The Devil's Den
I want to thank Bubbleybear for pre-reading this one-shot and Chandrakanta for beta'ing it :)
As stated in the summary, this one-shot won two categories in the Friends to Lovers Contest (best tearjerker and judge's pick: Twilightladies1), for which I'm very grateful.
Also, the other entries were amazing so go check them out once you've finished mine ;)
"Good morning," I whisper as I watch your eyes flutter open.
We both know the statement isn't true, but saying it feels nice.
"Morning," you reply just as softly, either too tired or fearful to adopt an adequate volume.
"Maybe we'll get out of here today." I force a smile, repeating the words I deliver so often that they feel like routine.
Your brown eyes, ancient with foolish hope, grow sad. "I hope so."
A lump forms in my throat at the odds of my statement proving true, and I look away, not wanting you to see how rapidly my own hope is fading.
We've been kept hidden in this dirty shack for weeks, bound, and with no knowledge of where we are.
The man who keeps us here is a stranger, no more familiar to me than this room was a few weeks ago.
We don't know his motives, and we are blind to his intentions, despite our attempts to uncover both.
When you're asleep each night, I think of these two things.
It's likely that the answer to both is the key to a successful escape.
I'm determined for us to flee, but such a thing appears impossible.
For one, the door to the room we are kept in is locked at all times, the only time it is unhinged being when he opens the door to check on us. He traps us with a rusty brass key, reminiscent of an old movie, and stows it in his jean pocket every time he enters and leaves the room. In addition to that, there are no windows, only ugly, grey walls smattered with plaster that reek of decay and suffocate me.
The most significant hindrance to our escape is two little metal cuffs, one choking my wrist, the other cutting into yours. Both are connected to the solitary wooden beds we have no choice but to lie on and give us little freedom to move. The pain the coarse wood induces in our backs, however, is the least of our problems when it comes to him, our captor.
At the same time every day, without exception, he visits us. It's the only time of the day we ever see him, and for that, I am glad.
His pale blue eyes set in a pallid, scarred face always light up when they encroach on us, as if he feels pleasure from our suffering. With a dirty hand that never fails to make me cringe, he pats my matted bronze hair and then strokes your cheek. It's always worse to see him touch you, because of the violated look on your face when he does so, and the fact that I can't do anything about it.
Then he sets down our food—always two pieces of stale bread—and steals out of the room, whispering about something my ears cannot detect. I've never properly heard his voice, and I don't care to, but I am curious about his mutterings.
We always eat the food he provides, knowing starvation will come our way swiftly if we refuse to, and I'm almost used to the bitter taste in my mouth that the bread brings.
I wonder if you are.
Hell, I wonder how you're coping with all of this.
You don't scream anymore in your sleep, and you cry far less, but I fear it's only because you're accepting our fate, and you're resigned to it.
I can't let that happen; you deserve so much more.
Escaping seems impossible, but for you, I can make it happen.
My cracked lips form an easy smile as I stare at you now.
The despair in your eyes has faded, however temporarily, and it increases my hope a little.
It is the light in them that keeps me going most days, and looking into them gives me a sense of peace I cannot understand.
You smile, too, and then extend your hand so it is brushes purposefully against mine. I take it gratefully, comforted by its warmth, and squeeze it lightly.
No matter what happens, as long as you're by my side, I can overcome this.
You're my best friend, and although we've only met through these terrible circumstances, I can't bring myself to regret them happening, because, had they not, I would not know you, and that is the true meaning of hell.
I've tried to block out the day that he brought you here, but now, thinking of this, the memories are impossible to repress.
It happened a few weeks ago, I think—my concept of time is a little sketchy. I'd only been here for a few days, having woken up with a splitting headache and aching limbs. My last memory was of walking to the corner shop near my house to buy milk for my mother.
My shock at being held against my will had worn off by the time you'd come, but the fear and terror refused to abate. I knew as much information then as I know now, so when he'd swung open the door, I didn't know what to expect.
With both hands curled around your wrists and kicking you forward like a misbehaving beast, he forced you onto the bed and unlatched one of my cuffs before attaching it to you.
Even with your face blotchy and red with tears, tendrils of your long, brown hair sticking to your face and profanities escaping your mouth every ten seconds, you were still one of the prettiest girls I'd ever seen.
