Disclaimer: I don't own the Twilight Saga.

Author's Note: (December 28, 2012) This is the good ending to Carlisle and Esme's relationship.

~Chapter Three~

Good Ending: Forgiveness and Acceptance

So precise with the blade, so unbelievably quick in marking me with twelve lines. My mind kept wandering back to last night's new pain. Fingers tracing the aching letters across my thighs, I watched the blood trickle down the sides of my skin, the vivid red liquid painting the pale white of its canvass.

It bled open so easily. One single touch, the lightest of pressure, even the gentle kiss he'd plant upon it… only to satiate his insane bloodlust. I couldn't comprehend the complexity of his thirst for the metallic taste of my blood on his tongue, nor did I understand the unreasonable urge for him to have me swallow it as well. I couldn't understand him. I had no idea myself what compelled him to become this way…

Every part of my soul died with each pain he'd inflict upon me, for I knew that there was something he couldn't divulge to anyone, not even to me, that would make sense to all he was doing, if only I knew of this undisclosed truth he kept within him.

In slow motion as my mind replayed, I sensed the sharp blade of the penetrating knife meeting the soft, tender flesh of my skin, sending a shudder down my spine. I could feel the meticulous precision of his quick cut done in an agonizingly, punishing, leisurely manner, watching myself through my own eyes, observing and noting the anger emanating from my husband's chest with each slash he drew across my thighs.

The blood, as red as the blazing fire of fury in his eyes, the blood, my blood, flowing, dripping endlessly as a river steadily coursing downward, fulfilling the need of my husband to see punishment upon my body.

His tears, forced back, never free to flow, screaming for freedom, wanting permission to finally break free from his pride, crying for me. What was it about my husband's unshed tears that called for me?

The inundation of my own tears, streaming ceaselessly down my cheeks, begged me to be released from the pain leading them to fall every single night. But what this pain was, I was left in the shadows to never figure out. Our relationship died years ago, but why? What brought about this massive change in my husband that led us to live this messed up reality?

My mouth wide open by his bloodied fingers pulling down my jaw, the blood, my saliva, my tears, mixed with his spit, all forced down my throat as his tongue slipped past my lips.

I swallowed at the memory and pushed myself back to my daytime reality. Staring into the mirror, a smile trying to plaster itself on my mouth, I watched myself urging my reflection to show happiness on my abused face, my lips forming, repeatedly whispering the words 'everything will be all right, everything will turn out all right…'

But all my reflection did was cry. It was all empty words, a hopeless ray of hope my delusional self blindly and desperately clung on to.

And it was right, for the blood on my thighs were not enough to store away his anger. More, he needed more. And if he needed it, so be it. I would be everything he needed me to be.

I knew though, deep down, I couldn't be that person my entire life.

~o~

I couldn't take this any longer. It's been nearly four months since all this began. I could no longer handle the bruises every night, every scar clearly visible on my pale skin, every wound reopening as he loved to hit me to see it bleed open once more.

As I sat in front of my vanity mirror, I watched my tears paint my cheeks, red and swollen from his repeated slaps across my face, and as my hand reached up to test their ache, I couldn't help wincing at the slightest touch.

The pain of my body kept me awake and I barely slept for the past three nights. The comfort of my bed wasn't even inviting, it was threatening to scrape against my wounds, my bruises, the soreness of my skin, the throbbing ache in the depth of my cuts.

Slowly grazing my finger across the letters he cut into my thighs, I clenched my teeth at the dull pain that resurfaced and traced the letters M, I, N and E and remembered the night he did them… He seemed to really love me…

Instinctively, I reached up and felt a slap across my face, hard.

'What the hell are you thinking, Esme, he doesn't love you. Stop trying to convince yourself he's doing this because he loves you.'

Another set of tears threatened to spill from my eyes and I knew my inner voice was right. Although I knew that truth, I forced myself back into my life of denial where I knew my husband loved me hence all the punishment he was giving me was all out of love.

'I love him. I love him. I love him.'

I repeated this to myself every single day, every time he tied me up, with every new pain and new shame he introduced me to, I love him.

Lightly dabbing on my tears with the bloodstained cloth sitting in front of me on the table, I listened to the sound of our empty home. It was past midnight, my husband didn't come home for dinner for he was held back at work, called in for an emergency surgery. I had the whole day to think about this decision that I now planned to carry out.

With agonizing effort, I forced myself up from my seat and tried smiling at my reflection in the mirror but all I received were more tears. I wasn't sure at all of what I was doing as I walked down to the basement, took the rope in my hands and started knotting it, fashioning it into what became a makeshift noose, before attaching it to the hook at the end of the chain hanging from the ceiling.

The cold air of the confining room sent shudders down my spine and a chill run through my bones. The familiar smell of sex mixed with the unmistakable, recognizable scent of dried blood hung in the air and all of a sudden, all the nightmarish memories that occurred down here flashed before my eyes. I shut them tightly to keep them out of my mind.

'Soon, it'll all be over soon, Esme…'

Just as I stepped onto the chair, a harsh, cold voice stopped me in my tracks.

