Disclaimer: I don't own anything except the idea for this story and any original characters.
Author's Note: I'm starting with a very very big apology for the delay in posting this chapter. I'm really sorry for those of you who've been waiting. My muse has been absent for a while, and it was kind of tough writing this at first… but things worked out! I'd like to thank you all from the bottom of my heart for your wonderful reviews. They really make my day!
I noticed many of you were confused about some of the events, so I thought I'd clear a few things up. Sophia Shepherd is Derek's mother. She's still alive. His father, Jonathan Shepherd, died of cancer (the time was unspecified). Derek was accused of Addison's murder. Derek did catch Addison cheating on him with Mark. If there's anything else, please don't hesitate to ask!
Happy Valentine's day! Please enjoy!
Chapter 9
"Hope dangles on a string,
Like slow spinning redemption,
Winding in and winding out.
The shine of it has caught my eye."
Vindication – Dashboard Confessional
The silence was breathless. Her heart had sprouted the delicate wings of a butterfly that fluttered anxiously against her chest, pounding, pausing, and then pounding again. It was an incessant tune that hummed capriciously as she continued to stare deep into his steely blue eyes, clutching desperately at the bravado that had swelled within her only moments ago. She could feel it slipping away as surely as she could feel his hand loosening beneath hers. She resisted the urge to snatch her burning fingers away from his and hold her hand protectively to her chest in a last dying effort of denial. Derek relieved her of that temptation by very quietly yielding possession of the knife to her trembling hand. She was filled not with relief but tenderness, a strange surge that swept through her unpredictably and softened her disposition.
Lowering her eyes to keep from divulging her emotions, she turned slightly to place the knife on the kitchen table. It rattled in protest, and she stilled it with four fingers. When she looked back at his handsome face, he was studiously frowning at her, his jaw held sternly in an unrelenting line that emphasized the forbidding black stubble.
"What?" He sounded curt and annoyed, disbelieving. His arms rose and crossed before his chest defensively, resembling a jarring physical barrier.
Not discouraged by his dourness, she stood her ground and met his dangerous stare evenly. "You don't scare me," she repeated in the same confidently assertive tone she'd used on him earlier, but he didn't look impressed. "You're not going to hurt me," she added in a softer voice.
For a long endless moment, his gaze narrowed on her, as if deciding if she was being honest, and she felt like all the secrets she couldn't remember were being drawn out of her soul. Meredith swallowed tightly, unconsciously anticipating the verdict of his perusal.
"I didn't kill her." His impersonal voice imparted with the four well-spaced articulate words mechanically.
She was under the impression that he'd said the statement often and was weary of having to repeat it. Concealing her surprise, she exhausted her doubts in a rushed, frantic desire to believe in him. It was crazy to believe a fugitive who had perhaps unwillingly taken her hostage. "You didn't kill her," she finally murmured, her affirmation hanging awkwardly between them, and she was filled with something colorless and divine. His dark formidable stance relaxed noticeably, and she imagined it must have felt wonderful to be on Derek Shepherd's good side, privy to his quirks and his sense of ironic humor and the approval of smoldering cobalt eyes. The divinity that pulsed within her was akin to hope because she saw a flicker of it on his reluctant, guarded face.
Uncrossing his arms, he took a step in her direction, bringing them toe-to-toe in a confrontation that was quickly spiraling out of control and turning into something intimate. She was uneasy of how physically aware she was of his presence. Her lungs greedily expanded with his masculine scent, and she moistened her lips nervously before looking at him, dismayed to find that she had to tilt her head upwards. He was close enough that her chin almost brushed against the untainted cotton of his t-shirt. "No, I didn't," he ascertained calmly.
He was surrounding her, wrapping around her without even trying to touch her. She dropped her head and stared at her mismatched socks in faux absorption. Derek didn't allow the cowardly retreat for long. He placed the middle-knuckle of his index finger beneath her chin and slowly tipped her face towards him. Hesitantly, she encountered his gaze and found the subtle hints of amusement lighting his eyes. Sometime amidst sharing half-truths and reluctant confessions, the tables had turned, and she was at a glaring disadvantage. He knew it just as well as she did, and she knew he was going to kiss her even before his dark head began its slow descent, endowing her with the perfect opportunity to turn away. But she couldn't move an inch when his knuckle pressed urgently to her chin. The taste of his need was raw on her tongue, spreading like a wildfire in her abdomen.
His lips passed across hers slowly at first, testing her response to the gentle caress. It was a searing touch, primal with its honesty, and she closed her eyes to blind herself against the wrongness of it. The darkness behind her eyelids was a sanctuary that allowed her the freedom of tentatively placing her hands on his broad chest, parting her lips acquiescingly at the ardent probing of his tongue. Her fingertips shyly drifted across the stretched white cotton. She heard a distant gruff sound from his throat and forgot about it as soon as he began his bold exploration of her mouth. His tongue stroked and teased and thrust, engaging her in a long deep kiss that left her leaning into him, her breath stolen, her cheeks flushed with color.