Your enraged screaming died down once he'd left, and you turned to stare at me, your face still flushed with anger, but your eyes sparked with curiosity. I held out my hand, and after a few seconds of deliberation, you shook it. We exchanged names, and then stories of how we'd come here. Your voice was soft, shy but layered with a subtle hint of malice as you spoke, and it frightened away my fear.
You explained that you were walking home from school alone, because your dad couldn't pick you up that day, and were grabbed by the man who had just brought you in, and forced into a white van. You didn't know his name either, but that didn't bother me. Learning the name of the monster didn't make him any less of one.
From there, we'd developed a strong friendship, a bond stronger than one I'd ever experienced. From the moment we met, we'd discussed every topic there was to discuss.
I learned that you lived with your dad, and that your mom had passed away when you were very young. Even without spelling it out for me, I could tell that you respected your father above all others. It was probably the way you spoke of him. The ache in your voice told me that you missed him more than you'd ever admit.
I learned that I was a year older than you, but that didn't change anything. A year is a measly number, and had our lives been normal, the fact that I was seventeen and you were sixteen wouldn't have mattered at all.
I would still want you.
I learned that you lived two blocks away from me, in the quiet little suburb of Ester in Fairbanks, Alaska. I'd never seen it, but I knew what it looked like due to your detailed description. It sounded spectacular, but that may have just been because it was your lovely words that painted the picture in my mind.
I learned that your friends are bitchy children who don't deserve your company, but despite my telling you so, you're unaware of this fact. They push you to wear make-up when you clearly hate it; when you feel like going somewhere, they never take your idea into consideration; they insult the clothes you wear and so on. I knew it was all trivial stuff, but it was a good idea to focus on things like that to avoid thinking about the situation we were in.
And most of all, I learned that you are a good person, pure of heart and generous. This, I learnt, not through the retelling of your life, but how you act towards me now.
You make sure I'm okay all the time, knowing that, although I present a strong front, I need reassuring just as much as you do.
You endure my rants of frustration and calm me down when I've finished by reminding me of home.
You don't even laugh or scorn me when tears well in my eyes and steal my masculinity.
It is all these things combined that make me love you.
I wish I could tell you that.
When I do tell you, it won't be here, in this morbid, sinister room.
You deserve better, and I'm going to do my best to make that happen.
Whatever it takes…
…
We don't say much in the hour that follows. It's early morning and we're both exhausted despite the lack of activity undertaken, so we play the only game we can think of: rock, paper, scissors. It's a game of chance, not skill, so we both win multiple times. You have a tendency to choose rock, but only when I use scissors.
It's a stupid game but it makes us forget, which is why I suggested it.
But after about ten minutes, even that drains our energy, and I hold your hand lightly in mine, staring at the ceiling, then at you. You're still beautiful despite all you've been through, and I don't mean just physically.
When another hour has passed, you ask for me to tell you a story. I've done it many times before, starting from the day where you told me how much you missed books. I wasn't a phenomenal storyteller but it was the best I could do under the circumstances.
Sometimes the stories I tell you are childish, ones that make you giggle at the stupidity of them, while others are dark and angsty. I usually reserve those for when I'm feeling particularly furious.
Thankfully today was not one of those days, so I told a ridiculous story about a band of evil ducks.
It made you laugh, so it was worth it.
I grimace when I think of how my older brothers, Emmett and Jasper, would react if they overheard me tell this particular story, and then pale as I realize that I could potentially never see them again.
Although I hate to admit it, I miss Emmett's immaturity and Jasper's nerdy ways.
I wonder if they know about what happened to me, if they and my parents were searching for us.
"What's wrong?" you ask, frowning deeply.
I shake my head and kiss the back of your hand. "Nothing. It's all right."
You narrow your eyes but remain silent.
I have to be strong for you.
I have to find a way out!
…
"Why is he just keeping us like this? In all the stories I've heard, they hurt their victims. But he hasn't hurt us. I'm glad he hasn't, but why? Why leave us to die here?"
The frustration in your voice startles me.
You've been so accepting of our situation and your sudden change in tone unsettles me.
"If I knew, I would tell you. It makes no fucking sense, but I swear we'll find a way out of this." I frown.
"You've got to have theories," you press, your forehead creased with worry.
"I've thought about it," I admit, my voice quiet as if I'm worried he will overhear. "And all I can think of is that he's a sadist who likes to watch kids slowly die under his control."
"But why us?" you ask angrily, hitting your hand against the wooden frame of the bed.
