into a loaded laundry cycle. Soaked, battered, tossed around, and finally squeezed dry. I tried to stretch in place, but my shoulder blades cracked like twigs. The air itself anchored down my arms with its weight.

I sucked in a breath and regretted it the second pain rocketed from my lungs up to my throat.

It’s okay. You’re alive. You know this on account of the fact that EVERYTHING HURTS.

I let my eyelids flutter open again. A sea of pastel blue blurred before me. I blinked until the walls stopped moving and inventoried the rest of my body. Tubes snaked around my arms and chest, binding me to a large bed. Monitors bracketed my head. Needles poked my veins on both sides, taped tight with transparent film.

Syringes made me nauseous. I knew. Not from memory, but through the unpleasant, hot sensation drip-drip-dripping into my stomach.

Obviously, I’d landed myself in a hospital. In America, judging by the signs written in American English.

When did I move to the States?

I vaguely remembered taking a flight, but I couldn’t remember when, why, or who with.

There was a lot I couldn’t remember.

My head throbbed, my thoughts swimming against a current of sticky goo. I reached for my forehead, patting what felt like gauze wound tight around my skull. Tendrils of gold-red locks ivied my fingers, matted with blood. My heart lodged in my throat, struggling to beat.

What happened to me?

Think, think, think.

A jumbled mess of thoughts muddled my mind. I tried to sort through them, forming mental columns of what I knew as facts and what I guessed in my head:

Things I knew for a fact:

– I was in a hospital room.

– It was nighttime. (The clock read 4 a.m., and pitch black stretched across the window.)

– I was no longer a teenager, but a woman. (Exhibit A: Boobs.)

– I was involved in some kind of accident. (Car crash, sky diving fiasco, a tumble through a meat grinder, judging by the extent of the pain.)

Things I guessed to be true:

– I was in the U.S.

– I was no longer in contact with my parents.

– I was suffering from memory loss.

The last part sent my pulse skyrocketing. Huge chunks of my memory left gaping holes in my skull. I rummaged in my brain for my latest recollection, ignoring the acute, throbbing pain that sliced through it like a knife. A hotel. I remembered a hotel. A beautiful one. Though I couldn’t remember what I was doing there or who I was with.

Panic clawed up my stomach, grabbing ahold of my throat. The door to the room pushed open, and a man in a crisp white coat strolled inside, swinging a clipboard. A doctor.

“Oh. Ms. Auer.” He offered a warm smile. “You’re up.” He didn’t look surprised by that fact.

Maybe your injury isn’t that bad?

I noticed that he’d called me Ms. Auer. Did that mean I wasn’t married? I definitely did not remember getting married.

I attempted to scoot up to a sitting position and regretted it immediately. A groan slipped past my lips. Everything hurt too much.

“No, please. I’ll come to you. You’re hooked up on a lot of painkillers and will probably take a few hours before you’re good to walk.”

“I’m not dead?”

It slipped out, but I had to check.

“Not dying.” He smiled, stopping in front of my bed. “I’m Doctor Cohen, and I was here when they rushed you in a few hours ago. How are you feeling?”

“Like hell, but somehow worse.”

He pulled a pen out of his clipboard and began jotting notes. “What hurts?”

“Everything apart from my toes. I can’t feel them.”

“Do you remember what happened?”

I shook my head, tears stinging the backs of my eyelids. I didn’t know anything. Not what happened, not where I lived, who my friends were, what I did for a living …

“Please stay calm.” Doctor Cohen paused to pat my hand. “I’m here to catch you up on everything. There’s nothing to worry about. This is completely typical for your kind of injury.”

“W—” I hesitated, scared of what I’d hear. “What happened to me?”

“You slipped into a water hazard on a golf course.”

My head spun. “Golf course?”

I didn’t know how to golf, and I’d never taken interest in it. Jason and Philomena Auer dedicated whole weekends to the sport, which was enough reason for me to avoid it entirely.

“You hit your head pretty hard on machinery on your way down and suffered a concussion.”

A flash of memory zipped through my mind like thunder. Water. I remembered water. A lot of it. Everywhere.

“How long was I underwater?”

“Not very long. He said a minute or two, maybe.”

“He?”

“Your rescuer.” Doctor Cohen set down his clipboard, hooking it on the edge of the bed. “A man by the name of Oliver von Bismarck.”

Oliver.

Butterflies fluttered behind my ribcage. I remembered Oliver. My boyfriend. No. More than that. My … everything. And he saved me. We were still together.

The instant relief that settled into my bones swept away the nerves.

I rolled my shoulders back, shocked at how much less it ached, now that I had some semblance of familiarity to clutch onto. “Is he okay?”

“Yes, he’s fine. You’ve got quite the sturdy workhorse out there. Came in dripping wet and stripped in the halls after we assured him you’d be fine.”

I laughed, wincing at the way my throat twisted and scratched. “Stripped?”

