Called

LIGHT | 4

LIGHT 4

Sean!

I awoke to quiet. My body had curled at some point during the night, and I lay in my usual position, facing away from Peter. At his shallow breathing, confirming his unconsciousness, relief blew from me.

I’d spent hours awake, trying to justify his despicable behaviour from the previous night. Every explanation I conjured pointed to his alcohol consumption. Even that, after ten years of not a drop passing his lips, warranted answers.

Pushing it aside, I allowed my mind to flit to my latest dream but frowned when it dawned on me that the events had altered. Though, thinking back through the happenings in the forest of my mind, the confusion I’d felt during sleep evaporated. Having dreamt of the mythological creatures since the age of seven, I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, the man’s original form had been a wolf. Yet again, a werewolf had visited my subconscious.

I couldn’t help but wonder how many nights I’d endure the new dream before it subsided or continued to progress, as I knew it followed on from the previous four. Yet, why I thought as such escaped me. There’d been no clapboard announcing ‘Jem’s latest werewolf dream: scene two’—I just knew.

The mattress dipped and creaked, as Peter stirred behind me.

Fear encompassed me in a way I’d never felt around him before—one that insisted the drinking may not have been responsible for his actions, that I’d be subjected to the same treatment again. For the first time in our marriage, my body stiffened at the thought of him touching me.

“Jem?” he murmured. “Are you awake?”

I considered feigning sleep. Instead, I nodded my head, fuzzing my hair against the pillow beneath it.

His hand slid over my stomach, and he pulled me back against his erection.

Suppressing my shudder took effort.

“Is there anything to get up for today?” He brushed my hair to the side, skimmed his lips across the nape of my neck. “Or shall we have a lie-in?” ‘Lie-in’, to Peter, meant pre-breakfast s*x.

“Actually, Peter, I don’t feel too good this morning.”

He continued to kiss my downy hairs. “What’s up, Jem?” If he recalled his behaviour from the night before, he gave a fine performance in concealing it. Or maybe his drinking had been responsible, after all.

My muscles relaxed a little, yet I kept up the charade. “It’s just a little stomach ache.”

“I can help with that.” With a quiet laugh, he rolled me onto my back.

The second his alcohol-lingering breath encompassed me, I gagged, slapping a hand to my mouth. “I’m going to be sick.”

“Quick.” He shoved me away. “Don’t get it on the bed.”

For ten minutes, I retched over the toilet with nothing coming out. Only the memory, which Peter’s breath had ignited, nauseated my stomach. With my forehead resting against the toilet seat, I closed my eyes.

“Jem?”

I didn’t answer.

“Are you alright?” he called.

My lids lifted. “I don’t feel too good.”

Footsteps crossed the landing before slapping against the lino at my rear. His hand rubbed my shoulder. “Maybe you should spend the day in bed.” His frown gave the appearance of genuine concern, as he helped me to my feet, lending reassurance that his behaviour had been a one-off. With his arm around my waist, he escorted me to the bedroom, tucked me beneath the duvet. “I’ll go get breakfast.”

I gave him a small smile, offering my lips for the kiss I thought he intended when he leaned forward, but he veered off to peck my cheek like he’d had second thoughts. God forbid should you risk contracting something contagious from your wife.

He left me to head downstairs. His curses arrived about five seconds later. “Jem, there’s b****y mud all over the floor down here.”

My pulse picked up. I’d forgotten about the mess. “It must be off your work boots.”

“And you didn’t get it up?”

“It must have happened after I’d come upstairs.” I winced beneath the lie.

He didn’t question me further, but his grumbles carried loud and clear, and I knew he’d leave the mess to me. Stilling my breaths, I closed my eyes. It didn’t take long for him to come back up, carrying the breakfast tray, which he set on my lap.

I looked at the singular mug. “Where’s yours?”

“I’ll eat downstairs,” he said. “You might be catching.”

My eyebrow lifted before I could stop it.

“Don’t worry.” He rubbed a hand across my hair. “I’ll come back up and see you later.”

Left alone, I nibbled on a corner of my toast, lifted my cappuccino for a sip.

Sean!

My hand gave a spasmodic jerk, spattering hot fluid across the tray.

I put my mug down, flexed my scalded fingers before l*****g them clean. My eyes closed in frustration, as I pinched the bridge of my nose and tried to recall how many times I’d heard the blasted name in my head.

Thirty-three times in six days.

Maybe I was going crazy.