Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. I own black high-heeled boots, red suede mid-calf boots, grey ankle boots and the plot of this story. I also have the most generous and thoughtful beta and prereader. Serendipitous/MeilleurCafe and Isabeausink, thank you. For everything.
Two important alerts:
First, this chapter contains a scene of public power exchange between a Dom and sub. There is no public sex, but there is public nudity. It bears repeating: I'm no BDSM expert, so don't rely on this fiction to teach you how to play safely. If you're interested in the lifestyle, there are many credible sources out there. Seek them out and do your homework.
Second, the chapter introduces a character who is a rape survivor. Her rape is not graphically described, but is discussed here in general terms. Anyone sensitive to this topic should consider whether reading this chapter is worth your possible discomfort. I admire the courage of any woman who has survived rape or sexual assault, and hope I do justice to this character's past.
If you're not old enough to vote, you're not old enough to read this fiction. Begone! Please. So your mom doesn't hate me when she checks your "recents." And you know she will …
Chapter 7
The leotard was sheer, a mere wisp of fog. It was just enough to make it clear she wasn't entirely naked—thus complying with local ordinances—without hiding anything. Exactly as Jacob envisioned it. He led her from the gallery's back room to stand beside the pedestal and released the leash as she took her position, head down, legs spread, fingers laced behind her back.
"Very good, Isabella." He ran a hand down her arm, a signal for her to relax her stance. She raised her chin and let her arms fall to her side, but kept her eyes trained on the floor. Perfect.
The gallery was a bit chilly; Isabella's nipples were erect in a fashion that didn't indicate arousal. Yet. Though they had already discussed this exhibit in detail, he talked her through what he was about to do, finishing with, "You will be bound from collarbone to ankle, Isabella. When I finish, I will position you on this pedestal. You will be a work of art. My work of art. Do you understand?"
Since he had forbidden her to speak for the evening, it was a rhetorical question. Still, he saw the answer in her body. Though she was clearly chilled, her shoulders were soft, her posture relaxed. She was willing.
Jacob stepped away and found the bank of light switches, nodding to the blonde and imposing gallery owner, who clearly disapproved of Isabella, though she'd been entirely enthusiastic about the photographs and sculptures as well as Jacob's concept for the exhibit. She'd even done the work to ensure exhibiting Isabella herself was within the laws of the City of Port Angeles.
The walls held his black-and-white photographs of Isabella in various states of bondage. The images were edgy, but not pornographic, focused as they were on line, curve, and the contrasts of light and dark. The pedestals between the photographs held the wood pieces he'd created for the playroom photographs. Isabella had seen the photographs, but was unaware of the eponymous tribute to her was to be revealed tonight. The Isabella sculpture would stand on a pedestal on one side of a wide column; Isabella herself, bound and beautiful in ivory rope, would stand on a matching pedestal on the other side. She would hear viewers' comments on the piece all night, hear her name over and over, but not see it until the opening party was over. She was forbidden to break position except when Jacob came to set the next pose. Each pose included a focal point for her gaze, to aid balance and keep her as still as the sculpture beside her.
He adjusted the light placed over the pedestal where Bella would be displayed for the evening. It was halogen, and its heat would keep her comfortable enough until the gallery filled and warmed.
He returned to her and picked up the first length of rope. "Lift your breasts."
Isabella complied and he began wrapping the rope around her ribcage over the slight impression left by her bra, tightening and knotting with practiced adjustments. She would feel restricted, but pleasantly so. She'd told him before it made her feel secure. Safe. Owned.
That last word in her voice sent a thrill through him. Owned. He wanted to own Isabella not merely as a weekend playroom companion, but as a lover in every sense. He had her body; he understood her mind. He longed to possess her heart. She didn't know it, but she already owned him.
"Release." She returned her breasts to their natural position, then held her arms slightly out from her sides so Jacob could freely wind rope around her. Her skin was still cool to the touch, her feet just the slightest bit waxy with a chill that Jacob knew from experience would burn off long before he finished the shibari. He placed a knot between her breasts, intentionally but subtly grazing them as he continued on with the corset, which came up like a halter from a center knot to lift her breasts, raising her nipples, which were at last aroused rather than cold.
Jacob had permission from Rosalie, the gallery owner, to remain in the gallery after closing, ostensibly to release Isabella from his ropes. He hoped to release her from much more. He would declare himself tonight, once they were alone, once she was trembling from his touch. He was so certain of her obedience, he hadn't even prepared the necessary discipline should she err.
She wouldn't. Too much was at stake, for his art and for their relationship. She had to realize it.
The exhibit was a departure. While Jacob was well known for his sculptures, he hadn't showed photographs since his university days, and then only in a student show. And there was risk for Isabella, too, though it was small since they were hours away from Seattle and her colleagues and students.