"I think it was random. My parents aren't involved in anything illegal and I've never seen him in my life. I doubt you have either."
"No, I haven't, but there has to be a reason why he chose us." You bite your lip so fiercely it draws blood.
My frown deepens. "I'm still glad I met you, even though we've had to live like this. That's the only thing that makes this all right."
I wait with bated breath for you to respond, realizing that I'd let a little too much slip in my quest to reassure you.
The beginnings of a smile grace your lips. "I'll never regret meeting you—never—but I hate this place. I hate it! I want to watch it burn, I want to kill everything in sight. I want to go home!"
"We're going to get out of here eventually, if not soon," I placate, knowing by your flaming red cheeks and trembling lower lip that you're about to lose it.
"What if we don't? I don't think I can live this way much longer." You shake your head, your brown eyes gleaming with tears.
"We'll find a way out of this, I know we will."
Your voice is choked, vulnerable, and the sound makes me wince. "Promise?"
You extend your pinky finger and I smile despite the situation.
Even though it's childish, I curl it with mine and shake it. "I swear."
…
I can tell something is different today, and the thought made me sick to my stomach. After weeks of routine, any change not forced by my hand or yours is frightening. We still have no idea what he wants from us, and now we are scared to find out. Despite not being particularly religious, I pray to whoever rules the afterlife that you will be safe, even if I cannot be.
You hold my hand tightly, to the point of pain, but I don't complain; I'm too tense to even really notice.
It is the voices downstairs that cause this panic. They are loud, masculine, and authoritative. I can't hear what they're saying, but it causes a tingle to run down my spine nonetheless.
The fear clear in your beautiful eyes is strangely what keeps me strong and I reach over with all my strength to brush my fingertips across your pale cheek.
I've never attempted this before, but I'm glad I do.
"I'll keep you safe, Bella, I promise," I whisper, the words truer now than they've ever been.
Your eyes glisten with unshed tears and your lower lip trembles.
I wish I could wipe them away with my fingertips but my arm won't stretch that far, so I simply settle for humming a sweet tune.
A few tears escape and you say in a low, choked voice. "I know."
I feel the urge more than ever to tell you how I feel about you.
The words are on my tongue, but my brain screams that now isn't the right time.
You deserve so much better than a few whispered words in the devil's den.
I don't have the time to make a choice, because he barges through the door, a wide grin on his face. We must've been too preoccupied to hear him turning the lock. Bile rises in my throat at the sight of him, and I squeeze your hand, knowing that when change finds us, it will not leave us separated.
I have never hated a person more than I hate this tall, conceited man, smiling down on us as if he has just given us everything we have ever asked for. I loathe him for what he's done to us, for taking away our freedom, for acting as if it all doesn't matter, as if we are dogs to treat as he sees fit.
I'd never genuinely wanted to hurt someone, but right now, it seems like a damn good idea. The thought of his face black and purple with blows I had delivered was oddly satisfying.
"Fuck you," I spit at him, glaring with every fragment of strength I possessed.
He continues to smile as if I've complimented him, and then turns to face the door as two large, intimidating men walk into the room. One has dirty blond hair with a few grey streaks running through it, while the other is a bit younger and has bright red hair and a thick beard. They both wear black clothing and are extremely tall, holding an arrogant stance.
Despite my resolve not to, I begin shaking like a coward as my eyes set on them.
They are both holding revolvers.
I don't know much about guns, but I know what they're capable of.
The thought makes me nauseous.
You whimper, and I know I have to toughen up if we are to survive this. I send you a small, reassuring smile and stare with malice at the two men who have arrived. They act as if I'm not there, looking instead towards our kidnapper.
For the first time, I hear the man who had captured us speak clearly. His voice was rough and the words he delivers make my teeth clench. "Here's two more."
Two more?
We aren't the first to endure this agony then?
What are we to face now?
Where are the others that have endured our fate?
Are they even alive?
Dread creeps up my veins but I try to disregard it; I have more pressing things to worry about.
The blonde-haired man speaks firmly, no hint of a smile on his face. "I want the girl."
"No!" I cry out, but they ignore me, exchanging bored looks. "There's no way in fucking hell you're taking her with you." I pull at your chains with my left hand and try fruitlessly to break them.
What are they going to do to you?
Where are they going to take you?
What the hell are we going to do?
I'm truly panicking now.
"Edward, stop," you say weakly, placing your hand over my shaking one.
I can tell you've already given up.
