Bound To The Broken Alpha (Amy and Daniel) novel Chapter 73

Chapter 73 I Am Back

DANIEL

Since I regained consciousness, the day just seemed to blur in together. My mother, the doctors, my supposed wife, Amy all looked strange to me. It felt as if they took turns in coming and going.

Her name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it. It felt like hearing a song I used to know but forgetting the words halfway through. She said she was my wife, and I believed her. Something in her voice made it hard not to. Still, every time she looked at me, I saw hesitation.

The doctors called it *temporary amnesia*. They said my mind had been asleep too long and needed time to sort through what it remembered and what it didn’t. They encouraged me to ask questions, to look through photos, to listen to familiar things.

But looking at Amy was enough to make me feel strange. I couldn’t decide if it was guilt or confusion, or maybe both. Having no knowledge of getting married made it hard to deal with.

Every day, she came into my room after breakfast. She helped me sit up, sometimes fed me soup when my hands felt weak, and talked about the family business, the house, the pack. I could tell she was trying to make things feel normal.

Yet no matter what she said, there was always a pause before she spoke, like she was editing her words before they reached me.

“Are you always this quiet?” I asked her one morning while the nurse was adjusting my IV.

She smiled faintly. “Only when I don’t know what to say.”

“I don’t remember enough to get offended.”

She laughed softly. “That’s not why I’m careful.”

“Then why?”

She didn’t say anything, she just smiled again.

Over the next few days, my mother visited constantly. She spoke to me about company updates and council matters, but she always ended her visits with the same words. “Amy has been your rock through all this. You should be grateful.”

I wanted to but it was hard to feel grateful for something I couldn’t remember.

Therapy started with simple stretches, speech practice, and short memory exercises. Amy was there for all of it. She’d sit nearby, giving encouraging smiles of encouragement without

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interfering. Sometimes, when the therapist stepped out, I caught her looking at me with an expression I couldn’t read.

“You don’t have to stay the whole time,” I told her once. “You look bored.”

“I’m not,” she said. “I just don’t want you to fall.”

“I won’t.”

“You said that yesterday, then you almost did.”

I smiled a little at that. She had a calm way of teasing me without sounding harsh. In the evenings, after everyone left, I’d ask the nurses for a few photos. They brought me old family albums, and I’d flip through them slowly. Most faces were familiar, but not Amy.

“What kind of wife are you?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

She handed me a towel and sat on the chair beside me. “The kind that tries her best,” she answered quietly.

That answer shouldn’t have stung, but it did. There was no anger in her voice, just honesty. Like she wasn’t defending herself, only stating a fact.

“Tried what?” I asked after a pause.

“To obey your mother,” she said. “To make sure your name still meant something. To protect what you built… even when I wasn’t really a part of it.”

“I didn’t know you before the accident,” she continued. “You didn’t know me either. But I stayed. I kept the promise that was made, even if you never made it yourself.”

I didn’t know how to respond. How do you thank someone for holding a life together while you were barely living?

After she left, I sat in silence for a long time. I didn’t remember her, but something about her steadiness made the room feel different. Safer.

The days that followed were slow and filled with physical therapy in the mornings, checkups, the same bland meals, the same nurse hovering nearby. My mother visited occasionally, bringing updates about the company and the pack. She talked more than I could handle most days, but I listened anyway.

Amy came by less often after that first week. When she did, she helped me with the small things like paperwork, and the doctor instructions.

One evening, I caught her staring at the ring on her finger. She turned it absently, lost in thought.

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“Do you want to take it off?” I asked.

She looked up.

“What?”

“The ring. You keep touching it. If it feels wrong-

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“It doesn’t,” she said quickly. “It’s just… strange sometimes.”

“I can take it if that makes it easier.”

She shook her head. “No. It’s fine. It still belongs to you.”

After that, she left earlier than usual. The next morning, she didn’t come at all. The nurse said she’d gone to see Mrs. Carter about something important. The room felt quieter without her.

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