Rope after rope, knot after knot, Jacob wound and tied, testing with a finger slipped here and there beneath the ropes, assuring that the shibari wasn't restrictive enough to prevent Isabella from assuming the various positions planned. He also took time to tease her body, running fingers and lips gently along exposed skin, pressing his body against her while winding the rope. Never lingering, building desire. When at last he finished, Isabella appeared almost in a trance, and a small smile played about her lips. Jacob loved these moments, the subtle cues that his ministrations brought her peace. She was pale and beautiful in the ivory rope; no one could mistake the inspiration for the carving that, with Isabella herself, formed the centerpiece of the opening.
While Jacob worked, the caterers arrived. They were well into setting up portable bars and tables for hors d'oeuvres. Though Isabella kept her eyes trained on the floor, Jacob watched as realization washed over her. As soon as she registered eyes on her, despite being unable to see them, her skin warmed and flushed, her breathing became shallow. If this were a club rather than a gallery, Jacob would make her stand, still and silent, while he worked her body to the brink before attentive eyes, as he had done a few times before.
They would do it again. Soon, he promised himself.
Jacob signaled for Isabella to kneel on the floor so she could rest until it was time to get in position for the opening. Then he bent to retrieve the remaining lengths of rope, taking the opportunity to discreetly adjust himself. It would require a good deal of his self-discipline tonight to work the room full of art patrons without sporting an erection. But Jacob was practiced at self-control, and didn't plan to look at Isabella, except when changing her poses. They had prepared several; her position was to change every 15 to 20 minutes, both to relieve her muscles and to recreate the photographs and sculptures. Mostly, he would look at the people around her, both to watch them appreciate her and to make sure they didn't touch. Mine.
*R*E*L*E*A*S*E*
Rosalie Hale's only investor was late, and Rosalie hated waiting. Even more, she hated the woman across the gallery from her who had walked with her eyes cast down while Jacob Black led her on a leash. A fucking leash.
They hadn't discussed his relationship with the subject of his photographs during their meetings. Rosalie had assumed the woman was a model until she followed him in, head bowed, and knelt at his feet while he spoke with Rosalie about the final arrangements. The woman leaned her head against his leg like a dog, for Christ's sake. She wondered what kind of beatings it took to get a woman, any woman, to put up with that shit.
Rosalie's fingers strayed to the scar that paralleled her cheekbone before turning sharply, just beneath the apple of her cheek, toward her jaw. When the wound was new, it gave her the look of a ghoulish marionette. Now it was thin and silvered, and somehow made her more beautiful than before, if less conventionally pretty.
Beauty. Rosalie dealt in it daily, though now the focus was on the art she brought into her gallery rather than her music. Once a rising piano prodigy, Rosalie hadn't set foot in a concert hall or played publicly since the rape. It had taken her months to touch a piano afterward; even now she couldn't reliably play. If she struck an off chord, as she had when Royce clapped a hand over her mouth while she practiced in what she believed was an empty concert hall, she still had flashbacks. The Hale Gallery, while not her dream, served two important purposes. She'd needed to get away from New York, the scene of the crime as well as the social circle in which she and Royce ran before they all sided with him (and his money and family connections) in the war of he-said, she-said. And she'd needed a purpose.
It was suitably ironic that the assault intended to disfigure her—he'd said as much while
she tried and failed to fight him off—had somehow made her more compelling. And though the attack had cost her her music career, Rosalie had, in the end, relocated from one intersection of beauty and commerce to another. She had an instinct for art, and had already made a name for her gallery. A name in an obscure place on the opposite coast from everyone who knew or cared about who and what she'd once been. Well, all except one: her investor, who had ties to the West Coast. When he approached her with his offer, he said he hoped she would consider him a silent partner. The term made Rosalie profoundly wary.
The caterer's driver walked in and, after taking in an eyeful of the mostly naked woman being tied up, approached Rosalie. She waited, ready to snap him out of whatever fantasy he was conjuring if he even glanced at her tits, but the guy scrutinized his clipboard for a moment before meeting her eyes. Just her eyes. Her lips twitched and she almost smiled. "I've got all the tables, glassware and alcohol in the van. Can we unload in back?" The gallery had a garage door in the alley, suitable for deliveries of everything from giant rolls of paper—it was an abandoned printing plant before Rosalie's silent partner purchased and refurbished the property—to larger art installations.
"Sure. I'll open it up. The alley's a one-way, so go around on the north side of the building." Rosalie turned on her heel and strode away, not waiting to feel his appraising glance. She always got one. At five feet eleven inches tall with golden hair cascading nearly to her waist, she looked like an avenging angel, if avenging angels had a spectacular rack and the perfect ass. Everyone noticed, men and women, whether she was wearing a pencil skirt or an oversized fisherman's sweater. Today it was both. She'd trade the sweater for a slim red turtleneck before the opening.
He was supposed to be here already. Rosalie trusted her investor more than most, but that wasn't saying much. She was still waiting for a shoe to drop, because frankly, the arrangement he'd offered remained too good to be true. Rosalie knew men. She still half expected him to demand what he might feel entitled to given the kind of financial leverage he had over her. If he was going to suggest that she suck his dick to even things out, Rosalie preferred that he show his cards already. His "really, you're doing me a favor" line was making her edgy. She wished there were a polite way to state for the record that if his cock ever got anywhere near her mouth, it would meet teeth.