The light from your eyes has died and the absence of it makes me more furious than the sight of these men ever made me.
You can't give up!
We can still escape!
If not me, then you.
Our captor gestures to you with his hand. "Good choice, she's cheaper than the boy."
All the blood drains from my face as I realize what's happening.
We are being sold.
I didn't even know this still happened in the world, let alone in America.
This is definitely illegal, but then again, kidnapping is too.
I feel colder than death itself as I look to you.
Your face is indifferent; perhaps you knew our fate all along.
I squeeze your hand, for my sake this time.
I need your support.
"How much cheaper?" the other man says warily, eyeing you.
Our captor smirks. "Half price."
"Deal." The blond haired one says quickly, handing him a large stack of cash, more than I've ever seen at one time in my whole life.
"I'll pay you the full amount for the girl," the other man says unexpectedly, glaring at the blond one.
"I've already paid for her," he hisses. His right hand clenches into a fist.
"Now, James," our kidnapper replied condescendingly, as if these intimidating men are children. "If you're willing to pay more than Victor, then I'll happily give you the girl. This is a business, you know."
My eyes narrow at that.
"Why don't we…" James looks at you briefly, suspiciously. "Talk about this downstairs. There are some things I'd like to discuss, and I don't want the girl hearing things she shouldn't, especially if she is to be mine."
"Bastard," Victor mutters, "but all right."
Our captor leads the way down the stairs and leaves the room silent as a crypt once more. I barely note that he forgot to lock the door.
A few seconds pass, then you begin to sob, loudly and heartbreakingly.
All hope seeps from my spirit at the sound.
"They're going to take me away. I'll never see you again," you cry, tears slipping down your cheeks. "How am I going to survive now? You're the only thing that's pushed me this far, the only thing that made this all bearable."
"I know, I know," I soothe, letting my fingertips caress your cheek again, and find myself being monumentally surprised when you bury your cheek into the curve of my hand.
"Don't leave me, please. I don't think I can do this without you."
"I can't either," I confess, tears of my own welling in my green eyes. "I'm sorry, so sorry. I thought I could get us out of this. I was stupid to think I could."
"Don't blame yourself. There was no way you could've gotten us out of this," you sniff.
"I should've tried harder…I should've."
"No," you say firmly, your cheeks still wet. "Stop. Please. Don't ruin these last few minutes we have with regret, please."
"What do you want me to do," I whisper, totally at a loss.
Your words are so quiet I almost don't hear them. "Sing to me, please."
All too happy to grant your request, I begin quietly singing a song that strangely suits our needs, a song that my mother used to play often in our house.
You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.
My fingers travel to your soft brown hair and I begin to stroke it lightly, tears slipping down my cheeks as I realize this may be the last time I'll ever see you.
You make me happy when skies are gray.
Your eyes begin to flutter closed, and I'm glad I can give you one peaceful moment before we're divided.
You'll never know just how much I love you.
Should I tell you now?
You should know, but will it make our separation hurt even more than it has to?
So please don't take my sunshine away.
All was silent for a minute before I whisper the words that could possibly change everything in another world, in one that is normal and sane.
"I love you."
Then you smile.
You fucking smile.
And I have no idea why I didn't tell you earlier.
"I love you, too," you whisper, opening your eyes and smiling even wider at me. "I think I always have."
With your head tilted the way it is, I'm able to press my lips to yours in a kiss that doesn't really count as a kiss, but still means more to me than a real one would.
My smile is bigger than it has ever been, and thoughts of what is to come are far behind me.
I stroke my fingers through your hair again, this time at the long strands at the back, and freeze when I encounter something small and bumpy. I pull it from your hair and wince when you hiss at the pain it causes you. Once free I examine it, and find it is a common bobby pin.
You look at it confusedly and then your face lights up brighter than I've ever seen it. "Edward, we can escape!"
"How?" I ask dubiously, wondering if my confession has made you delirious.
You hold up the bobby pin and quickly jam it into my handcuff, twisting and turning it with the flick of your hand.
To my absolute amazement, the cuff falls from my chapped skin and I stare at you, unable to believe what has just occurred. You're already unlocking my other handcuff and then I'm able to sit up. The pain is unbelievable and all my muscles feel dead, but it doesn't stop my elation.
You're unlocking yours now, and I find myself looking furtively to the door, hoping with everything I have left that the men won't return anytime soon.
