I next opened my eyes to the light of dawn. I was in a room with stone walls and a wooden floor with great huge windows letting in the morning rays. The bed was high and comfortably with four posts and a wide selection of pillows and cushions.

I felt the soft silk covers between my fingers and furrowed my eyebrows as I looked at the room. It was strange. Everything felt completely alien yet weirdly familiar at the same time. I'd read every book on the shelf, seen every painting on the wall before and I even felt some kind of connection to the vase of gentle pink flowers on the desk. I stared for a few moments longer before standing up and walking over to them. They were fresh, clearly picked earlier this morning, and soft when I caressed their fragrant petals and sweet when I smelt their scent. Azaleas. Yes, that's right. They bloomed every summer in the pack I grew up in.

None of this made sense, my memory was a cloudy fog and I couldn't help but wonder I hadn't woken up to the sound of a screaming child in my own bed next to my mate.

After standing with furrowed eyebrows for a few moments, I ran my finger along the books: Lemony Snicket, Agatha Christie, Charles Dickins, JRR Tolkien, George Orwell, Jane Austen...every single one of then I had read and loved countless times before. And then the paintings framed on the wall. Although childish and simple, the memories they held had magnitude beyond comprehension. I couldn't tell you the significance of each individually but the overall feeling they gave were warm and nostalgic...almost as if I had known the places in the paintings. There was one in particular with a whole line of trees and below two figures. They were only stickmen in their simplest form but in that moment, when realisation his me. There could only be one person behind this.

Right on time, the door to the room opened. Their scent filled the air and for a moment there was total silence as I stood unable to turn and face them.

"Ella," he uttered confirming what I knew to be true.

I turned and tears began to stream down my cheeks as I met his eyes. Soon enough I had run into his arms and was hugging him so tightly.

"Connor," I whispered. "My brother."

"I missed you so much, Ellsie," he said kissing my head and wiping the tears off my cheeks.

"You've grown up. You're a man," I replied looking up and running my finger along his cheek that was now underneath a layer of light stubble.

"It's been seven years. I'm twenty-five," he said.

"Twenty-five," I repeated.copy right hot novel pub