Or worse. Since the rape, Rosalie kept a small but exceedingly sharp switchblade on her person at all times.
As she re-entered the gallery space, the artist had his model/bitch/slave/whatever's hair wrapped around his wrist, her head pulled close as he bent and spoke in her ear from behind. The woman didn't appear to respond in any way—stock still, eyes on the floor. Rosalie swallowed hard. She could almost feel Royce's breath on her own neck. Feel the blade as it sliced away the strap of her tank as well as the skin just below her right collarbone from sternum to shoulder. She could control the panic, but not the surge of anger.
Why didn't Rope Chick shake herself free, grab him by the hair and throw him over her shoulder? Rosalie wanted to kick her in the shins, wake her the fuck up. She needed Rope Chick to do something. Anything. Rosalie despised all deer in the headlights, literal and figurative. Because there had been a moment, a single moment, when she might have gotten away if she hadn't frozen.
That failure had cost Rosalie her career, her music and so much more. She touched her collarbone through the sweater. The scar was almost invisible now, but Rosalie felt it like a pulse.
Rosalie shivered, clutching the bulky sweater around her, widening her eyes. There would be no tears. She hadn't cried since the day it happened, not even when she first saw herself in the mirror at the hospital. She just needed to look at something to ground herself. Anything but Rope Chick. The pale wood statue that stood to one side of the central column was an exquisite balance of curve and extension, arc and line. Rosalie's eyes strayed to the woman, who was starting to look like a mermaid in a net. Isabella, the sculpture was named. It hit Rosalie in an instant: even the sculpture was about her, this Isabella. The artist had built the entire show around her. He was making a career out of her, just as Royce, conductor and manager extraordinaire, had tried to do with Rosalie before she balked.
Rosalie liked Jacob Black. She did. Which only proved what she already knew: even her own disaster-sharpened instincts could be wrong. The guy was yet another innocuous-looking monster.
Constant vigilance. Rosalie tossed back her hair and released her arms. Constant. Vigilance.
The catering staff, lugging in the first table, headed toward the wrong end of the gallery. "That goes over here," she called, snapping her fingers and pointing to the correct location. Jacob Black had turned out to be a sick bastard, but from a business perspective, Rosalie's instincts were right on the money: he was talented, and his work would sell. With any luck, this show would clear enough that she could approach her silent partner with an offer to buy him out. Rosalie checked her phone. He was now almost an hour late. They had agreed to meet prior to the show to discuss another joint project: Seth Clearwater, who was also late. Rosalie crossed the gallery and stood beside her piano, which Seth would play tonight as patrons mingled. She'd selected music specifically to exclude anything she'd performed herself. If the stupid punk showed up.
Her investor had agreed to come to other openings, and had been a no-show every time. A dozen white roses always arrived via messenger the following day, along with a hand-written note of apology quoting anything favorable mentioned in a review. Perhaps it would be best if he was a no-show again tonight, especially if Seth didn't arrive, or wandered in drunk or high.
Rosalie wanted to hit something, but the only thing close enough was her piano. She let her hand fall to her side. Fuck them both.
Yes, she wanted to straighten out Seth and open doors for him. And yes, she wanted Edward Cullen out of her business, to own it free and clear. But, if Seth pulled his usual shit or Cullen made any demands with Rope Chick in the room, Rosalie would probably shank them, and she didn't want it to come to that. Rosalie was too beautiful for prison, and she didn't ever wear jumpsuits.
She took a cleansing breath, then straightened to her full height and stalked to her office, studiously ignoring the woman now fully bound and kneeling on the floor. She closed the door, flipped the lock and stripped off her sweater. As always, she ran a finger along each scar before she pulled the red turtleneck over her head. Somehow, touching them grounded her in her own skin. Rosalie opened the closet door to look in the small mirror that hung there. She finger-combed her hair, applied a sheer cherry gloss to her lips and added the finishing touch: fine silver earrings that hung almost to her shoulders. By objective standards, she was stunning.
Rosalie sighed. It was going to a long, but hopefully profitable, night.
*R*E*L*E*A*S*E*
Edward fully intended to be on time. But when he emerged from the florist, a bouquet of white roses in hand, he found a long-haired greasebag trying to break into Hair Shirt.
"Hey!"
He didn't care one whit for the car, but the guy still pissed him off, and on instinct, Edward chased him down. The tackle was almost too easy.
Despite his height, the kid was clearly young, maybe sixteen or seventeen, and had taken something that made him clumsier than the usual gangly highschooler.
"What the fuck?" It was a legitimate question, man to man. Well, man to boy.
"Sorry, I thought it was my car. I've got one that looks a lot like it." The kid was giggly.
"What's your name?"
The teenager was trying hard not to laugh, and now that the initial anger had burned off, Edward was tempted to himself. He was all over the map these days. It had been nearly two months since Alice moved back into the Forks house, and he'd been off kilter the entire time. Something about his sister made him a little manic. Or maybe just made him feel again.