That sounded like Oliver alright.

“Gave the nurses quite the show.” Doctor Cohen must’ve caught my horror because he shook his head, unable to hold back his grin. “Don’t worry. He kept his pants on. The nurses offered him a spare shirt.”

“Where is he now?”

“Waiting outside. Do you remember him?”

“I do.” I paused, thinking, trying to remember the last time we saw each other. It felt like chasing a finish line that wouldn’t stop moving. “I remember being close to him.”

Flashes of that day on the lake flickered in my head. Him, promising forever. Me, clawing at his back for a deeper kiss. My cheeks flushed. I cleared my throat, fighting the wave of longing that swept through my chest.

Doctor Cohen waited patiently, encouraging me to continue with a nod.

“Is he my …?” I left the question hanging. Partner? Best friend? Husband?

No. Not husband. I wasn’t particularly attached to the Auer last name, all things considered. I doubt I’d even hesitate to change my last name to von Bismarck if we married.

“I’m afraid I don’t have that information.” Doctor Cohen adjusted my IV cart, tucking it into the gap between a machine and my bed. “He came with you in the ambulance and filled out your forms. You may speak to him, if you wish to. He’s right outside.”

“Yes.” I cleared my throat. “I wish to. Thank you.” Doctor Cohen started to leave when I added, “Will I be okay?”

He rolled a stool over and sat, resting his forearms on the rails of my bed. My heart sank. I didn’t want a serious bedside conversation. I wanted a quick sure thing. Maybe a thumbs up. With one gesture, he managed to undo the peace Oliver’s proximity had brought me.

“Yes, you will be okay, Ms. Auer.” He took his time answering, choosing his words with care. “Post-traumatic amnesia is not uncommon in people who suffer from serious concussions. Most people regain their full memory within mere days or weeks. I need you to stay very calm and take care of yourself. Can you do that for me?”

I nodded, struggling to swallow. It burned. Half from the dryness, and the other half from the possibility of never regaining my memories.

He retrieved his clipboard, depositing it in his lap. “Now, can you tell me what you do remember about your life?”

I frowned, considering his question. “I remember some things, but not their context.”

“Totally normal.”

“I remember my childhood pretty well. I’d say, up to age fourteen, I probably remember everything.”

“And after?”

“Bits and pieces. Like flashes that come fast and leave faster.” I winced, chasing a memory and failing. My head throbbed like I’d tossed my brain into a wood chucker.

“Don’t force it. They’ll come at the pace they’ll come. You can do more harm than good.” He jotted some notes down. “What else?”

“The lake. I remember the lake. With Oliver. He surprised me the first day the summer I turned sixteen.”

“That’s good. Good stuff.”

“I remember other things, too. Up to age eighteen. Not everything. But a nice chunk.”

“And everything after?”

“Gone.”

He frowned, his pen sprinting across the paper. “Entirely?”

“I remember taking a flight to America from Switzerland. I’m not sure when. It must’ve been college, because I remember I attended one in the States.”

“Which college?”

“I don’t know.” The panic crept its way back up my gut, slinking to my heart. “I just remember my roommate. I don’t even remember her name.”

“And your job?”

“I remember that I work, but I don’t remember where. Or even what I do.” The panic, which had clawed up my chest, began cloying its way back up my throat, spiraling into a ball of anxiety. “I don’t remember where I live. I don’t remember any of my friends. I don’t remember if I am in a relationship.”

Doctor Cohen set down his pen and squeezed my hand. “It’s okay not to remember those things. You remember a lot, already. This is good. A great start. Keep going.”

A light panel flickered above us. Shadows danced around Doctor Cohen’s deep-set eyes. I tried to focus on them instead of the frustration waltzing inside me.

After a stretch of silence, I sighed. “I don’t remember where my parents live right now, but I do remember not being in contact with them. I don’t remember my job, but I remember … sewing underwear?”

Underwear. Hotel. Golf. Nothing made sense.

Doctor Cohen coughed out an awkward laugh. “Believe it or not, Briar, this is all very positive.”

Briar.

“I remember I changed my name from Briar Rose to Briar.”

And I remembered I had a traumatic reason for it. Something with a lot of tears, and pain, and disappointment. But I couldn’t, for the life of me, remember what it was.

Doctor Cohen sat and listened to me. Sometimes he wrote things on his clipboard. He even cracked a joke or two. Then, he assured me that he knew a lot of ways to help me. That they’d run tests, start therapy, and play interactive games with me to jog my memory. That all I needed to do was trust the process and remain calm.

Then he asked again, “Now, would you like me to bring Mr. von Bismarck in?”

“Yes.”

I didn’t hesitate. I wasn’t sure about a lot of things, but I was sure I wanted to see Oliver. That he would have, at least, some answers. Oliver was always my favorite place to come back to. He was the only address my heart had ever known.

“Bring him in.”