Valentine With The Amnesia Alpha

Daniella POV

I stared at the handsome man lying unconscious on my couch, my mind racing with what to do next. The first thing was clear, I had to find him some clothes. There was no way he was wandering around here naked. Honestly, if I had to look at him in all his bare glory for too long, I'd probably lose my sanity. The sight of his smooth skin, his well-defined muscles—his vulnerability—it all struck me in a way I didn't expect.

But this wasn't the time for thinking about how beautiful he was. This was a situation I had to control.

So, I decided to go downstairs to the basement and find some of Mr. Martin's old clothes. He had left a few things behind when he stopped coming, and I figured they'd be better than nothing. Anything was better than nothing.

I slowly made my way down the stairs, the creaky wooden steps echoing in the quiet house. The basement was cluttered with boxes and furniture I hadn't touched in years—forgotten memories gathering dust. The air smelled stale down here, a mixture of old paper and mildew. Finding anything down here felt like searching for a needle in a haystack. But after fifteen minutes of rummaging through old jackets and piles of discarded items, I finally found a couple of joggers, a couple of sweaters, and a thick coat. It would have to do.

I grabbed the clothes, feeling a little relieved that he wouldn't have to stay naked any longer. No one—least of all me—needed that.

When I made my way back upstairs, the house felt eerily quiet. An unsettling silence had fallen over everything. My heart skipped a beat as I entered the living room and saw the empty space where he had been lying. The man was gone.

Where had he gone? Had he left? Was he some kind of ghost? I couldn't help but feel a pang of panic.

I rushed to the front door, checking to see if it was open, but it was locked and shut tight. No sign of movement, no footprints in the sand. I took a deep breath, starting to turn away, when I heard it—the faintest sound. A noise, coming from the kitchen.

Frozen, I held my breath, and then, without warning, he appeared.

The man stepped into view from the kitchen doorway. My pulse surged. We both froze. His piercing eyes met mine, and for a moment, time stood still. Then we screamed in unison.

"Holy shit !"

I quickly lifted my gaze, my heart racing as my eyes traced his towering form. He was standing there, impossibly tall, muscles rippling beneath his skin. He was still naked, but the most startling thing was that his injuries—every cut, every scrape—were completely gone. His skin was flawless now, smooth as if he had never been hurt. No scars. No bruises. No trace of the rough injuries he'd had just hours ago. He looked... perfect, as though nothing had ever happened to him.

My mouth went dry, and before I could stop myself, I blurted out the first thing that came to my mind, the question that kept gnawing at me.

"What are you? Where are your wounds?"

He blinked, his face still full of confusion. "Who are you? Why am I here? Where is this? Am I hurt?"

I didn't know what to say. There was no logical explanation for what was happening. The questions piled up in my mind like an avalanche, but nothing made sense.

I handed him the jogger pants. "Put these on. Please," I said quickly, trying to regain some control over the situation. "I can't think straight seeing you like this."

"Why? Are you anemic?" he asked, his voice innocent, completely unaware.

"No… but we're civilized beings. We should dress properly, especially in front of a woman," I said sharply, my patience starting to wear thin.

He nodded, seemingly understanding, and began putting on the clothes. As he did, I walked to the kitchen, my mind racing. I poured two glasses of water—one for him, one for myself. I needed to figure out who he was, what had happened. I had no idea what kind of situation I had gotten myself into.

Who was this man? What was he doing on my beach? Was he a hired killer? Or worse—a fugitive on the run?

I glanced over at the kitchen drawer where I kept the knives. I wasn't sure if I could trust him yet. He was a mystery to me, and until I knew more, I couldn't afford to take any chances.

When I returned to the table, we sat across from each other at the dining table, his green eyes fixed on me. Those eyes, so striking and intense, made him even more handsome—without him even trying. His long, damp hair, wild and unkempt, only doubled his attractiveness.

I'd never seen a man so handsome in my 29 years of life. And yet, there was something unsettling about him, something beyond just his looks. The confusion in his eyes, the uncertainty in his voice—it made everything feel like a dangerous game I didn't know how to play.

"What's your name?" I asked, my voice shaky despite myself. "Where do you work? How did you end up injured on my private beach? Where are you from?"

The man looked confused, his brow furrowing as if he were struggling to find the answers. He stared at me, blinking a few times, then lightly tapped his head as though he were trying to jar his memory awake. "I don't know. I don't know my name. I don't know where I'm from. I can't remember anything."

My heart dropped. "What?" I gasped, unable to keep the disbelief out of my voice. "Are you acting? Are you pretending? How can you not remember anything?"

I jumped to my feet, panic clawing at my chest. I walked toward him, feeling the urge to check him for a wound, maybe something that would explain the amnesia. Did he hit his head? Maybe that was it. Maybe he was hurt somehow.

But as I parted his damp hair to check his head, I found no wound. No injury at all. His skin was smooth—perfect, in fact. How was this possible? His body had been covered in cuts just hours ago, but now, there was nothing. Not a single mark.

His confusion was palpable, and there was no sign of resistance. He wasn't pretending. This wasn't some act.

I stood there, my mind spinning, struggling to comprehend what was happening. This man—this stranger—was a mystery I couldn't solve. Was he dangerous? Was I in over my head? I couldn't be sure of anything anymore.