Edward rose to his feet, brushing debris from his slacks and jacket, which now had a giant tear in the elbow. His elbow throbbed from where he'd hit the ground when he brought the kid down. He offered the boy a hand up, which he took after a moment of hesitation.
Apparently, Edward hadn't thought to drop the bouquet before he tackled. It lay crushed when the kid stood up, staggering and giggling at it like he was watching a cartoon.
"Pick those up," Edward barked.
Surprisingly, the boy did it, swaying the whole while. He held them out with a goofy grin, though he had the decency to try to stop laughing when he met Edward's gaze.
"They're ruined." Edward said it sternly, trying to impress the gravity of the situation on the kid, who once again dissolved into giggles. The little fucker had tried to steal his car, ruined the flowers for Rosalie, and made him even later than he already was. He glared. "What's your name?"
Something about his low, clipped words made the kid sober instantly. He tried to hand Edward the flowers while stammering, "I'm sorry man, but I have to—"
Edward grabbed the kid's jacket and dragged him toward Hair Shirt. "You're coming with me." The boy struggled, but Edward pulled and dragged, and the kid was far too clumsy to break his hold.
"Dude, I have to go. I'm really late and Rosalie's going to fucking kill me if—" Edward smelled it then, the distinct aroma of pot. He hated the stuff: he'd had enough of Jasper's love affair with Mary Jane to last him a lifetime. Thankfully, he hadn't caught a single whiff of it in the months since Jasper had moved into a separate bedroom from Alice in the family house.
"You're Seth?"
The kid nodded and stared, apparently awed into stupidity.
"How do you know—"
Edward cut him off with one word. "Rosalie."
"Fuuuuuck." The kid tipped his head back and let the word float up to the sky.
"Yeah, you're fucked." Edward shoved the roses back at him. "These were for her, and you get to explain what happened to them."
Seth hung his head and followed Edward to Hair Shirt without a word.
Once they were inside and Edward spun the car to life, Seth murmured, "You're the guy, aren't you?"
"I'm the guy." He gave Seth a cursory nod then watched traffic for an opening. "Edward Cullen. Pleased to meet you."
Seth slumped and whispered another prolonged. "Fuuuuck."
Edward let the silence hang in the car until he pulled into the municipal lot closest to the gallery. Street parking was long gone; the opening was already underway. He decided to let Seth squirm until Rosalie got hold of him.
But apparently Seth had other plans. He turned to Edward. "Look, Mr. Cullen, I'm … I …" Edward raised an eyebrow, waiting. He wasn't going to make it easy. It only took a moment of staredown for the boy to retreat behind his punk façade. He cleared his throat. "This is the ugliest fucking car I've ever seen." He leapt out and ran toward the gallery with surprising speed, but Edward caught him just as he put a hand on the door.
"Here." He shoved the smashed bouquet into Seth's hand then gestured for him to go in.
Rosalie stood near the entrance, hurrying the late arrivals through coat check so the floor would be full for her introductory speech, when Seth Clearwater entered, clutching crushed white roses wrapped in cellophane, followed by Edward Cullen. They looked as if they'd been rolling around in the alley.
She took each by an elbow and hurried them to her office, shutting the door and leaning against it.
"What the hell did you do this time?" Rosalie hissed at Seth, who held out the flowers and cowered behind them, not meeting her eye. "You look like … never mind. You need to change clothes and get to that piano half an hour ago." She snatched the flowers from him and widened her eyes as if to say, what are you waiting for. When he still appeared to be at a loss, she pointed to the clothing bag hanging on the coat rack. "Get changed." When he opened his mouth a time or two, she snapped, "We're not leaving and we're not looking."
Then she turned to address Cullen. "I wondered if you'd been unavoidably detained." She couldn't resist adding, "Again." She extended her hand. "Thanks for finding him." Cullen shook her hand, clearly taking great pains not to look toward Seth. Men.
"I'm sorry to arrive under such, um, unusual circumstances." He released her hand and nodded toward the door. "And at such an inopportune time." After an awkward pause in which he was clearly thinking of how to say something, he added, "I was indeed unavoidably detained." His eyes strayed to Seth, who had his back turned to them, tucking a starched white shirt into black trousers.
Rosalie rolled her eyes. "What'd he do this time? Try to mug you in the alley?"
Edward shook his head and tried not to smile. "Nope. Tried to steal my Aston Martin from the florist's parking lot."
"That piece of shit is an Aston Martin?" Seth, who had finished with the shirt and slacks, fumbled with a tie, apparently unable to decide how long to make each end before attempting a Windsor knot.
Rosalie crossed the office in two long strides and slapped his hands away. "What the hell is wrong with you, Seth?" She sniffed while her hands whipped through the procedure. "You're baked again, aren't you?"
Seth stilled, rather like a dog being scolded, and mumbled, "Sorry, Miss Hale."
She shoved the knot up to his neck and slapped his chest by way of giving the tie a final straighten. "Don't 'Miss Hale' me. Get out there and earn your keep." She raised an eyebrow at him, reminding him of the significance of the evening.