"What the fuck do you think you're fucking doing?"

Before I could turn around to the sound of his voice, I felt myself being dragged by my hair, then thrown against the wall, his hard, virile body trapping mine, his hand tightening around my neck while the other pushed my legs apart and in no less than a second, two fingers had entered me swiftly, stroking inside me in harsh, vicious, quick and unrelenting, painfully deep ministrations and I knew I had no escape from the punishment I was about to receive. For even thinking of killing myself, I knew I'd be punished more than ever in the impending unforgiving session.

"Plan on killing yourself, huh?!" The menace and spite in his voice spat at me in the form of a hundred knives slashing against the throbbing fear in my chest.

"I'm not going to let you do that. You really think you could've done it?! Well, think again, you bitch."

With that, his fingers left me and they grazed across my lips, wetting the plump swell of the bruise on my lower lip that grew from biting too much onto it while I endured the pain he was inflicting on me the other night.

"See how wet you are? You can't leave, we both know it. You don't want to."

His grip on my neck tightened as he slammed my head back against the hard stone surface. He could easily break my skull with just a little more pressure. My body's shrunken the past few days. I couldn't get myself to eat anything. The pain was that enormous to the point that it was the only thing I could concentrate on, keeping me sane, keeping me alive. As odd as it may sound, it became my source of strength to live on.

But every source of strength weakens within time, and my resolve to keep on living because of my immense love for my husband, finally broke after the other night's session. I didn't want to leave him and live on somewhere else. So the only choice I had was to leave this world altogether.

I knew, as he pointed it out, that I couldn't really go through with it. I wouldn't have gone through with it, for no matter how devastated I was that this was the only way our marriage still survived, I couldn't get myself to leave. Never in the past nine years of our marriage did I ever feel the need or want to separate myself from him. I couldn't. Every single cell in my body clung onto him for dear life. He gave me my life. No, he was my life. If it weren't for him, I wouldn't be alive.

Trying to gasp for air, my hands reached up to clutch onto his forearms, to struggle free from his grasp but the tight clutch of his hand around my neck stiffened and made the tunnel of my throat unquestionably impassable for the source of my breathing.

"Tell me, do you want to die?" he then asked and I could note no malice, no anger, nothing in his tone. It just was a simple question with the grave need for an answer.

I could barely breathe and the tears forming in the corner of my eyes finally slid down so with all the might I could muster, I shook my head with intense effort. And with that, his hand and whole body left me standing against the wall, my knees shaking, my legs about to buckle from underneath me.

As seconds ticked by, I surrendered to the weakness of my own emaciated body and dropped to my knees, my hands hitting the ground with the same painful force, ensuring another gash on both my knees and hands. I could already feel the aching wounds reopen.

My husband knelt down before me, his hand caressed my cheek carefully, and I lifted my eyes to meet his. His expression softened to pity and for a moment, as his lips moved close to mine, I prayed and yearned for his gentle kiss, the soft touch of his lips against mine, the warmth of them covering my cold, shivering ones. But it was all for nothing. I should stop deluding myself for a minute that I'd ever feel his loving touch ever again.

With the heartless, brutal tug of my hair, my mouth was agape from the force of my head being yanked back vehemently. How many strands of hair have I already lost from all these harsh jerks of my head…? I shut my eyes and prayed for a break from all this. I was so tired to the point of exhaustion that if I could fall asleep, I'd never want to wake again, no matter if my dreams were filled with these atrocious sessions.

"Put your tongue out," he directed, his voice imperious and authoritative.

Slowly pushing my tongue forth past my lips, I anticipated the incoming flow of blood…

My husband's teeth bit down on the tip of my tongue wrathfully, repeating his action over and over again until at last, a red liquid formed from it and he finally released me from his painful hold on my hair. The metallic taste of my own blood spread across my taste buds and I kept my mouth open to let it flow to the ground, not wanting to swallow it, though I knew I had no other choice as he lifted my head to meet his disdainful gaze, lust visibly mixed in it as his tongue grazed over the stain of blood falling from my tongue. He slid his own skillfully past my lips and just as easily, forced the red hot liquid down my throat.

My lips pursed together as his tongue left the cavern of my mouth and with one last lick, gathering up the last droplets, my husband collected the last amount of my blood in his own mouth then in one angry spit, coated my lips with it. His finger smeared the warm liquid across my lips and he looked at me like a maniacal artist admiring his masterpiece, full of pride and overwhelming ego.

"Mesmeric. Absolutely riveting."

Before I could comprehend his words, I felt the shackles that were behind me on the wall enslave my hands and my legs, and even I was amazed at how well I kept myself standing. My body was lightly leaning forward, for I could no longer keep my posture straight from the overexertion of such activities, my hands and legs apart, my naked body exposed to his lustful scrutiny.

The clack of his tongue caught my attention. He was no longer satisfied with his masterpiece, I could see that, and I knew he needed to see more of that red liquid on me for me to be truly beautiful in his eyes.

