Authors: Kate Hewitt
‘It’s
all right….’
It
was more than all right; it was wonderful. She felt consumed, filled,
whole
. And as her body spiralled into a
climax, with Jacob still gazing at her with such heartfelt solemnity, she felt
that this was what it was to be known. And Jacob felt it too. No matter what
questions or secrets lay between them, he
knew
her.
And
she knew him.
Then
the thought—all her thoughts—splintered apart as her body convulsed around him
and she cried out in a pleasure so sweetly intense it felt almost akin to pain.
Jacob buried his face in her neck as he found his own release, and moments
later, their bodies still slick with sweat, he rolled off her, one arm thrown
over his eyes.
What
had just happened?
She
lay
there,
naked, a little cold, conscious of him next
to her, silent save for the ragged tear of his breathing. She rolled towards
him, placed a hand lightly on the ridged muscles of his taut stomach. She
couldn’t see his face. He placed his hand on hers, and Mollie’s insides lurched
with disappointment as he made to push it away. Then, to her surprise, he
stilled. After a second’s hesitation his fingers curled around hers and he kept
her hand there, wrapped in his. They lay together, holding hands, not speaking,
until, exhausted, Mollie eventually fell asleep.
Jacob
listened to Mollie’s breathing
slow
as she relaxed
into sleep. From the corner of his eye he could see the brightness of her hair
against the pillow, the soft, smooth curve of her cheek. She let out a
satisfied little sigh and everything in Jacob clenched.
What
had he just done? Where was his control
now?
He
let out a ragged sigh and raked a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. His
body felt good, satisfied and replete in a way he’d never experienced before,
but his mind screamed and seethed in an agony of remorse. He’d done—again—what
he’d sworn he wouldn’t do. He’d hurt someone. He’d hurt Mollie … or at least he
would, when he let her down. When she discovered just what kind of man he
really was.
You’re not that man
.
Carefully
Jacob shifted on his side so he could look at her. He kept her hand clasped in
his, needing her touch even now. She was curled on her side, her mouth softened
in a smile, her chest rising and falling gently in her sleep.
She
was so beautiful.
So innocent.
So
good
.
How
could he have seduced her? How could he have resisted her?
Restless
yet not wanting to disturb her, Jacob slipped from the bed. Mollie’s fingers
clenched around his as he attempted to extricate his hand from hers; gently he
laid it palm up on the sheets. He reached for his boxers and shrugged them on,
then stalked to the darkened privacy of the suite’s living room.
He
stood in the centre of the room, listening to the distant noise of traffic, the
relentless beat of his own heart. Corrosive guilt poured through his craven
heart, seeped into its many cracks. He closed his eyes.
He
should have left her alone. He shouldn’t have touched her, taken her,
dragged
her down with him.
For surely that
was what he would do, if she ever knew.
If he ever
told her.
Suddenly
Jacob opened his eyes. He stared unseeingly out at the twinkling lights of the
city below him, his own thoughts reverberating through him.
If he told her
.
What
would happen?
What
would happen if he told Mollie the truth of that night, if he admitted to her
the fears that lurked inside of him? If he told her just how like his father he
really was?
It
was a question Jacob had never asked himself. He’d never dared. It was too
terrifying, too dangerous, to even think of telling anyone about the darkness
inside him. Yet now, with the rush of damaging emotions coursing through
him—regret, guilt, fear—he felt the faint life-giving trickle of another
emotion he’d forgotten about, for he hadn’t felt it in so long.
Hope.
What
would happen if he told Mollie everything?
If he gave her—
them
—a chance?
A
chance at what?
His mind scoffed. After everything, what was he capable
of? What did he have left to give?
Jacob
knew he couldn’t answer that. Not yet. But he would never get the chance to
answer it if he didn’t do the first: tell Mollie. Tell her everything.
His
heart raced and his hands trembled as he paced the living room, stalking its
corners as if it were the prison of his heart. He felt more restless than ever,
anxious and uncertain and yet still pulsing with the faint heartbeat of hope.
He
could do it. He could tell her, risk her knowing. Risk her rejection, even her
revulsion. What did he really have to lose?
He’d
lost everything already.
Even
so, the thought of being honest with someone who already mattered so much to
him was an unwelcome thought.
A terrifying one.
It
would be so much easier, safer, to stay the way he was.
Alone.
Yet
Jacob knew he was so utterly tired of being alone, exhausted by loneliness.
He’d lived the past twenty years of his life as a restless workaholic, a
wandering nomad who made acquaintances and lovers, yet no friends. No love.