Seth dropped his head. "Right." As he eased himself between Edward and Rosalie, he muttered, "I'm really sorry, Mr. Cullen," and slipped out the door. The music began before Rosalie managed to say a word.
It was terrible timing—she should be out introducing Jacob Black and giving her prepared comments about his work. But Cullen had showed up, and Rosalie suddenly had no idea what to do.
Fortunately, he seemed to grasp the dilemma. "Since I'm late, perhaps we should reschedule the meeting portion of the evening for another time?"
Rosalie nodded, relief clearing her head. She opened the office door. "I hope you enjoy the show."
Edward made his way directly to the bar, keeping an eye and an ear on Seth. "Scotch please, neat. Laphroaig if you have it." The bartender apologized and Edward nodded as the man proffered a bottle of Glenlivet. It would do well enough. He asked for a double, left a generous tip, then took up a position that allowed him to keep an eye on Seth. Though he couldn't really look at the artwork this way, he wanted to watch the boy play.
The punk had disappeared. The young man at the piano was utterly absorbed by the music he made, and he made it well. Edward listened, taking in the nuances. Seth didn't just march through piece after piece like most piano students. He seemed to feel the source of the music, to interpret it with an understanding that belied his age and earlier attitude. And his technique was excellent. Rosalie was right: Seth appeared to have real potential. Edward would know more when he could have Seth play some Debussy or Stravinsky.
While he listened, he reviewed the boy's story: Seth had made the mistake of trying to mug Rosalie, who had frightened him enough that he pissed himself—apparently, she carried a knife. Edward shook his head. Rosalie was one scary woman. She hadn't pressed charges, instead requiring him to work off his transgression in the early days, when there had been plenty of grunt work to be done converting the factory to a gallery. Then she'd caught him, a few days after her piano was delivered, playing when he thought he was alone.
In one of the most awkward phone calls of Edward's life, Rosalie proposed to push Seth toward piano and hopefully save him from the rest of his life, which wasn't promising. His father had died when he was thirteen, and he'd been running wild since. His mother, grief-stricken and holding down two jobs to make ends meet, simply didn't have the resources to manage him, and his older sister was away at college. Seth was a 24/7 job.
Rosalie's job at the moment, soon to be Edward's if he agreed to help. Rosalie had explained her limits: beyond not being in a position to back him financially, flashbacks prevented her from working him through the repertoire he'd need to get into a good music program.
And so Edward listened more, letting the Scotch warm him to his purpose. He was here to do something that, perhaps for the first time, could be seen as a good deed.
It was daunting, and Edward liked it. He'd wanted to help someone, to be truly useful, for a long time. It was something he'd learned from Bella.
And it was why he'd initially infuriated Rosalie by refusing to take her as a Denali Group client. He'd taken one look at her, all scars and a settlement check, and thought, not her. So he'd sent her to another broker, a safe one, and let her think he was an asshole. Then he made her suspicious when he approached her with this business venture. She might never trust him, which was fine with Edward. He didn't deserve anyone's trust. But she might benefit too, and that gave Edward hope.
Seth glanced up, but when he saw that Edward was looking, he ducked his head again. Edward liked his focus.
He stepped around the piano and put a hand on his shoulder then bent to speak in his ear. "Does this feel better than being tackled in the florist's parking lot?"
Seth's dark eyes met his, and Edward watched a world of pain and confusion flit past before the boy could stop it. Seth's face tightened, and he nodded, bringing the piece to a close and resting his hands on the keys.
Edward clapped his shoulder, and when the boy again met his gaze, he simply said, "Good."
A hush fell and he saw that Rosalie had moved to the center of the room. Edward broke protocol by turning away, listening to her introduce the artist while looking at the first photograph: a woman's body in profile, back arched so that the ropes around her torso and legs connected to a small metal hoop like rays from a pictogram of the sun. Her arms, stretched back so she could hold her feet, obscured her face, except for the tip of her chin, tantalizing above the column of her arched neck. He'd been admiring the curves and lines for several minutes before it occurred to him that she was naked. It took him another moment to realize why: one of the ropes across her torso covered her nipples, and since she rested on her pelvis, no pubic hair showed, either. Dark hair, resting long and loose on her back and visible between the ropes, stirred something, a memory he couldn't quite reach, so he moved to the next photograph.
Ropes again, clearly under tension, and lit so that one edge glowed, as if sun were pouring in through a window. The ropes, again like rays, all met at a woman's hips, which were bent as if the ropes suspended her. Only the sweet curve of her ass, with skin so pale it looked almost iridescent, showed in the picture. The light skimmed it in such a way that Edward ached to touch. It looked as if the surface of her skin were cool, but if he cupped that curve with his hand, it would be so, so warm.
