Page 122 of Forget Me Not

Once he leaves, I attempt to follow after him, but Jack pulls me back into his chest, pressing a soft kiss to my lips. It’s different. Charged with something evil. Something possessive and commanding.

“Promise me you’ll never leave me,” he whispers. “I love you too much to think about losing you. I never want to hurt you.”

In that moment . . . I actually believe him.

“I promise.”

“Have you ever thought about death?”

I pause, unsure what to say. Have I thought about it? Of course, everyone has. Do I like to think about the people closest to me dying? No? Why would I?

“Not really,” I answer, rolling onto my side to watch him. The dim glow of the outside streetlights filters through the blinds, making his cheeks look more hollow than usual. He looks almost sick.

After the wedding, we came home where he ripped my dress off and we had the roughest sex we’ve ever had together. It was brutal. Honest. Dark.

Now, a shiver ghosts up my spine from the adrenaline finally leaving my body. I can’t decide if I liked it, or if it just hurt. My body is sore, my core stinging.

Do some people like this?

What are the rules for this kind of sex? The kind that leaves you exhausted and broken after?

Apparently, our routine is to lay in bed and stare at the ceiling.

I’m so unsure now. What do I do? How do I keep him happy? Is it the rough sex like tonight that he wants? Does he want me to do other things for him? Anal? More blow jobs?

God, I wish I could peek inside his head and read his mind. I feel like I’m chasing him and he’s always a step in front of me.

How is Sophie able to keep him interested where I can’t seem to keep his attention unless I’m in the presence of another man? Like my cousin, whose boyfriend was at the wedding tonight and saw my husband punch his significant other for dancing with me.

God . . . who are we, Jack?

“Why do you ask?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. Just wondered if you would move on if I died.”

“Well, I don’t think about things like that.”

Jack raises up on his elbow, facing me. He’s so close, I can smell the menthol from the cigarettes he’s been sneaking when I’m not around.

“Come on,” he murmurs quietly, using that voice that will get me to do whatever he wants. I think he’s caught on. “What would you do?”

“I don’t know,” I groan, shaking my head. “What would you do?”

He searches my gaze, reaching up to tuck a curl behind my ear. “I think I’d stay single.”

“Bull,” I scoff, rolling my eyes. “I know you.”

He shakes his head. “Not enough, apparently. I would stay single because you’re it for me.”

I pause, my chest pitter-pattering with my heartbeat racing wildly. Sometimes he says the sweetest things. Sometimes he’s that ornery jackass I met my freshman year of high school. Other times . . . he’s this new Jack. The dark one who absolutely terrifies me.

“Don’t you ever get tired of me?” I joke, but he doesn’t laugh.

“You’re it for me, Nova. I want to be it for you too.”

The gravity in that statement scares me. As if he knows something I don’t. My chest aches because I know it’s not true. I’m not enough for him, now. Why would my death change anything?

God, I used to worship the ground he walked on. He was my high school soulmate and I was willing to follow him to the ends of the earth. I probably still would, but those feelings have morphed into something new.

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