Unable to stay seated, I reached for the door handle and shoved the door open. Though Jacob spoke, his words didn’t register. As soon as my feet hit the parking lot, I ran, the sheathed blade of the paring knife rubbing against the side of my foot. With each stride the world lost more focus. I rushed forward, each step becoming more important than the last. I didn’t know where I was going, but I had to get there.
Being farther north, the Northern Light had very few hours of darkness this time of year, but thankfully, Fairbanks had some. Since I’d spent so long at the marshals’ office, the sky was now black. As I ran I imagined the darkness was my cover, my invisibility cloak, allowing me an escape from my ongoing nightmare. But alas, it wasn’t. Before I made it through the next parking lot, Jacob seized my shoulders.
Burrowing his lips into the nape of my neck, in a hushed whisper he said, “You can hate me for the rest of your life. Just, please, trust me for a few more hours. If you don’t, I’m afraid the rest of your life won’t be long.”
I spun toward him. Under the lights of the street, in the eyes of the man I wanted to hate, I saw what I suspected was the most honest expression I’d ever seen. Still I asked, “Are you threatening me?”
He shook his head. “I’m trying to save you.”
“I-I don’t understand.”
Releasing my shoulders, he reached for my hand. I didn’t fight as he laced our fingers together. “I’ll explain. I’ll tell you everything.” He lifted our joined hands and kissed my knuckles. “Then it will be your decision.” Looking at my hand, he smiled. “You’re still wearing your wedding band.”
I looked down at our joined fingers and shrugged. He was right. I wasn’t sure why I hadn’t taken it off, but I hadn’t.
“Please,” he pleaded, “come to the room and let me try to explain.”
With the warmth of his hand and the cloud of leather and musk, I nodded. I didn’t understand what had happened, but somewhere between the marshals’ station and the motel, my husband had changed. Maybe we’d both changed. As we silently walked, hand in hand, I didn’t know.
Once we were inside the room, Jacob locked the door and turned in my direction. My heart ached as I watched the handsome man before me. From his dark wavy hair to his brown eyes, defined jaw, and broad shoulders, I saw a storm of emotions I’d never before seen. His normally confident demeanor had been replaced by one of sorrow and fear.
Holding a fistful of his dark hair, he said, “Before I start, I need to know . . .” His chest expanded and contracted. “Tell me the truth. What did Thomas do to you?”
Though his tone wasn’t demanding, I had no reason to lie. Sitting on the edge of the bed, I sighed. “He scared me and slapped me, but that was all.”
“He didn’t . . . ?”
I couldn’t help but smile at his genuine concern. I shook my head. “No. He told me he would, once we got to Fairbanks, but as soon as we landed, the marshals were there.” Remembering the scene, I stood. “Were they really US Marshals or were they part of The Light? How did they know I was there? What really happened to Thomas?”
Though my questions came fast and furious, the shaking of his head was lethargic and slow. “Sara, there’s so much I need to explain.”
My back straightened. “Do not call me that. You know my real name. Use it!”
“Stella,” he said.
My name sounded painful on his lips, as if it ripped him apart, exposing him in an unfamiliar way. The angst resonating from the one word made me want to tell him to forget it and just call me Sara, but I bit my lip, stopping the words. I was the one who’d been living a lie for the past nine months, the one who’d been ripped from her real life; he deserved to feel a fraction of the pain I felt. My eyes dropped to his hips.
Pain.
All I had to do was look at his damn belt to remind myself that this was the man who’d hurt me—controlled me—brainwashed me, not only mentally but also physically. With each second of silence, my contempt grew. Crossing my arms over my chest, I exhaled and turned away.
“Don’t,” he said, his warm hand reaching for my shoulder and his fingers directing my movement.
Spinning toward him, I yelled. “No! You don’t. Don’t you touch me. I’m not your wife. You know that. You’ve known that and still you . . .” My words began to fail. “You . . . made me . . .” Shaking my head within the confines of the small motel room, I walked as far away as I could, refusing to cry. “Jacob . . . I . . .”
When I turned back toward him, he was sitting on the end of the bed, his elbows on his knees and his hands holding his head. His normally proud broad shoulders slumped forward. Unable to see his face, I stared, feeling the palpable defeat wafting off him.
Finally, still looking down, he said, “My name’s not Jacob, not really, but you probably figured that out.”