Suddenly, his throat ached. Edward took a shaky breath, followed by a gulp of Scotch. It burned through the knot in his throat, and for a moment he thought all might be well. But he looked at the next photograph, of a diamond-shaped pattern made in dark rope on a pale torso. The woman's chin was lifted, dark hair cascading down her back, her breasts pushed up. And a mole was beautifully placed just below and to the outside of the model's right breast. A mole he knew and cherished. Something he'd nurtured a hope that no one else had ever seen.
Then one word from Rosalie's introduction broke through. "Isabella."
Polite applause startled Edward, and he turned to catch what everyone else in the room was already looking at. With relief, he saw a wood sculpture and he found he could breathe.
But then he saw her.
Bella.
Naked, bound and on a pedestal, back arched over a carved wooden form, the mole in question, and the breasts above it, displayed like so much sculpture.
Edward's insides quaked as he took step after step toward her. Strangely, the only thought he could muster was, she hates being called Isabella. He used to say it, with mock solemnity, to tease her. Or when he was overtaken by emotion, unable to stop himself because it rolled off the tongue so beautifully, and she was so beautiful.
Though people milled about, murmuring and sipping wine, she didn't move. Edward couldn't stop looking, though he wanted to shield her, and himself, too. It was too much. It made no sense. And he desperately wanted to see her eyes.
He knocked back the rest of the Scotch. Without realizing it, he reached out, gathering up her hair, which hung almost to the pedestal, and buried his face in it. He choked out a hoarse, "Bella, love." God, the smell of her.
He was so close, his head beside hers.
She was shaking. Was she cold? Scared?
Edward never got a chance to ask. He was on the floor before he knew what—or more accurately, who—hit him.
*R*E*L*E*A*S*E*
Rosalie grabbed Jacob's shirt and yanked him back. "What do you think you're doing?" she hissed. Her attempt at discretion was useless, though; everyone's eyes were riveted on either the outraged artist or her investor, sprawled on the floor with a bound woman cupping his jaw in her hand and rocking back and forth whispering, "Edward?" again and again like she was seeing a ghost.
"Isabella." Just one word, but the room went silent. Jacob positively vibrated under Rosalie's grip.
Rope Chick didn't seem to register the voice. Her eyes were riveted on Cullen.
This could go either way, and apparently, it was up to Rosalie alone to see that patrons stayed, photographs sold and no one came to blows. She dragged Jacob to the photographs closest to Seth and gave the kid a look which demanded, however unreasonably, that he keep the artist there. Seth's eyes widened, and he nodded and shrugged at the same time. Fucking perfect. The kid was chicken now. Rosalie cuffed the back of his head as she hurried to her office. She grabbed her sweater and returned to the gallery.
Isabella still knelt over Cullen, but she was now silent, her hand clasped between both of his. Cullen's eyes were closed, but it was clear he was conscious. Tears escaped across his temple and his chest shook silently.
Without ceremony, Rosalie bunched up the sweater and pulled it over Isabella's head. The woman automatically put her free arm through the sleeve, and the sweater, almost the same color as the ropes, enveloped her torso.
The rustle of clothes seemed to rouse Cullen, who opened his eyes and riveted them on Isabella, who stared back at him until Rosalie said, through teeth clenched in an angelic smile aimed at her customers, "Let's take this to my office." She tugged at Isabella's arm and she stood. For once, the woman's eyes weren't glued to the floor, so Rosalie got a good look at them. Fathomless brown, and welling with a sorrow unlike any Rosalie had witnessed before. And she'd witnessed plenty: her shrink had bullied her into attending a survivor's group meeting. Whatever had happened to Isabella wasn't pretty, and it involved Cullen.
Rosalie glanced down at Edward, who began to sit up when Isabella's hand slipped from his.
"Are you hurt?" The fall hadn't looked especially painful, but you never knew.
Cullen shook his head and murmured, "No, I'm used to it," and Rosalie didn't waste time trying to figure out what the hell he meant. She nodded curtly and propelled Isabella to her office.
She held the door open and addressed Isabella for the first time. "You'll be okay by yourself for a while? I need to get out there and sell some art."
To Rosalie's surprise, Isabella met her eyes and said, in a firm, matter-of-fact voice, "Yes, thank you." She paused and gave a soft snort that sounded like disbelief before adding, "Nice sweater. I appreciate the loan."
It was a lie. Bella was not fine. The shaking got worse and worse, and she wished the ropes were tighter. Or off. She wasn't sure.
Damn Edward Cullen.
One touch and something burst, and it felt like light. Like the sun, hot enough to scorch, to blind. But golden.
Like home.
Bella perched on the chair behind the desk, but felt strangely guilty there, like a thief. She tried the chair across from the desk. Her concentration, her sub-mind was shattered, and yet she wondered if it would help to kneel. She wished the ropes were off so they wouldn't grind into the floor beneath her knee. Nevertheless, she knelt. And it helped.
Fortunately, that was how Jacob found her when the office door opened.
Unfortunately, she immediately looked up at him in expectation. Of what, she couldn't say. There were so many ways this could play out.
"Eyes, Isabella," he barked, and she dropped them with a silent sigh.