Crossing the room in long, brisk strides, my husband made his way to the long table on the far side of where I was trapped with no possible means of escape. I doubt I had the strength to even crawl away from him.

Snap!

The deafening sound of a stiff material's impact on the stone basement floor made me flinch. My tears' duty to fall unendingly never failed me. The difficult swallow in my throat, my frightened heart clenched in suffocating ache, my weakened body too battered and abused, my voice losing its courage, my soul shattering into a million pieces – were all aware of the punishment I was about to receive. And no matter how many times he did it, I could never get used to the sharp, excruciating, stinging pain of the unforgiving whip across my skin.

With the whip coiled around his hand, he made his way toward me, halting in his steps a few feet from where I was imprisoned. Raising his hand and releasing his hold on the whip, letting it fly, hitting the humidity of the air in its wake, then finally reaching the destination on the top of my breasts.

My head thrown back, my mouth gaping, no able sound leaving my lips, my body shaking with pitiful sobs, I endured it. Again. And again. Never-ending.

Until finally, the flesh on the tops of my breasts, too sore, too beaten, succumbing to the lashing, painfully parting, fresh blood fluidly flowing down past my nipples – earning a victorious grin from my husband.

He lovingly caressed my breasts in his palms, almost as if he was weighing them in his hands. Squeezing them tightly, pushing them towards each other, his head lowered, the tip of his tongue grazing both my nipples, lapping at the trickling blood which he eagerly sucked on, drank, then with one last lick against the tips of my nipples and a vehement bite on each, he moved back and continued.

A long vertical slash across my stomach, two hits on his brand on me to see those letters bleed again, one blow on each of my shoulders, a diagonal whipping on my forearms and my lower legs. Never satisfying for him until all the ear-splitting, flesh-gaping lashes bled open. It was an entirely different situation watching a whipping and when it's you who's on the receiving end of the unforgiving blow.

It was all I could take from crying out in pain for our neighbors to hear. But I held it all in. For I knew he was hurting. That's why he needed to hurt me. Or was I just giving him an excuse for not being able to bear the thought of my husband simply being this cruel?

He wasn't. I knew he wasn't. My husband would never do anything like this if I didn't deserve it. I needed to be punished for something, and until I find out what it was, I'd never stop enduring the excruciating agony that was killing me both inside and out. I was going to die this way if this didn't end. The blood loss, the beatings, the bruises. Who knows if I was already bleeding internally?

He would know. My husband would. I knew under the capable hands of a doctor, I wouldn't be punished to the point that I couldn't heal on my own.

Free from the confining restraint of the ice-cold shackles binding me to the wall, I fell to my bruised knees, my husband's hand then slipping into my hair, his fingers wrapping around the caramel-colored strands, pulling me forward. And like an animal on all fours, with him designating my pathway, I followed until he sat himself down on the chair in the middle of the basement.

With my head hanging limply, my eyes caught sight of my husband unbuckling his belt and a small exhausted sigh touched my lips as my eyes fluttered close. The sudden choking feeling around my neck made my eyes fly open in petrified panic. The sharp pull on the belt around my neck jolted my head upward and I was met with his full, hard, pulsating cock which he slapped repeatedly against my cheek before it was forced inside my mouth.

Everything, every inch, up until its base, his sacs meeting my chin, forced into my mouth, to the back of my throat in one swift push of my head downward. With no warning, I felt my throat constrict, blocking the entrance, and the narrowing discomfort made me jerk my head back, releasing myself from the fullness of my mouth. Coughing to get rid of the gagging feeling, my saliva dripping onto the cold basement floor, my husband's hand found my cheek.

Slap!

My face fell to one side.

Slap!

And back to the other side. Subtly trying to hide my pained expression, suppressing another choking sob with renewed tears forming, I regained myself and engulfed his cock in one swift sweep into my mouth.

'You want me to gag? Then so be it…'

For him, I'd do it. I'd do everything he wanted. Because I love him. I love him.

I knew it was pathetic to keep viewing him as someone caring, loving, someone only doing this with his own valid reasons. But I couldn't care less. No matter what he did, I couldn't stop this incomprehensible love for him that only grew stronger with each pain he'd give me.

This chocking sensation of having his thickness down my throat was something I could never get used to. But whenever I did encase him in wholly, his hand would caress my cheek softly, like he was rewarding me for being so pleasantly obedient, only to end up being slapped again if I couldn't take it fully inside.

Up and down, back and forth, my tongue running over the tip of his cock, my mouth so full of him, his taste filling the cavern of my mouth, his smell wafting up to my nostrils. His scent lingered on every inch of my body. My husband suddenly yanked my head back as he grabbed himself, leaning his cock away from me, giving me the sight of his sacs which clearly demanded attention from my mouth as well.

With a kiss upon his shaft, I lowered my lips and took one into my mouth, sucking, licking, massaging them in both my hands, and I could hear the fascinating sound of a pleasurable groan from him. Then once more, my head was pulled back, my mouth open and he had a desperate urge to once again spit into my mouth. With a quick swipe of my tongue across his spit, I swallowed and in a sudden, brash movement, my husband stood up and tossed my frail body toward the chair, my breasts landing on its seat, my knees scraping forward on the ground, my hands grabbing the backside of the wooden piece.