He
could hardly believe he was contemplating changing that.
Risking
it.
Yet with Mollie.
Why do you carry so much guilt, Jacob? Why
is it
all your
fault?
He
could risk it with her. He needed to take the risk, because God only knew he
couldn’t take much more of the life he had. He wanted more. He wanted the risk.
He
wanted Mollie.
Jacob
drew in a deep breath and let it out again in a slow shudder. Resolute and yet
at peace, he turned back to the bedroom.
Mollie
still lay curled on one side of the bed, her hand resting palm open where he’d
left it. She let out another soft little sigh. Jacob slid into bed next to her.
In her sleep Mollie curved into him, so it was utterly natural—utterly right—to
take her into his arms, to fit her warm body against his. She nestled naturally
into him, and she reached for his hand, her fingers threading through his.
Their bodies
fitted
.
Resting
his chin on the softness of her hair, Jacob closed his eyes and slept.
The
dream came for him that night. Of course it did; in his greedy hope he had made
himself vulnerable. Always, always it was the same, except this time it was
worse.
He
was worse.
It
came to him in a red mist of rage. It was as if he saw everything—Annabelle,
William, his younger brothers—through a hazy scarlet curtain. The house was
dark all around him; Annabelle huddled on the floor, her knees drawn to her
chest, her face already covered in blood. She was still, silent, although he
heard his younger brothers’ broken pleas to
Stop,
please stop, Dad
.
His
father didn’t stop. William Wolfe’s hand was raised, the riding crop curled
around his fist, his face twisted in a terrible anger.
Jacob
saw the whip, the blood, and he felt something in him snap; it was as if he
heard the sound deep within, the very core of him crumbling under.
Too much
.
It was
finally,
finally
too much.
Acting
out of instinct, he pushed his father hard on the shoulder, felt the flat of
his palm connect with slack muscle. He felt his own strength and his father’s
weakness. Then William let out a bellow of rage, and he hit Annabelle again,
the crop slicing through the air and whistling as it connected with her bloody
flesh.
Jacob’s
fists clenched; he felt powerful with fury. He felt like he could do anything,
he
would
do anything in that moment,
to save his sister.
To hurt his father.
He heard the
deadly venom of his voice, except it sounded like the voice of a stranger.
A demon.
You will not touch her again
.
And
then, the worst moment of all, the moment that revealed and defined him. The
moment Jacob could never escape or forget.
He
raised his clenched fist. His father raised the riding crop again, preparing to
bring another blow onto his daughter. Jacob knew he could not allow that to
happen. He would not. And so he hit his father with all the force and fury of
fifteen years of anger,
hurt,
disappointment and
despair. He hit him as hard as he could, and in that second of vengeance he
felt a fierce sense of satisfaction, of relief.
And
then, worst of all, a sound rent the air.
A sound of wild
laughter.
Jacob never knew who had laughed—who
could
laugh in such a moment. Had his father laughed at the thought
of his son turning against him? Had
he
laughed because it had felt so good—in that one brief second—to finally fight back?
In
the dream the sound echoed through him, a raucous, wild peal. It was the
laughter, Jacob always thought, of a madman. Two madmen—for surely they both
were, he and his father, in that moment.
‘Jacob,
Jacob!
’
The
red haze was starting to lift as Jacob heard the voice, high-pitched, familiar,
frightened
. His eyes jerked open and he awakened as if
he’d been doused in ice water. He felt like he had, for his body was drenched
in a cold sweat.
Mollie
half sat in bed, clutching a sheet to her, her face pale and
shocked,
her eyes wide and dilated with fear.
Oh, God
.
Revulsion
swept through Jacob in a humiliating, sickening wave. He knew what Mollie had
seen. He knew what she’d heard.
His
stomach lurched and in one abrupt movement he rolled out of bed and slammed
into the bathroom.
He
retched, disgusted with himself more than ever before. From outside he heard a
timid knock.
‘Jacob
…
are
you … are you all right?’
He
rinsed his mouth out and braced his forearms against the sink. His heart was
throwing itself against his ribcage as if it had a death wish. Perhaps it did.
He’d
never felt so low, so wretched, and that was saying something. That dream
defined him. It revealed him, and Mollie had seen him at his worst. His worst …
and she was afraid.
‘I’m
fine,’ he said. His voice sounded hoarse. In the mirror his face was pale, his
eyes as dilated as Mollie’s, his hair dampened and spiky with sweat. Jacob
washed his face and resolutely opened the door. He knew how things would have
to be now.