"You will remain here, and silent, until I'm ready to untie the shibari. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Have I given you permission to speak?" he snapped. His voice was wrong. Jacob had never displayed a temper during their weekends together. Discipline and punishment were meticulous and dispassionate. But Bella sensed rage, and it put her on alert. Her sub-mind was nowhere to be found, but she had the good sense to keep her eyes down and remain silent. At last, he grumbled, "Better," and left, closing the door with a sound thump.
She knelt there for at least half an hour, but when her legs began to fall asleep, she pulled her coat from the rack, wrapped it around herself and curled up in the largest chair.
If she dozed it was just for a moment. Still, the next thing she heard was her name.
Bella opened her eyes to find Edward kneeling beside her, staring at her as if he wasn't sure she was real.
"You're here?" Was she dreaming?
But he nodded then reached toward her ankle, touching the rope there. Bella had never been as keenly aware of her bare skin as she was then, waiting for his fingers to find it. At last they did, but his eyes stayed on hers.
He looked older, exhausted. Dark rings circled his eyes, fine lines radiated from their corners and his frown lines were more pronounced. He had never looked more melancholy or more perfect.
She shook her head. He couldn't be real. "Why?"
"Bella." The word came out strangled, and Edward swallowed loudly enough for her to hear it. He cleared his throat, but still, his words came out in a cracked whisper. "Tell me he doesn't hurt you."
The dreamlike moment cracked like crystal and Bella's mouth twisted into a small, stricken smile. "That's a remarkable question, coming from you."
A look of revulsion passed over his face. "Does he …" a shudder passed through him. "Rosalie said something about a leash." His eyes pleaded with her, and Bella smiled again.
"Would you like to see my collar?" She reached into her coat pocket, though the collar wasn't actually there. It was Jacob's prerogative to put it on her or remove it.
"No!" Edward grabbed her arm, preventing her from removing her empty hand from her pocket. "You don't have to do this, Bella. We should leave, I can keep you safe if he—"
"Safe?" Bella barked out an angry laugh. "When was I ever safe with you?"
"You don't have to let him—"
"Let him what, Edward? Tie me up? Flog me? Bend me over and cane my bare ass?"
He was pulling at his tie now, struggling for air.
"I don't let him do that to me." She allowed the look of relief to spread across his face before she finished. "I beg him to."
Edward looked stricken. "Beg?"
"On my knees, Edward." She said each word quietly but distinctly, her gaze never wavering as she watched him make the connection.
"You beg him to hurt you?" There was something different in his voice, something she recognized. It was the first flickering of what promised to grow into a towering rage.
She nodded, egging him on. "I like it."
"No." His anger seemed to make him taller, more imposing. "That's not who you are."
"You don't know anything about me, Edward."
"I know you deserve better than this." He was fierce now, and very close. They were almost nose to nose. "You deserve someone who loves you."
"Love?" She made the word absurd, as if he'd said she deserved a unicorn.
The door swung open, revealing a smiling Rosalie saying, "—already sold," followed by a glowering Jacob.
Caught talking again. Bella was suddenly, almost painfully aware of the ropes. She needed them off. She needed the playroom. She needed the flogger or cane, or any other implement that could clear her head. Because she wanted to scream at Edward. What right had he to talk of love or pain? Who was he to judge? She might never have needed this if it weren't for Edward and Alice.
A silent conversation had already begun between Jacob and Edward. Edward rose to his full height, which was impressive, but not as tall as Jacob. "You hurt her," he accused, stepping too close.
Bella stilled as she watched Jacob's temper surge. "I take care of her." Jacob put a hand on her head and pulled her so she rested with her cheek against his hip.
"By tying her up? Walking her on a leash? Parading her naked in front of god knows how many people?" Edward's voice rose as he rattled off the list of offenses.
"I give her what she needs …" he let the sentence hang, indicating that he wanted Edward to supply his name.
When Edward took a step forward, Bella stood, deliberately placing herself between them, and made the introductions. "Jacob Black, this is Edward Cullen. Edward, Jacob."
"… Edward." Jacob said the name to finish his sentence, but there was recognition in his voice Bella didn't understand or like. When he turned to her, his Dom persona wasn't visible. This Jacob was vulnerable, and she feared she had, in that moment, the power to hurt him more than any punishment he'd ever inflicted on her. It was a power she'd never wanted. "How do you know each other?"
Edward started to speak, but Bella cut him off. "We went out a few times in high school." She raised an eyebrow at Edward when he pursed his lips in apparent disagreement with the way she characterized their past.
Jacob glowered at Edward. "You're the one?"
A wary-looking Edward didn't confirm or deny. Bella couldn't decide if she was relieved or disgusted. Why would he admit it now? He'd had his sport and moved on to better, more desirable things.
"She has nightmares, you know." Jacob seemed at war with himself, clenching and unclenching his fists.
"Oh God." Edward's anguished eyes shot to hers. "Still?" Bella simply stared at him. What did he mean, still?
Jacob didn't appear to notice the exchange. "I don't know what you did to her, but I won't let you hurt her again."
