Away From the Dark (The Light #2)(12)

As Jacob reached for my hand and blessed our meal, the carefully prepared food lost its appeal. A sheen of perspiration dotted my brow as I worried I wouldn’t be able to stop the words.

What if I admitted to memories in my sleep?

What if he asked and I couldn’t help myself?

My internal battle raged throughout dinner and as I cleaned the kitchen. I spent more time than usual assuring cleanliness, purposely avoiding what I knew was coming. Jacob had been gone for three nights. The way his warm hand encased mine even after he blessed the food and his soft lips met mine when he entered the apartment alerted me to his future intentions.

I tugged my lower lip between my teeth, contemplating our immediate future. If I confessed my newfound knowledge, or recovered knowledge, as an Assemblyman, Jacob would be bound to take my confession to the Commission.

Would he condemn my memories as lies? Would he punish me for entertaining such thoughts? Each question added fuel to my concerns.

I wanted to believe he’d listen and help. My heart wanted that. Yet my inquisitive mind feared the worst. At best he too was a pawn and wouldn’t believe me. At worst he was intimately involved in the lies, and my knowledge would be a threat.

If I were to survive and find a way out of the Northern Light, I needed to continue to maintain the farce that I was Sara Adams, the content Stepford wife of Assemblyman Jacob Adams.

Wringing the excess soapy water from the dishcloth, I decided to take another swipe at the countertop. Just as I was about to turn back toward the counter, the signature leather-and-musk cloud announcing my husband’s presence penetrated the scent of my dish soap. I’d been too caught up in my thoughts to hear his approach. I closed my eyes as his strong arms surrounded my waist and his lips neared my neck.

“I’ve missed you.”

His deep voice tugged at my heart, while the warmth of his embrace tore at the flimsy walls I’d constructed in an effort to keep him away. My head fell back against his chest as my pulse raced. I’d always had the option to tell him no, yet I never had.

If I did now, would he suspect something was different?

Butterfly kisses skimmed my skin as the scruff of Jacob’s tightly trimmed beard heightened my senses.

My head told me the truths. We weren’t really married. He was part of the lie.

The words that hours ago had been loud and convincing grew dim as Jacob’s hands began to roam.

The dishcloth dropped back into the soapy water as I ran my hands over his forearms. Jacob not only knew me, he knew my body. With the perfect combination of baritone words and ministrations, my insides began to respond.

Agreeing to him, to this, was what I needed to do to survive.

It was the mantra my consciousness tried to recite.

Convince him nothing is different. Don’t hesitate. He will know. I heard the words though they weren’t audible.

It was interesting the deals one made with oneself in an effort to excuse what could be perceived as unacceptable behavior. After all, I was about to sleep with a man who wasn’t really my husband, a man who’d lied to me, punished me, and yet my body was willing—more than willing. As I slowly spun toward him, my arms encircling his firm torso, I pushed my new revelations out of my mind and concentrated on the man who wanted me.

As he led me down the hall, I didn’t think about the deception or the lies. I thought about the excuse I’d given others for my unusual behavior—I’d missed Jacob.

Later in the night, while the heavy curtains kept the ever-shining summer sun from our room, Jacob pulled me against his chest and sighed. His breath moved across my hair as his heart beat against my back.

“Did anything else happen while I was gone?”

In the afterglow of our lovemaking, I battled against my training. In his arms I longed for the openness we’d shared and the relief that came from complete honesty. And then, just as quickly, I reminded myself that it wasn’t real openness or honesty—not on his part. If it had been, he wouldn’t have lied to me.

“I’m not sure why you keep asking,” I replied.

His chin moved over my hair as he shook his head at my slyly worded question. I couldn’t help but smile as I turned toward him.

“That wasn’t a question,” I confirmed.

He kissed my forehead. “No, Mrs. Adams, it wasn’t. But I could infer—”

“You could,” I said with a hint of laughter, trying to steer him away from his initial question. His use of my surname sounded so familiar, the falseness of it barely registered.

“If I did, after I took matters into my own hands”—he playfully cupped my behind—“I might say that you seemed different somehow when I first got home. When did the incident at the lab occur?”

I took a deep breath as I lowered my chin against my chest. “Monday.”

“Hmm.”

Though I wondered what that meant, I knew not to ask.

“I see,” he said.

I shook my head as I closed my eyes. Maybe if I stayed awake I’d know what he meant. Yet if I stayed awake, I risked saying more than I wanted. Even though I hadn’t been completely honest, in his arms my lids grew heavy and Jacob’s breathing evened. In no time at all we both drifted to sleep.




As a week passed, each day was more difficult than the one before. Each day memories came mixed with emotion. I’d be working at the lab or doing a mundane task such as sorting our laundry, and something from the dark would infiltrate my thoughts. Some memories were benign: my apartment or Dylan’s house. That was always the way they began, the prelude to more, my fish (his name was Fred), or Dylan’s backyard and the way he grilled steaks or salmon in the warm Detroit air. Some were so intense; they were more than images, also sounds and smells. The authenticity of them made each one difficult to dismiss.