Twilight and its characters belong to Stephenie Meyer.

Big thanks to Michelle, Anne, and as always, Kirsten.

~February, Part Two~

Brown.

Rich. Warm. Inviting.

Her eyes.

I can't look away—her eyes hold me captive. She's yet to speak a single word, but already I'm her most willing servant.

I do believe I would do anything she asked of me.

My salvation.

Suddenly, I'm hit with a wall of fragrance so heady, so alluring, so dangerously close...

My damnation.

A red haze clouds my eyes. Saliva, mixing with venom, threatens to choke me.

I swallow my bloodlust as Mr. Elkins' voice breaks my trance and drags me back to humanity.

"Mr. Cullen, may I introduce you to Mrs. Isabella Black?"

Isabella.

"Mrs. Black, this is Mr. Edward Cullen, the creator of the paintings you've been admiring."

Her eyes open wide and her smile becomes impossibly brighter.

I know I should be greeting her, but I'm struck dumb by her presence.

Fortunately, Isabella takes charge of the situation, extending her hand to me.

"Mr. Cullen, it's lovely to meet you."

Somehow I manage to regain control of my senses.

Smiling broadly, I bow and take her hand.

"The pleasure is mine, Mrs. Black."

I've never felt anything so soft in my entire existence. Softer than the underbelly of a deer. Softer than goose down.

So soft, so easy to pierce...

I quickly drop her hand.

A hint of confusion crosses her face before she speaks again.

"Mr. Cullen, your paintings are absolutely beautiful. The colors are so vibrant and cheery! You make me wish I was standing in the middle of that field of wildflowers," she gushes, gesturing to the smallest of the three pieces.

If you only knew how much I've wished that too, sweet Isabella...

"You're too kind, Mrs. Black. I'm pleased that my work makes you feel that way. I consider it an honor that you find my painting inspiring enough to envision yourself as a part of it."

A hint of red stains her cheeks and I want to eat her alive.

"Well, it speaks highly of your talent that you've enabled me to do so. It's a nice escape from the dreariness of reality," she says, sighing and looking out the window.

But of course, she would be lonely.

If the painting makes her happy, then it's hers.

Turning around, I lift the painting from the display easel.

"For you."

Isabella clutches her hands over her heart.

"Oh, Mr. Cullen, you're too kind, but I can't possibly accept such an extravagant piece and I'm currently not in a position to purchase it."

Her disappointment is obvious and tears at my insides. As if I had any intention of taking her money.

"I don't want any money, Mrs. Black—I mean it to be a gift. It will make me happy knowing that it's in the possession of someone who enjoys it. I have plenty of other pieces at home to show in its place. Mr. Elkins, would that be acceptable to you?"

Mr. Elkins, always so pleasant and accommodating, nods his head and smiles.

"Of course, Mr. Cullen. May I wrap it up for you?"

I look at Isabella, awaiting her approval. She nods slightly.

"Yes, Mr. Elkins, you may. And could you arrange to have it delivered to Mrs. Black's residence?"

"Certainly, sir," he says as I hand him the painting.

Turning back to face Isabella, I'm once again struck by her beauty.

I'm also assaulted by her scent.

It calls to me. Entices me. Tempts me. Teases me with the promise of unrivaled ecstasy.

She steps closer, reaching her hand out to rest on my arm.

The urge to push her to the ground is unbearable. Years of practiced restraint prevent me from doing so.

"Thank you, Mr. Cullen," she says quietly. "I'm overwhelmed by your generosity."

"Just enjoy it, Mrs. Black. That would be the greatest payment I could hope to receive from you."

She removes her hand from my arm and looks up at me. Just stares into my eyes and I into hers.

I'm drowning.

Our brief connection is broken by Mr. Elkins.

"I'll have Jeremy run this over to the inn this evening, Mrs. Black. Was there anything else you needed today?"

"No, thank you, Mr. Elkins. I only stopped in to admire the paintings," she says, glancing my way and throwing me a brilliant smile. "Thank you, Mr. Cullen. I'm looking forward to seeing whatever else you bring into the shop."

I can't help but smile back.

"I hope it will meet your expectations, Mrs. Black."

"Good day, gentlemen," she says and exits the shop.

