Mercy
“A memory?” August repeated.
Mercy nodded. She could tell by his expression he wasn’t sure what to think about her confession. While she wasn’t sure how she knew that the images she had of being placed inside a dark box were a memory and not a dream, she was certain that that was the case.
August cleared his throat. She watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down. It was late in the afternoon now, and he had stubble along his square jaw and down his throat. The urge to reach up and touch him, to run her thumb along his chin, to feel that stubble bite into her flesh, was overwhelming. How would he react? What if, instead of dragging her thumb along his flesh, it was her lips. Would he recoil in horror, or would he welcome it?
As he began to speak, Memory tried to focus her thoughts o