The unmistakable noise of the next punishment tool meeting his other hand in playful slaps reached my attentive ears. I could hear the air being whipped and the next thing that was hit was the bareness of my asscheek. The fiery fierce sensation of the riding crop marking my skin was a sharp, cruel sting that made even my eyes prickle with renewed tears.

He's marked every inch of my body. From the top of my head, my hair, my lips, my neck, my shoulders, my arms, my breasts, my stomach, my thighs, my legs, my butt, my back… My back had a slightly different punishment…

Branding. A few weeks back, I was branded with an iron steel in the form of a letter C. Searing hot from the fire, the letter C standing for his name, sizzling on my skin, branding me as his forever in this inerasable way, right in the middle of my back. I was his, and nothing could change that.

There was no way I could ever see the beauty of my natural skin this way. Purely covered in red whiplashes, bleeding cuts, black and blue bruises from his tight grips, I grieved over the fact that my husband could only appreciate my body when it's wrapped in these ugly lacerations and perfect imperfections.

'Ah!'

A slightly surprised gasp and half a moan found its way up my throat. I was stretched wide open, his cock passing through my wet entrance in one forceful, quick thrust, and the unbelievably slow withdrawal made me feel the incredible thickness of him, every ridge and every vein popping and pulsating, springing alive inside my pussy.

Pushing himself back in in the same slow manner, his deep, slow shove filling me to the brim, I could feel my inner walls tighten around his cock and the impossibility of him still growing overcame my senses. He was downright invading every inch of space, every nook inside me, and the growing build-up on the lower part of my stomach sent my mind reeling into anticipation. For a while, his unhurried thrusts made me forget the pain, but then…

Heat was the worst kind of pain for me; I had a very low tolerance for it, even though I was mostly the one in the kitchen, handling the cooking. My husband knew that very well. He used to treat my minor burns in the kitchen with an amusing, gentle smile playing on his lips, a low chuckle sometimes escaping the seriousness in his face, and I knew it was all because he found it extremely entertaining when I'd make a fuss and come running to him every time a pan or a ladle or anything else would burn me in the slightest.

He used this knowledge now to the extent of adding it to my torture as he loved to drop that sweltering, blistering wax onto my back. I couldn't stop myself from screaming and hissing at the scorching liquid. In return, my husband yanked my head back by pulling on the belt still around my neck, choking my throat, my wails of anguish being cut off, turning into desperate gasps for air.

The slowness of his thrusts immediately turned vicious and it didn't take long before he gave me his cum, fulfilling his other need to have his seed buried deep inside me. The belt slid to the ground, and my husband left the basement without another word.

Clinging onto the chair to keep my saneness, my sobbing echoing in the desolate shadows of the room, my tears still not having let up since the beginning of this session, I broke down, ready to burst into tiny shards of bleeding pieces of my heart.

Tears blinding me, sobs choking me, this relationship killing me.

~o~

Four months since this all started on our kitchen floor…

It's been three days since I was last tied up in the basement. I didn't question my husband's motive to give me a break. It wasn't even time for my monthly visit. But I just stayed locked up in my own room, coming out only to fix him his meals every morning and every evening. No words. An uncomfortable silence. A thick unspoken anger lingering in the air.

The grandfather clock out on the hallway ticked the seconds away as soon as it confirmed by the twelve chimes that it was midnight. I stared out the window from my room, into the vast darkness engulfing the sky. The tiny bright night lights up in the sky, sparkling in the immeasurable distance, pervaded some glimmer of hope in me.

Nighttime was full of noises outside from different creatures calling out to mate, but past midnight, the eerie still silence of our house and around it felt almost ominous.

"Esme…"

Startled, my head turned at the sound of my name. Was it possible? Was my husband calling me?

My husband's room was just across from mine, and the master bedroom was located at the end of the hallway. It's been years since we used that room, years since we've lain there, slept side by side on that bed, on our bed. One day, my husband and I just upped and sought refuge in our own rooms and I couldn't remember the reason for the slight need to be apart.

I opened my door and peeked out, noticing his door was slightly ajar. Tiptoeing across the hall and halting inches from his door, my eyes peering into the dimly lit room. The scent of lavender hit my olfactory senses and suddenly, I was watching an extremely odd and disturbing scene unfold before my very eyes.

My husband, half-naked, kneeling in front of a low coffee table, lavender-scented candles on the four corners, and a picture of someone taking the space on the flat wooden surface.

Another whisper of my name made my breath hitch. It's been such a long time since my husband called out my name.

Before I could decide to step in and answer to his call, a whip slashed across his back and the trickle of blood forming from his self-inflicted whiplashes blocked out all my senses, my tears quick to form in my eyes.

'Carlisle! Carlisle, what are you doing!'

I couldn't speak up, my voice gone, my throat and tongue robbed off the ability of speech.