Then you're free of the cuffs and I take you into my arms, hugging you tightly. I frown, feeling quite hurt, when you pull back instantly and turn away but then you grab my hand, and I know we have to hurry.
Showing my affection will have to wait.
I follow your lead as you run through the door, looking wildly around for an exit or perhaps an object to defend myself with. The hallway we find ourselves in is empty of all furniture, windows, and living beings, and is lit only by a dim lamp hanging from the ceiling. We hesitate at the sight of the three doors and I know as well as you do that any could lead to capture.
You dart for the door closest to us and thrust it open without warning. I follow you, my heart thudding and my breathing erratic. We both wince and stop in our tracks when a bright light trains its spotlight on us. My palms begin to sweat and I blink my eyes furiously, knowing we don't have much time. When my eyes adjust, I breathe a sigh of relief. It is only natural sunlight streaming from the windows that temporarily blinded us, not a torch of some sort.
The room is empty and it's a kitchen, full of appliances. I grab the first sharp object I see—a knife—off the countertop and you grab one too. I hope I don't have to use it. My malice is gone, replaced only with a fierce desperation to escape, and my aim isn't too good anyway. I doubt yours is either, due to the way your hand shakes as you grip its hilt. Not wasting any time, you run quickly to the door by the fridge, pulling me along with you, and pull at the knob. To my relief, it opens without difficulty and fresh air greets us. We stumble out of the house and allow ourselves to quickly take a glimpse at our new surroundings; there are a number of trees, but not enough to provide cover. There is nothing in sight, not even a road or pathway. We can only hope that they won't see us from the window as we run.
"Should we risk it?" I ask, edging further away from the house.
Your gaze is determined as you scan the vast expanse of land and you don't even look at me as you speak. "We don't have a choice."
Then you're running again, faster this time, and I try to keep up but it's difficult. My lungs begin to burn and my legs ache, but I know this is our only chance so I force away the pain and hunger, and focus on getting away. Even though we're running, it's still not at the speed someone at top health would run and I feel anxious that although we are moving quickly, in actuality we haven't gone far.
"Fuck!" I hear an enraged shout in the distance and my blood runs cold, however I don't turn, my speed only grows. I grit my teeth at the pain but otherwise ignore it. I focus instead on your heaving breaths and on moving forward.
You whimper and your pace slows a little, but your hand tightens in mine. I can tell you won't last much longer; your strength is fading with every bound you take.
"Come on," I huff. "We've got to keep going."
"I don't think…" you manage, "I can run much further."
"You have to, they're not far behind." I resist the urge to turn my head again and power on, now also pulling you forward. The weight is almost crippling.
I can see a road in sight now, and the hope it brings makes running a little easier. A little further down is a service station and relief floods through me.
"Look." I point at it, almost giddy. "We're almost safe."
At the exact second you smile, I hear a gunshot and the sound makes me freeze, makes fear ripple through me.
You scream.
The sound is agony.
I turn just in time to see you fall.
You're lying on your back and clutching your right side with both hands.
Your eyes are squeezed up in pain and whimpers leave your dry lips.
A startled cry of my own escapes as I note the pool of red rapidly soaking your shirt and I let my fingers sweep over it momentarily. Anguish rocks through me as blood stains my fingertips.
Without thinking about anything but the fact that you are hurt, I lift you up swiftly into my arms and begin running again, leaving our knives behind us. My strides are dangerously slow and I struggle to hold you. You may be thin and fragile, but so am I. Your hand clings weakly to my shirt and I feel my cheeks grow wet at my failure to keep you safe. I shake my head to rid myself of the tears, but they refuse to abate.
"We're almost there, hold on," I promise you roughly, darting across the road now. My tears make it almost impossible to see where I'm going but I carry on, my only thoughts of finding help for you.
A manic bubble of laughter escapes me as I reach the open door and then transforms into an uncontrollable bout of sobbing. I don't care if I'm reacting like a girl, I momentarily forget that someone is chasing after us, and the last few weeks are meaningless to me.
I run into the room and drop to the floor, pulling you into my arms so your head is cradled in my lap. A startled woman with wide blue eyes and auburn hair tied up in a bun gapes at me.
"Lock the doors," I choke. "Please."
She takes one look at you and then hastens to the door and locks it without question, and then shuts the windows in turn. Then she scuttles to a phone by a counter in the corner of the room and dials three numbers. I am amazed at how lucky we seem to be, but that feeling fades when I remember how much pain you're in.
