Valentine With The Amnesia Alpha

 Daniella POV

 The drive to my beach house had always been the best part of my year. As I wound down the narrow roads, the city lights faded behind me, replaced by quiet stretches of coast and the dark silhouettes of cliffs. For a little while, I could almost believe there was no holiday season at all. No carols, no decorations, no forced holiday cheer—just me and the road.

I clicked on the radio to fill the silence, only to hear a cheery "I Love Christmas" blaring through the speakers. My fingers hit the off button instantly, and I shook my head. Nope, not happening. I started humming my own song, an old favorite, feeling the familiar melody settle in.

"How do I get you alone... How do I get you alone…" I sang softly, the quiet notes echoing through the car.

Two hours of winding through rugged landscapes and quiet roads brought me close to the edge of the coastline. From there, I'd park my car in the lot, grab my bag, and take a boat ride the rest of the way to my isolated haven. The beach house had no road access; it was a small island of solitude, gifted to me by one of my most grateful clients, Mr. Martin, years ago. He'd been in a vicious legal battle to protect his company from a partner who was trying to take it over while he was in the hospital. We'd won the case, and when it was over, he gave me this beach house as a thank you. "I'm too old to get to it anymore," he'd said. "But I know you'll make good use of it."

From the minute I'd seen it, I'd known it would become my yearly escape, a place to be alone during the holidays, to step away from a world that kept bringing too much loss and too little comfort. It had become my ritual: December came, and I left the city behind.

The little house was quiet and dusty when I arrived, with a year's worth of cobwebs clinging to the windows and shelves. But that was part of the ritual, too. I unpacked my things, took a deep breath, and started cleaning, letting the busy work clear my mind. Room by room, I dusted, swept, and aired it out until it felt like a home again. By the time I was done, I felt lighter, as if the act of scrubbing away a year of dust had scrubbed something clean inside of me, too.

Finally, I settled onto the swing on the front porch with a mug of tea and a handful of cookies, letting the sound of the waves fill the silence. The air was cool and smelled of salt, and the only sound was the water and the faint cries of seagulls in the distance. This was exactly what I'd come for... the peace, the quiet. I let the warmth of the tea settle over me, rocking gently on the swing, my eyes growing heavy. It was only a matter of minutes before I dozed off, my mind finally letting go of all the weight I'd been carrying.

But suddenly, a loud thud jolted me awake, echoing in the stillness. My eyes flew open, and I sat up, my heart racing as I tried to get my bearings. The sky had turned dark; the sun had already set, and I could barely make out anything beyond the shadows stretching across the beach.

I stood up, straining to see where the noise had come from. Just as I was about to brush it off as some stray log or branch, I caught sight of something moving at the water's edge. My pulse quickened as I squinted, trying to make it out. The shape was too small for a boat, and it was moving- barely, but enough to catch my eye again. My stomach flipped. It looked like a person.

I swallowed hard and walked slowly down toward the shore, my mind racing with questions. What could it be? With each step, the shape became clearer, until I realized it was a man. A man lying face-down in the sand, waves lapping at his bare feet. My breath caught, and I quickened my pace, heart pounding with fear and adrenaline.

As I drew closer, details emerged in the fading light. His body was still, his skin glistening wet from the ocean, and he was… completely naked. Cuts marred his chest and legs, deep scrapes that looked raw and fresh, as if he'd been dragged across the rocks. His hair, dark and damp, fell to his shoulders, and even bruised and covered in sand, his face was… striking. There was something almost haunting about him, like a sculpture abandoned to the sea.

My mind spun with questions. Who was he? What had happened to him? Why here, on this remote stretch of beach?

My first instinct was to make sure he was alive. Kneeling beside him, I reached out, hesitating before finally resting my hand on his shoulder. His skin was cold, but I could feel a faint warmth under my fingers, and his chest was rising and falling in a slow, shallow rhythm. Relief flooded through me. He was breathing.

I took a closer look at his injuries, frowning at the cuts and scrapes that covered his chest and legs. They looked rough, as if he'd been dragged through rocks or coral. I swallowed, feeling a strange sense of responsibility settling over me. I'd come here to escape everyone, but there was no way I could leave him out here alone. He'd washed up here for a reason, and like it or not, I was the only one who could help him .A thousand thoughts raced through my mind. Maybe he was a sailor, or a fisherman who had been thrown overboard and miraculously made it to shore. But there was something odd about him. His wounds didn't seem like those from an accident at sea; they were too jagged, too precise. Someone had hurt him. And now, he was here—stranded on my stretch of beach, bleeding and unconscious in the darkening night.I fought the urge to panic. I had no idea what I was supposed to do with a mysterious, injured man washed up on my private beach, of all places. I was here to escape people, not rescue them. But the thought of leaving him out here alone, in the cold, was impossible.

I looked back toward the house, trying to figure out my next move. Taking a deep breath, I slid my arms under his shoulders, doing my best to lift him. He was heavier than he looked, and it took all my strength to drag him up the beach, his feet leaving a long trail in the sand. After what felt like forever, we reached the house, and I managed to get him onto the porch and finally onto the sofa, grabbing a blanket to cover him.

For a moment, I just stood there, looking down at him as I tried to process what had just happened. Here he was, a stranger, lying unconscious in my quiet little sanctuary, bringing with him all the mystery of the sea. He was undeniably handsome, with sharp, strong features that seemed chiseled out of marble, even in the dim light. But his appearance was the least of my concerns.

My mind spun. Who was he? What had happened to him? And why, of all places, had he ended up here?