Owen
“What do you mean?” Amelia replies, pulling away enough for her hair to slip out of my fingers. “You know I grew up in an orphanage.”
I drop my hand, my wolf whining at the lack of contact.
“Yes, but what about before that?”
“Before that?” Amelia repeats. “There is no before that. My entire life has been the Home for the Forgotten.”
The foul stench of the basement she was living in comes to mind along with my memories of her scars, and I realize what she’s saying.
She spent her entire life to her memory being tortured by that disgusting director. That is all she’s ever known before me.
“So you have no memory of your parents, no idea who they were, what their names were, if they’re even alive still?”
“They’re not alive,” she’s quick to respond. “No one would leave their chi