'Stop it! Stop it!'

"Esme… Esme… I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

My feet that I dragged forward finally followed and inched closer to my husband. I was standing right behind him, and from where I stood, I could see the inside of his forearm, bloody, the knife in his other hand repeatedly cutting something into it.

'Stop it! Carlisle!'

"Stop it!"

Before my husband could stand and turn, I was in front of him, on my knees, tearing the silk of my nightgown from my body, covering his bloodied arm, as I desperately tried to stop the flow of blood.

His instant reaction was to push my body away from him, the gown sliding away from his arm, and for a split second, I recognized the cut he engraved onto his skin. My name. And the picture on the coffee table was of me. The day I stood in the midst of the lavender farm, under the willow where he proposed, my amethyst engagement ring sparkling in the bright sun's ray.

Finding my shaky voice, I looked up at my husband, his eyes filled with unshed tears, anger and resentment in his glare, yet I could feel the ache of his heart reaching for me.

"Carlisle, please…" I begged, "Let's stop this. We don't have to be this way…"

As I was pushed to the ground, my weak body shaking, I stayed rooted to my spot, no longer able to move one single inch, my tears uncontrollably and frantically running down the sides of my face. In the unbearable silence, I felt my husband's pain. Somewhere deep down, where even I couldn't set foot on, he was hurting. Another set of tears spilled from my eyes, because of one single thought.

'Why can't you tell me, Carlisle…? I'm your wife…'

"We don't have to be this way…" I heard myself repeat the words that left my lips without permission.

"Yes, we do! I have to keep punishing myself!"

I lifted my head and raised my eyes to see my husband through the curtain of my caramel tresses obstructing my sight. "Punish yourself…?"

"It's my fault, Esme."

Struggling to steady my voice, I asked, "What's your fault, Carlisle?"

"The fact that you can no longer bring a child into this world."

His words cut me like the sharp edge of an ice block slicing my skin. And in a flash of a second, I was transported three years back into our married life.

~o~

"Dr. Cullen, we got the test results. I'm sorry; your wife had another miscarriage. I know this is difficult and I wish I could give you more hopeful news but right now, I need to return to run more tests on her."

"Yes, I understand, but could you please tell me one thing first, Doctor? What is the percentage of the chances of her getting pregnant again and being able to carry the child to full term?"

"Dr. Cullen, I think we both know you know the answer to that. Even though your specialty isn't Gynecology, I know that you're aware of the fact that after a woman has had three miscarriages, add to that the age factor for fertility, her chances of conceiving and carrying a child to full term reduces significantly. I'm terribly sorry."

Even though they were speaking several feet away from where I lay on my depressing hospital bed, I could hear them clearly and could easily read the words off their lips. I could never bring a child into the world. Every child of the three I ever carried so far only stayed with me for a few weeks before my body rejected them.

~o~

Too unbearable and intolerable for me to keep, I had set aside that memory from my mind which was successfully pushed back into the deepest recesses of my brain and now was undeniably and irreversibly called forth by my husband's mention.

And then the realization hit me.

My husband felt guilt. A very strong sense of guilt for what happened.

"But it wasn't your fault!" I cried desperately. "It was mine! There is something wrong with my body!"

My husband was in front of me in a second, on his knees, his hands cupping my cheeks lovingly and carefully. "No, love, it could never be your fault. I'm a doctor. I should have found some way for you to be able to carry a child to full term."

For the first time in a long time, my husband's tears appeared. Aghast, I watched on. This magnificent man who was my husband shouldn't have tears running down his face. Tears weren't part of his beauty, and yet, in some way, his cheeks were painted with such vivid eccentricity and I was captivated by the intense flow of the salty clear liquid.

"As a doctor, and as your husband, I have failed you."

For a still minute, I had to take this in until his words registered and angered me. For I didn't feel at all like Carlisle failed me. He was as devastated as I was when we received the news.

"No matter how many times I apologize, I know it won't change every wrongdoing I've done to you. I will never forgive myself, nor should you give me the forgiveness I don't deserve."

Before he could speak any further, I felt my body plunge forward and fall into his arms, where for once, I didn't feel frightened, but safe. His hands rested on my hair, slowly stroking down soothingly before his fingers entangled in them, as he slowly lifted my head for me to meet his tear-glazed eyes.

"It may not make sense, but I needed to punish myself. The harsh realization that the only thing that could hurt me was if you were hurt crushed me. So every single time, Esme… Every single time I hurt you, I was…"

He didn't need to finish what he was saying. I finished it myself. "Hurting yourself even more…" I managed to choke out, ending the difficult admission for him.

"Three days ago, I couldn't bear the thought of you wanting to kill yourself, and suddenly I realized I've hurt you too much already. Since that night, I punished myself for punishing you."

I was a wreck. We both were. Our bodies trembled nonstop with racking sobs, tears and wails echoing deep into the night. My hand reached up to cover my mouth to stifle the agonizing noises trying to escape my lips. The pain in my chest was swelling up; I could feel it wanting to burst out from my body, my heart wanting to escape the restricting confines of the emotional distress I was feeling.