The woman talks low and fast into the phone, stating first her address. "Some kid's been shot. I need you to dispatch an ambulance immediately."
Then she hangs up the phone and turns to us, her arms crossed but her eyes betraying her concern. But before she can speak, a thundering knock penetrates our ears.
We both shudder at the sound, and the woman walks cautiously up to the door.
"Who is it? We're closed now," she asks warily.
"I'm just looking for two kids," a gruff male voice answers, making me pale to the bone. "Mind opening the door?"
"No," she replies tersely. "The door's just been repainted, I don't want to ruin it by touching it. I did see two teenagers running up the road just now, if that's what you mean."
"I see. Well, have a good day then." His voice is slightly sarcastic and it worries me.
But then we watch him leave through the window, and relief surges through me, chasing away my fear.
The woman turns back to us.
"What on earth have you two done?"
I speak for the both of us, knowing you are not able, and place a kiss on your forehead before I speak. "I know this is going to sound crazy, but the man who was just here kidnapped us and we just managed to get away."
She purses her lips and stares at us for a few seconds. I wonder what she's thinking, whether she believes us or not. Now that I think about it, we must look like hell.
"I'm calling the police," she finally says.
I nod swiftly, holding you more securely in my arms, and am relieved to see that your eyes are still open despite being bleary. Your hand finds mine and you grasp onto it with your life.
"We're almost there," I whisper, stroking your cheek softly.
You smile slightly, but even that appears to be an effort. "Yeah."
I hear the woman hang up the phone and feel horrible for not saying this sooner. "Thank you so much for doing this. We owe you more than you can possibly imagine. Who are you?"
She puts her hands to her hips and scowls at me. "I couldn't just ignore someone who was seriously injured, and I'm Elizabeth. It'd be good if I knew your names too."
"Well, I'm Edward Cullen and this is Bella Swan. We…"
Before I can continue, Elizabeth gasps and her hand flies to her mouth.
My body jerks in alarm but Elizabeth doesn't seem to notice.
"You are them…I suspected, but…I'm so glad I sent the man away and called the police."
"What?" I ask tiredly, running a hand through my hair.
"You two have been all over the local news. The police believed you were a runaway, but when Isabella disappeared, too, they realized the situation might be more serious than they'd assumed."
"Thank fuck," I mutter. "So they were looking for us then?"
Her eyes widen and then her voice is stern. "Of course. From what I saw, your parents were devastated. Isabella's father was, too. He was the one who got the media's attention."
"I shouldn't have…"
My words are cut off by the sound of an ambulance pulling up and I kiss your forehead again, knowing we'll be parted soon.
Elizabeth opens the door and a crew of men pile in. The sight of them all makes me feel slightly dizzy, but I held you close anyway. When they push a stretcher in front of us, it is painful to let them load you onto it, being so close to losing you, but I know it is the only way you'll heal. Then to my surprise, they begin loading me onto a stretcher also.
I must look worse than I thought—then again, my wrists are in pretty bad shape and I'm dehydrated to the point where I'd kill for water.
I turn my head so I can see you, but they've already wheeled you away.
As I'm being pushed into the ambulance, I hear the high wailing of a police siren and then feel the pain of a long needle being injected into me. The slightly blurry face hovering above me is aged and kind. They whisper something about me being all right and then I know no more, for the world is now black.
…
I open my eyes to wires and the dim lighting of a hospital room. My mother is sitting by me in a plastic chair, looking absently out the window. I note with slight worry at how drained she looks, as if sleep is only a foreign concept to her, and the lines etched in her pale face.
"Mom?" I whisper, feeling disorientated for a second.
Why aren't I chained?
Where are you?
Then it all comes flooding back to me, and I gasp out your name.
Mom turns to me and her eyes widen and then fill with tears. I take this as a bad sign and my voice is laced with agony as I speak.
"She's okay, isn't she? Please let her be okay. Tell me she's fine!"
I've never felt more vulnerable than I do in this moment.
Then Mom's hands reach over to comfort me and I shake them off, wincing at the hurt flashing across her face, but not wanting her to bullshit me. "Is she okay?"
"Who?"
"Bella! Please, Mom, just give it to me straight."
Her eyes brighten with understanding.
"Oh, of course. She's in a worse condition than you, but her surgery went well, so she's recovering at a good rate."
"Surgery?" I was too shocked by the word to be relieved at your well-being.
