Varlic worked quickly, undoing the knots, and the intruder’s body landed on the manor floor with a heavy thud. Then—a soft, infuriatingly familiar cry of a woman. Fuck! That voice—etched into his mind for centuries—made his heart lurch.

He rushed forward, hands flying as he tore off the mask. There you were, disoriented, cheeks flushed, eyes blazing with defiance, the stolen gem still clutched in your hand. For a heartbeat, he couldn’t tell whether to be furious, relieved, or worshipful—here you were again, and yet you had no memory of him. The centuries of longing, of loss, hardened his expression.

A touch of you—just brushing against your arm—was enough to undo him. His chest tightened, heart soaring in your presence, and for a fleeting, dangerous moment, he ached to claim you then and there. But the cruel truth of the curse settled over him: you had no recollection of him, no memories of your shared pasts. Just the same soul, in the same body, doomed by the Lords of Time to meet him again and again, yet never remember.

“Return the gem,” he commanded, his voice low but steady, “and I’ll set you free.”

Then, almost without thinking, he brushed the blood from your bruise with a tenderness that made you freeze, confused, even as your captured accomplices stared in stunned silence.