For what seemed like hours, neither of us moved, both of us weeping and bleeding into the late hours until the first ray of sunlight peeked into our room.

"I've been angry at myself for a very long time. And though I know it isn't just, I wanted you to be hurting too. You are so much stronger than I am, Esme. I envied your ability to keep smiling even after you received that heartbreaking news…"

The gentleness of his voice was such a warm welcome in this stressful relationship but his words weren't what I wanted to hear.

"Is that what you think, Carlisle? That I'm much stronger than you? I kept smiling for you. I wanted to stay strong for you. That was the only thing I felt I could do after letting you down. Giving you a child was one of my dreams I wanted so badly to come true. Every night, I couldn't stop my tears. I wasn't strong at all. I felt useless and worthless after hearing I could no longer bear any children. I thought it would be the end of our marriage, the end of my life. The only reason I continued living is you. I have you, Carlisle. As long as you're by my side, what else could I want and need in life?"

He didn't respond to this. Instead, he proposed something so preposterous I couldn't believe my own ears.

"Esme, I think it's best if we divorce. This has gotten out of hand. I have gotten out of hand. There's something truly, deeply wrong with me. I need to figure that out on my own. I put you through so much, I can't bear to live with the memories of the pain I inflicted upon you. You can't be with me. I don't want to hurt you more than I already have."

"Leaving me would be the greatest pain you'd inflict upon me."

"Love, you're not safe with me. Remembering the past months is too excruciating to bear–"

"Then don't. Don't remember it, darling… But always remember that I love you. No matter what, back then, and even now, more than ever. I love you. Do not ever thinking of leaving me. We can face this together. I have never wanted to leave you. I'll never leave you and I'll never let you leave me. Never."

My arms clung around his neck for dear life, my fingers sliding through the strands of his hair on his nape. There was no way I was going to lose him. Not now, not ever.

My husband tipped my head back up and I could see clearly in his eyes that he couldn't comprehend how after all that's happened, I didn't want us to be separated, how much I still loved him.

"Esme, I don't deserve your forgive–"

Before he could finish his sentence, I pulled my body with what strength I had left and pressed my bruised and swollen lips to his. His arms enveloped me and held me tightly and I could slowly but surely feel that he was starting to be my strength once again.

As our lips parted several seconds later, my husband rested his forehead against mine. Breathing in, breathing out, we relished each other's presence, inhaling and exhaling the air we both exchanged. His hands cupped my face once more and I could hear the guilty pain in his voice.

"I'm sorry, Esme, love… I'm so damn sorry!"

Another hour passed us by as our tears ran unceasingly down our cheeks, both of us worn out from the exhaustion it brought about.

As the birds chirped merrily outside our window, and the sun steadily rose into the pink-tainted sky, my husband slowly helped me up from the floor and led me to his bed, where we laid in silence, our bloodied, beaten and bruised bodies aching, facing each other, his arm around my waist, his hand gentle, soft and smooth on my back, the other hand stroking my hair, my hand resting above his heart while with my other rested above my own.

This small connection between our two hearts beating signaled a new beginning for me. No more secrets, no shadows cast over the truth. Everything was out in the open.

"You're trembling, love."

I then felt the quivers that shook me and I smiled weakly at my husband at the realization that he was too. "So are you."

The sudden warmth of the blanket covering both our bodies earned an instant sigh of relief from me and as I rested my head against my husband's bare chest, the steady beating of his heart calmed my erratic little one and it slowly lulled me to sleep.

~o~

I stirred in my sleep to the scent of lavender, but from my subconscious, I knew it wasn't coming from the room where I was in. Awakening to reality, I began to panic. What if yesterday was all just a dream? And if it wasn't, would my husband revert back to punishing me?

Frantically, I sat up and looked around the room and my heart sank to my stomach to find the other side of the bed empty. I longed to slip my fingers between his, yearned to feel his gentle kiss on my cheek. I could feel tears starting to form once more and I felt extremely annoyed at myself for crying so much.

But then I noticed a bathrobe at the end of the bed and I silently slipped it on and followed the lavender scent wafting from the bathroom inside the master's bedroom. And there he was.

My husband in the bathtub, his head tossed back against the edge of the tub, his eyes closed. He looked so peaceful but then I heard him wince slightly as he moved and I knew it was the lashes on his back that were stinging in the waves of the water. I myself couldn't bear to clean my own wounds since the water seemed to just worsen the pain.

He finally took note of me standing mutely by the doorway and he reached his hand out to me, pleading me to join him.

I hesitated. "It pains my wounds…"

In his eyes, I saw a hint of regret and my husband got out of the tub, his body pausing right before me. His lips on mine, brushing past it in swift, gentle strokes. His hands, cupping my cheeks, down the sides of my neck, his mouth planting soft kisses on my cheeks, down the column of my throat.

His body circled mine, his warmth behind me, his breath tingling my skin, his hands carefully disrobing me, the bathrobe slowly sliding off my body, pooling around my feet on the floor. My husband's hands caressed my naked skin as his lips met my nape, moving upward to my earlobe, his tongue grazing over it.