"You beat her and lead her around on a leash, for Christ's sake. I'm not letting her—" Though his words were directed at Jacob, he hadn't taken his eyes off of Bella. They stripped her bare in a way she never could be otherwise, not even standing all but naked in the middle of an art gallery.
"Edward!" The word sliced through the air between the men, and they both turned to her, Jacob still furious, Edward pleading his case.
"There are shelters, Bella. You don't have to—he's got you brainwashed. You don't have to stay with him."
"I love her," Jacob growled. He wrapped a possessive arm around Bella's waist. "And I would never, ever hurt her."
Rosalie stood frozen in the doorway, watching the scene unfold. Cullen, lovestricken. So much about him finally made sense. He was in love with Rope Chick, for Christ's sake. Unfortunately for all, so was Jacob Black.
"Stop it! Right now!" Rope Chick's voice quavered with panic, but she pulled herself away from Jacob Black and shied from Cullen when he reached for her. She had backed herself into the corner behind the desk before she gulped out, "I have to go."
When both men reached for her again, Rosalie darted between them. "You heard the lady. She has to go." She threw a protective arm around Isabella, grabbed her coat from the hook and shoved between Jacob and Cullen. If they tried to interfere, she'd gut them both.
"Isabella!" Jacob's intent was unmistakable. If Rope Chick turned around now, he'd snap a leash on her. And probably hide her with it when he got her home.
Rosalie held her breath but kept walking. If Rope Chick turned back now, Rosalie couldn't help her. And those two would pull at her until they snapped her like a wishbone. Black's voice receded, and only one set of footsteps followed. Cullen was close, but not closing in. Not in pursuit.
Rosalie unlocked her Audi, urged Isabella into the passenger seat, slammed the door shut behind her and spun around. There was no one near except Cullen, who was leaning both hands on the hood of the most fucked up car Rosalie had ever laid eyes on. The car's scars seemed oddly equivalent to her own. She almost liked it.
He seemed to sense her watching him and lifted his eyes to hers. Unshed tears sparkled in the streetlight. It clicked then: Cullen was a survivor, too.
Rosalie nodded at him, acknowledging the unspoken fraternity of the broken; he nodded back, shoulders slumped, and got in the car. Rosalie waited for him to pull out before she slid into the driver's seat. As he pulled out into the street, she read the mangled emblem: Aston Martin. She definitely approved.
After checking once again to see that they were alone—and hoping that Seth was now sober enough to deal with Jacob Black and lock up properly—she turned to Isabella.
"What now?"
Isabella leaned back against the headrest and let out the world's weariest sigh. "I have no idea."
Rosalie was annoyed. She'd been fishing for an address. "Where do you live?"
Isabella smirked. "Seattle." Then she rubbed her bare legs—well, bare except for the rope pattern wound around the left one—as if she were feeling around for something and deadpanned, "and I seem to have left my wallet in my other corset."
Rosalie rolled her eyes and suppressed a smile. Rope Chick had some spine after all. "Then I guess you're coming home with me." Without waiting for the pro forma polite refusal, Rosalie threw the Audi into gear, screeching the tires as she turned onto the street.
A/N: Reviews make my day, so I'm particularly sorry I was slow with responses after Chapter 6. I had this genius idea that I'd send teasers to reviewers, but then didn't have a teaser prepared soon enough, and a nasty cold set in, Christmas came, etc. … Yeah, pure genius. *facepalm* Truly, your reviews made me smile and made me think. I shall try to do better with replies this time, and rumor has it that Edward just might take reviewers of this chapter for a ride in Hair Shirt. So it's worth a shot, right? ;-)
My thanks to the Fictionators for saying something nice on their site that sent readers to my story. I'd love to see what they wrote, if anyone knows. I went out there, but couldn't find it. And thanks to Morgan Locklear for kindly recommending Release. His completed vampire fic Bella Voce is terrific, and the sequel, Brutte Parole, is now posting. It's also terrific. MOG and his wife/beta Jenn are among my favorite people in the fandom. Thanks again, you two.
Release has been nominated for The Twinklings Walk of Fame Awards in the Mistress of Mystery Category. Thanks to the kind person who did the honors. Many wonderful fics are nominated, and voting begins January 15. There are so many wonderful fics nominated; I hope you'll go and vote for your favorites.
In another act of supreme genius, I saved photos representative of the artwork described in this chapter to a Word document, intending to share them with you on Release's Twilighted forum. Today, I realized the flaw in this plan: I can't post them without the hyperlinks. I'm trying to find them again, but it's like searching for a needle in an online haystack. A seriously kinky online haystack. When I find them, I'll post them on the thread. As you can imagine, they are not pix you'll want to view at work or with your kids about.
I'm reading a couple of astonishing fics right now: Clockwork, by Derdriu oFaolain, and Pressed for Time, a collaboration between the very talented twanza (author of The Never Ending Math Equation, another remarkably well-written fic) and Chele681. These stories are all human and startlingly original. Go and read, and leave them some well-deserved review love.
Until next time, I'll see you on the forum.