I'm grinning like a fool, but if Mr. Elkins notices, he says nothing. I gather my supplies and take my leave moments after Isabella.

I want to follow her, but I don't. I'm satisfied that I'll see her again soon.

On the way home, I replay our exchange in my mind.

I also think about her.

The grace of her carriage.

The sheen of her hair.

Her full lips.

The way her hand felt on my arm.

The warmth of her gaze…

I replay it over and over again.

It's dark when I return home, but I start a new painting immediately, the inspiration still vivid in my head: Isabella's hand on my arm. Slender, white fingers resting on grey wool.

As I paint, my mind wanders.

I think of her fingers on my bare skin. Threading through my hair. Scraping down my back.

Her fingers, pressing against the hardness beneath my trousers.

I think of my fingers, pulling the pins from her hair, watching as it cascades down her back.

My fingers, reaching under the hem of her dress, caressing her bare ankle, her naked calf.

My fingers, hitching her dress higher and higher, seeking out the secret place between her thighs…

Throwing my brush in frustration, I run outside into the night.

A quick hunt will do me good, release some of this tension, this uncharacteristic heat.

Running fast and without abandon, I revel in the chilled night air. I make it a game to see how fast I can run without colliding into jagged tree branches.

Slowing my pace as I grow bored with the game, I catch the scent of a bear and hunt it down, praying its blood will slake my thirst.

A few minutes later, I'm staring down at the lifeless carcass, waiting for its blood to seep into my own unnatural tissues.

It does. I feel it. I'm no longer thirsty… for blood.

My bloodlust has been tempered, but my carnal lust is soaring.

Several hours later, I enter an inconspicuous building in the neighboring town.

A brothel. A whorehouse.

A place I haven't visited in many, many years.

The faces are different and the fashions have changed, but the purpose remains the same.

As I enter, half a dozen faces turn to look at me, their gazes almost predatory.

Scanning the room, my eyes settle briefly on a petite brunette, but I quickly pass her over; I don't want any reminder of Isabella.

A short, matronly woman who I assume to be the proprietress approaches me. Before she can even speak, I reach into my pocket and produce several bills—her eyes pop open when she sees the denomination.

I point to an auburn-haired girl draped wantonly across a chair at the back of the room.

"You, madam, will suffice."

Standing, she walks toward me and I'm pleased to see that she's tall and sturdily built—which is to her advantage, because I don't plan on being gentle tonight.

She leads me up the stairs and tries to engage me in conversation.

"I'm in no mood to speak," I say harshly.

Nodding her head in understanding, she opens a door at the far end of the hallway and leads me in.

The room is sparsely furnished. The cloying scent of perfume hangs heavy in the enclosed space. I close my eyes and conjure up an image of Isabella sitting amongst a field of wildflowers in the fresh summer air.

Breathing deeply, the thick perfume threatens to choke me.

When I open my eyes, it's not Isabella who's standing in front of me, but a common whore—with an uncommonly pretty mouth.

I drag my thumb across her plump lips and then push on her shoulders and she sinks to her knees in front of me, expertly unfastening my trousers. When she takes me in her mouth, I groan in relief.

My eyes squeeze shut again, and for a few moments, I lose myself in a fantasy.

Lose myself in Isabella.

My hands instinctively reach for her hair, but instead of finding soft, silky waves, they plunge into coarse, wiry ringlets.

My eyes jerk open and I immediately pull her off me, shoving her toward the bed.

She falls onto her stomach and I position her on her hands and knees. Without further preamble, I lift her skirts and push into her.

I fuck her savagely, and fittingly, she moans like an animal.

As my climax nears, I press myself into her back, my hands gripping her hips like a vise, my mouth clamping onto her neck like a leech.

When I release inside her, the red haze blinds me.

Bite, bite, bite…

So I do, although not hard enough.

Still, she cries out in pain.

I pull myself away, fumbling with my trousers.

Her hand reaches for her neck and she turns and glares at me, ugly profanities spewing from her pretty mouth.

I marked her skin, but I didn't break it.

Tossing a few gold coins on the bed, I open the window and make my escape.

Once I'm deep in the woods, I lean against the trunk of a tree and retch.

I'm disgusted with myself. Horrified by my actions.

At least the girl is still alive.

My lust abated, I make my way home.