"I won't let it hurt you," he whispered to me and the silent promise in the seduction of his reassurance lured me in.

He led me into the tub where he rested back on while I took my place between his legs, his arms enfolding my waist protectively. The water wasn't as unbearable as I thought it would be. The soothing lavender oil mixed with the heat of the water seemed to work wonders. And the fragrance itself drifted me off to a deep relaxation.

I felt my husband's lips all over me. Pressed on the top of my head, the side of my cheek which I slightly leaned back to meet his kiss, down to the side of my neck where he eagerly sucked on while his hands wandered all over my body. His mouth travelled to my shoulder, kissing the long lash across it then gifting my other shoulder the same attention. I sensed his intention of wanting to heal my wounds with every kiss he showered upon them.

The electrifying touch of his magnificent hands exploring my skin stirred something deep in me and as they finally cupped my breasts, a low moan filled the dank corners of the dimly lit bathroom. I was astounded it came from me. It was remarkable that my husband could jump from being a violent, controlling, sadistic dominatrix to suddenly being the gentle, passionate lover capable of enflaming my desire in less than a minute just with the lightest touch of his nimble fingers and powerful hands.

"Esme, love…" His half-moan half-whisper calling out for me made my body tingle.

One hand reached up for my cheek to tilt my face to the side, just to have his lips capture mine. My arm swung around, cupping the back of his head while my body slightly leaned to the side, twisting around to find myself on my knees, facing him full frontal, my hands now resting on his shoulders as his kiss deepened, urging my lips to part with the light brushes of his tongue against them.

Languorous open-mouthed kisses intensified into a torrid battle of tongues and I found my hands gently sloping through the wide expanse of his chest to the broadness of his shoulders, down to his narrow waist, my fingers trailing along the strength of his thighs. The slow exploration of his skin under the warm water was an ultimately pleasant change in our sexual relationship.

I was aware of the growing erection between my body and my husband's and before my hand could travel to it, I felt a shift in the water, and suddenly I was swept off my feet and I found myself in his arms as he carried me to our bedroom.

The comfort of our bed was one I'd so long longed for. There was an unspoken wisdom that this was our sanctuary. This was the one place for us to be fully at ease.

After he gently set me down on our bed, I watched my husband ease himself down onto it, his body slowly covering mine, his hands winding in my hair once again as my arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him closer to my heated, needy body.

As needy as I was and as ready as he was, we both took our time. Careful not to handle each other too roughly. Enjoying the moments as we savored the taste of each other's skin.

My fingers slipped into his hair as his head lowered to my neck, his lips planting a light kiss upon it, letting it travel down further, past my collarbones, down my breast, his lips enclosing over my pert nipple, gaining himself a mouthful of moans as my other breast was caressed by his hand, his finger flicking over the taut peak of it.

Each kiss, each lick over my wounds, every silent request for forgiveness coursed through my body with his apologetic hands, lips, kisses, and tongue.

I wanted nothing more but to have him buried deep inside me, but I waited. I wanted my husband to find the strength and courage to forgive himself as I have done.

His mouth slanted over mine and I welcomed the languid motion rippling across my parted lips. The leisurely relaxing foreplay touched and warmed my soul, and I felt so relieved to finally have this connection with my husband after what seemed like an eternity.

But not only did this warm my soul, it ignited my need for him, and with one long look into his captivating blue-gray eyes, I clutched onto him, holding so tight onto him for fear of losing him and losing myself as he entered me in such painstaking placidity that made my tears flow. This was more than I could have ever hoped for.

His thrusts, so tender, so loving, so slow, filling me inch by inch, unhurried, the rolling of his hips pushing me further into a state of blissful ecstasy with the tender caress of his hands, the feather light touch of his lips against mine, his strong arms wrapping around my fragile body so protectively, so possessively, prolonging the passionate flame building between us.

With my legs and arms wrapped around him, his lips never leaving mine, his own tears falling on my cheeks confirming the months behind us really occurred, the pain of all our sessions now coming back to us – but with his release and my undoing, as his name rolled off my lips in undulating waves and my name being repeatedly whispered into my ear – we carefully left the past behind.

My husband's forehead rested against mine, his body still and unmoving with both of us still connected. Our hearts beating was the only sound I could hear, and the forgiveness hanging in the air illuminated the unlit bedroom along with the sun streaks that climbed up the house wall to shine through the peach curtains.

Rolling himself off me, my husband rested on his side and as he smiled at me and kissed me one last time before closing his eyes, I saw him mouth the three words I so longed to hear.

For once, I felt a real smile creeping up my lips before my own eyes closed.

~o~

A soundless stirring woke me up from my nap. My hazy sight catching the wonderful picture of my husband's sleeping face made me smile again. Waiting awhile for my senses to awake fully, my fingers brushed away the blonde strands of my husband's hair from his forehead and I watched him continue to sleep in peace.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, knocking my drowsy mind out of dreamland, pushing it into the harsh cruel world of consciousness, the unsettling thought I had in the bathroom distressed me. Remarkable that my husband could jump so easily from being violent to being this careful with me, but frightening at the same time. If it was this easy for him to change so quickly, what assurance did I have that I'd never again be molested the way he had done just four days ago…?