She bites her lip. "Yes, she had extensive injuries. The bullet hit her ribcage. The ambulance was lucky to arrive when they did."
"Fuck," I groan, letting my face fall into my hands.
I failed you.
I promised I'd protect you but you still got hurt.
I should've looked behind us! I should've run faster!
As if she can read my mind, Mom takes my hand in hers and says, "It's not your fault, Edward. If anything, you kept her alive."
"She was shot," I hiss, flinching as I say the word. "She almost died."
Mom shakes her head. "You did everything you could and more."
"How do you know? You weren't even there," I whisper, regretting it when I see her face fall.
"I can see how much you care about her. I know you, son. I know what lengths you go for the people you care about." Her voice is quiet.
"Is she awake yet?" I persist, needing more than anything to know you're okay with my own eyes.
"No, but it could be any time now."
The thought still puts me on edge.
"Can I see her?"
"You need to heal first," she says gently, patting my arm.
"I don't care," I reply stubbornly. "I need to see her."
"I don't make the rules."
There are a few minutes of silence before I let out what has been bothering me for the last two months. Tears well in my eyes yet again and I wipe them away furiously. "Why couldn't you find us? Were you even trying that hard?"
She flinches. "Of course we were. We spent every day searching for you, but we had no idea who had taken you, and where. We weren't even sure you were still alive." Tears slip down her cheeks and remorse floods through me at the sight.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. "For all of it."
She shakes her head angrily. "It wasn't your fault. None of it was. Don't you dare blame yourself. It was that sick man who took you's fault."
I blanch. "Did they find him?"
My fingers dug into my palm but I ignored the stinging pain.
She nods. "Thankfully. Elizabeth gave the police his description, and they found him within minutes, looking for you in town."
I shudder. "They better put him in prison for a fucking long time."
Something strange flashes in my mother's eyes, and she smiles grimly. "Your father and I will make sure he is." Surprisingly, she doesn't reprimand me on my use of language.
"Speaking of which, where are Dad, Emmett, and Jasper?" I ponder, my lips turning upward at the thought of seeing them again.
"In the cafeteria. Those brothers of yours have been here ever since you arrived two days ago. You have no idea how much your absence affected them."
I frown guiltily. "Oh, really? That's…weird. In what way?"
She shrugs. "Jasper's grades suffered a little, and Emmett didn't go out at all, even with his friends."
"Wow." I gape, not able to believe such a thing is possible for either of them. Do I really mean that much to them?
"But at least you're here now. You have no idea how happy that makes me." She smiles widely, kissing my forehead.
Suddenly, I feel ten years younger.
"Me, too, Mom," I murmur. "Me, too."
…
It is a few days before I'm allowed to see you.
You didn't wake up until yesterday, and even then, I wasn't healed enough myself to be able to move from my bed and walk to your room.
The days waiting were agony. I may have been able to see my family again, but they acted weirdly around me, as if I were fragile and precious, a word that had never been attributed to me in my entire life. It secretly made me happy that they cared so much, but more than anything, I needed to see you.
Your dad even stopped by three days ago, wanting to thank me for keeping you safe. If you hadn't told me about how kind he is, I may have been scared of his intimidating height and the gun in his pocket. It was from him that I got the most accurate report of what condition you were in. Your father didn't treat me like I was about to break any second; hell, he didn't even treat me like a kid. I liked that about him.
After he left, I went back to waiting for the news that you'd woken up.
There was no serious damage to me, and the only reason why I'd been kept in the hospital so long was to run tests and to bring my energy levels up to normal, which was why I was allowed to go home today. My parents didn't even need to ask me; as soon as I was out of that bed and had signed out of the hospital, I rushed to your room, walking a little more quickly than deemed safe.
Your head is up against a pillow and you are staring at the ceiling. My spirit fades a little at how battered you look, but it is soon replaced with joy once you turn and smile at me.
"Edward," you whisper softly.
I walk instantly to your side and sit on the edge of your bed, taking your hand gently in mine. You give it a light squeeze and my grin widens.
"You have no idea how good it is to see you," I murmur.
You laugh lightly. It is a sound of relief. "Ditto."
"You know nothing is going to change, right? I love you, and I'm going to be here always."
"I was hoping you'd say that." You smile. "But do you promise?"
My face brightens. "Of course."
And then we curl our pinkies together and I know that no matter what obstacles are to face us, they can't keep us apart.
Our bond is too strong for that.
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