The question skewered the room, penetrating the drawing room with a force contradictory to its hushed and seemingly ambivalent delivery. Had I been a fly on the wall, the wide eyes and collective gasp of the five people around me might have seemed humorous caricature versions of themselves, simultaneously acting with exaggerated shock.
Unfortunately, I was not a fly on the wall. Fortune, fickle bitch that she is, appeared to have deserted me all together as every eye in the room turned to me, silent pressure for an explanation that they most assuredly and inevitably would not accept. The change in the air was perceptible as tension settled around the room, the weight of the accusation heavy on my shoulders.
What is it they always say? Tension you could cut with a knife? Whatever pansy ass delivered that foolishly optimistic axiom was delusional. I fought back a nervous chuckle as the thought of lifting an arm to cut anything with a knife bordered on the impossible considering the giant elephant in the room had not only been identified, but also persuaded to park its giant ass on my chest. The weight of the unspoken judgment constricted against my throat and the intensity of the situation became a physical burden, pressing me further into the designer print of the plush couch I sat on as my mind futilely willed my body to disappear.
I could not move.
I could barely breathe.
I was suffocating – struggling under the pressure of a single question and the ramifications of the answer.
Absolutely no one in this room would escape the consequences of this scrutiny and the faces around me suggested that each one knew already, on some level, that there would be no going back. The good doctor Cullen sat stiffly on the sofa across from me, as if the straightness of his spine might enforce some righteous moral counterbalance to my suggested sordid offense. Esme, predictably, curled submissively into the shelter of her husband, one hand fisted against her mouth and tears already welling at the inevitable rift within her family. Either that or she'd just noticed the blush stripe in her painstakingly chosen drapery didn't quite match the stitching of her area rug as perfectly as she'd originally thought. I really couldn't be sure.
They'd had such high hopes for this reunion. After two years of exile, the night's festivities had been intended as my re-induction into the Cullen family fold. The years apart had steeled my need for the tight knit bonds of this clan, and yet I couldn't ignore the sinking dread in my stomach – proof that I would feel the loss of this family from my life as acutely as the first time.
Emmet braced his mountainous frame casually against the fireplace mantle. The image of my brother bear allowed for momentary relief as my breathing deepened and lengthened with the unconditional acceptance un-obscured in his blue eyes by an understandable curiosity and an ever present mischievousness. Rosalie graced his side, a knowing look as well as an unexpectedly supportive nod boosting me further against the oppressive tension.
Unable to ignore the nagging stare to my right, my focus shifted to a less than friendly face - Alice. Fucking. Brandon. The poorly concealed hatred seething in her abnormally large eyes made her appear more a demonic fairy bitch and less the precious pixie persona she took such care to maintain. I couldn't help the smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth any more than she could refrain from being a manipulative wolf in designer wool.
How many times had I heard it? – Alice knows things.
Ha! The self proclaimed crystal ball knows nothing beyond her cunning manipulations and calculated performances. My mind strayed quite boastfully to that which Alice doesn't know. Even she couldn't predict the outcome of this evening and I had to smile at how intensely she must be reeling. Alice averted her eyes to the figure next to her, drawing my attention with her movement to settle on the face of her fiancé.
Jasper. I followed the rigid tension plaguing his well formed shoulders, past the firm set of his jaw and angry slant of his mouth to eyes that spoke a language known only by me. I expected some small acknowledgement – an insignificant gesture of recognition to ease this inevitable judgment day. Instead, the intensity of anger, regret, and betrayal rolled off of him, palpable in the air, and I was certain everyone in the room could feel it.
I could feel it. I could feel him.
Then again, I always could. Jasper's emotions had always resonated deep within me, so much so that I was often left wondering if they were my own and not my sixth sense for the eldest Cullen brother. There was no doubt now, however, as to the origin of the feelings bombarding my core. Jasper hated. What I couldn't be sure, but the steely unmoved cold gray of eyes I'd seen as turbulent as the sea indicated that he most likely hated me.
I closed my eyes; fragments of memories long since stored away assaulting my already crumbling resolve.
Shadow and sun on naked flesh.
Honey curls like silk between my fingers.
A whispered drawl – smooth and low.
And now? I didn't recognize the man beside me at all. The familiar ache crept up from within me and for a moment I considered giving in to my inner desolation, remnants of a love lost. But I'd felt the darkness of abandonment by this family once before. I'd built myself back up from dead after this family severed their loyalty.
Fuck doing that again.
Insecurities hardened to resolve and when I turned to face Edward, he couldn't miss the challenge of my stare. He pursed his lips and drug a well manicured hand through copper locks, his head slightly cocked in appraisal and I knew that he hadn't misinterpreted.
He'd expected the weakling he'd left behind. He'd expected me to roll over and beg for my place within the security of his family. They'd expected to have control.
And now he knows that I don't give a shit what they expected.
My eyebrow rose as barley concealed anger flashed across his face and he asked louder, "Bella. How long have you been fucking my brother?"