I shook away the insecurities and replaced them with the blinding trust I had, remembering our wedding night, where I entrusted my whole body, whole self, and my whole heart and soul to him for him to take care of.

This was my husband, and now I knew what other kind of person he had the ability to become. I always thought I've seen every personality he could ever possess, just like how incredibly sexy and entertainingly immoral he became when he was drunk, how he acted when he was high, yes, we did try it once for some marital fun, how he'd get furious with himself when he smoked during some of our occasional drinking sessions, feeling guilty and hypocritical but still giving in to peer pressure, or in those cases, wife pressure.

How amazingly sympathetic he was when my parents died, how he behaved when his mother passed away, leaving just his father as the only other person both of us could turn to with some of our marital troubles.

Now that I was aware of his dark, violent personality that could emerge in a state of extreme guilt, I felt another chapter of our married life open and it was time for me to fill the pages with what I learned. That even though after nine years of being married to this wonderful man, I still didn't know everything that was possible to know about him.

Not until you've encountered every possible situation, whether it is heartbreaking, life-threatening or overwhelming with joy, you'll never really know the person you love, for certain circumstances always trigger a different personality calling for a different behavior from each unique individual.

And just like myself, I never expected to find myself mere minutes away from death's door as I stepped onto that chair before my husband's harsh voice pulled me back to reality.

I was a doctor's wife, and life to me, was as important as it was to him. We both treasured it. It was something very precious to us both. So the thought of suicide was something taboo to me.

But then, nine years into my marriage, I came to a point in my life where I was suffering too much that the thought of something as offensive as suicide penetrated my mind and I was offering myself up to the fiery fires of hell after just one day of thinking it through. Even I myself didn't know my own capabilities of who I could become. I guess only when the situation calls for it, will you really know who you are.

I realized that vicious man very much capable of hurting me during those sessions of punishment may not be the man I married, but he still is the man I got married to. The controlling, brutal side of my husband was just another part of the man I married, one that I only got to know nine years into our married life.

No matter what, I married my husband and took my vow of "through good times and bad times," and even if the bad changed my husband for the worse, those vows stand. It's a vow that bound me to him for eternity, a vow I unwaveringly declared in front of him and our parents.

For whoever he could become, I accepted him with all my heart, unconditionally, as my husband. This was the way I love him. This was the only way I knew how to love him.

"I love you."

It was a mere whisper, and I was a little startled that he was awake, but I clearly heard the adoration, devotion and respect in his words and in that single moment of his profession of love, all my doubts instantly subsided.

"I love you, too…"

My husband leaned forward and I received the kiss on my cheek that brought back so many memories of us as newly-weds. And at that moment, even though I knew it would take time, I knew we could be that couple once again. And this time, I wouldn't let anything stand in our way to remain that happy couple from nine years ago.

I looked forward with eager excitement that everything would be back to normal, but little did we know, not everything would be as how it was, for on that bright sunny May morning when my husband made love to me after our bathtub healing, we created a miracle that eagerly planted itself in my womb, pushing to persevere the whole nine months to grow…

We healed our wounds together, shared our pain, laughed again, spent time together in our garden, made love again and again…

Until we received the delightful news that I was twelve weeks pregnant. Three months has been the longest time I held a fetus inside me, and that caused both of us euphoric bliss. Happiness returned to both our lives and to add to the celebration, my husband proposed to me that same day for a renewal of our vows on our tenth anniversary.

During my second trimester, the first kick that came in was exactly the time when my husband laid his gentle hands on my growing tummy as he sang to our baby. It seemed like our baby recognized its father's voice.

My husband took extreme care of me while I was pregnant, and from what I saw with the way he handled me, the way the excitement and anticipation in his eyes gleamed, I knew for certain, he would be an amazing father. And just as I thought it, he said in a hushed voice as if not to disturb our still baby, who we assumed was asleep right then, "You're going to be a wonderful mother, Esme, love." I thanked God in prayer for my husband, the rate our healthy baby was developing and never missed praying ever since.

As our tenth wedding anniversary approached, my belly has swollen to a size I have never experienced before and as we renewed our vows in the Church where we wed ten years ago, we received the spectacular surprise of our baby's wish to join our family a little too soon for it was still several days early from the date our obstetrician predicted. So on the day we renewed our vows, I was rushed to the hospital to greet him into the world… And thus, at the age of thirty-nine and thirty-three, Carlisle and I finally became parents as we welcomed our beloved baby boy into the family…

~fin~

Author's Note: That was the good ending to Carlisle and Esme's relationship. If you wish to, you may read the other ending as well. Do tell me which one you preferred more if you do read the bad ending as well.

Please leave me your thoughts on the story or my writing through either a review or a PM… I'd appreciate any very much. Thank you.

~Aoi.