When she reopened her eyes, she saw her fingers clinging desperately to the firm muscles in his shoulders, and his hands hanging uselessly at his sides, impartial to the sexual haze. His breath was warm against her temple, falling curiously over her bowed head. He didn't reach for her as he'd done in the attic. He didn't pull her into his arms to give her the thrill of discovering anew how beautifully different their bodies were, hers soft where his was hard.
With frightening composure, he stepped back, and her hands fell to her sides, mirroring his. She heard him draw in an extensive restorative breath and didn't dare break the fragile silence that roared with frustration. The whisper of his name hovered on her lips, an unfulfilled cry, which she bit back forcefully, willing herself to regard him with an expression as bland as his. Derek Shepherd didn't threaten her physically, but he posed another threat, one that awakened an instinctive feeling to shield herself from him, from the potency of his intense stare, from the colorful sensations that rioted through her at his touch.
Turning away from her, he took another knife from the rack and went back to preparing the chicken for another hearty home-cooked meal as if the last thirty minutes hadn't taken place at all. He dismissed her with the same callous effectiveness with which he accomplished everything else. She cast a departing look at his bent dark head, admiring the luxurious ebony tresses that curled beautifully at his nape before fleeing the kitchen, wondering what disturbed her more, the effect his dizzying kisses had on her or the fact that he seemed unruffled by them.
----
He found her in her bedroom, curled into a relaxed fetal position, a snowy white pillow tucked beneath her head. Her golden hair was spread across the pillow like an undisguised flag of seduction, soft and fair. He imagined it gliding through his fingers or spilling over her naked shoulders as he pressed his lips to forbidden places. He imagined the feel of her flawlessly smooth skin beneath his fingertips, against every part of him, breathing into the flame of his passion. Frowning in self-directed anger, he propped his shoulder against the doorjamb, resigning himself to watching her for a while longer. Her eyes were closed, but he knew she wasn't sleeping. Derek had heard her shift when he first stepped into the doorway, and despite her self-deceptive attempt at slumber, there was something entirely restless about her perch. He wondered if a few hours with Meredith Grey beneath starched cotton sheets would ease the tense bearing of her slim shoulders. He wondered if one time would be enough to snap him out of his obsessive daze with the petite blonde.
He felt unfairly old craving someone like Meredith Grey who was young and vibrant and full of secrets. He'd felt deceptive when she'd kissed him back and arched into him, her body flowering to life in his arms before her eyes registered cold reason. And he felt rotten knowing that he wasn't going to back off.
Clearing his throat, he rapped his knuckles briefly against the wooden door. She bolted into a sitting position almost guiltily, blue-gray eyes wide with suspicious awareness as they landed on him questioningly.
Derek's blank expression didn't falter. "Do you want to eat?" he asked bluntly. The offer was devoid of courtesies.
Her puzzled features drew her full lips into a down-turned curve of disgruntlement. Without sparing another glance in his direction, she planted her feet on the ground with a faint thud and stood up. "Yes," she said defiantly, readjusting the black wool sweater as she swept her hair over one shoulder.
He wished she hadn't done that, but he only nodded sharply. "We'll eat in the living room," he told her, straightening to his full height.
He stalked to the kitchen where he'd left a pot of soup brewing. Expertly adding a trifle of salt to the boiling broth, he turned one of the dials on the modern electric stove, killing the glowing fire. The soup was poured into a pale blue bowl, which in turn was added to the prepared tray of food he'd left on the counter. He carried the heavy tray to the living room where he carefully set it on the table. His second trip to the kitchen was inspired by an impulse to dull his frenzied senses. He returned with a bottle of white wine in a bucket of ice and two glasses. She was sitting on the far edge of the worn sofa, having already set the empty plates he'd brought from the kitchen. Placing the genuine crystal goblets on the table, he sat on the opposite end of the couch, leaving a ridiculously gaping distance between them.
If she noticed, she didn't comment on it.
"The soup is for you," he said when she ignored the steaming bowl. "It's good for your throat."
She drew it towards her wordlessly, and drank half of it. They ate in silence for ten minutes, but the marinated chicken seemed tasteless, the potatoes baked in a film of butter poor. He didn't have an appetite for food.
Laying his fork against the plate, he reached for the bottle of spirits, which she eyed with unveiled curiosity. It popped open in his hand, and he filled both their glasses, nudging hers towards her. She made no move to reach for it, so he quirked a dark eyebrow at her. "Drink it," he advised, taking a sip of the chilled golden wine, savoring the forgotten taste of luxury.
She considered him dubiously, but her slender fingers elegantly wrapped around the stem of her glass. "Are you trying to get me drunk?" she queried with an anxious frown. He would have thought she was teasing him if it weren't for the serious glint in her eyes.
He gave her a chilling toothless smile and scooped the last of the fluffy potatoes with his fork. "Why would I do that?"
Uncomfortable, she fidgeted in her forced confinement, making Derek wish she would look straight at him for longer than two seconds. "To make me forget," she began thoughtfully, raising her glass to down a mouthful of the sparkling wine for encouragement. "About what you said."
Chewing leisurely, he let her statement dwindle pointlessly to the patterned tune of the rainfall. It had been raining for an hour, just as she'd predicted. "I'm doing nothing of the sort," he said finally, a casual note to his trivializing statement.
She didn't heed his unspoken warning. "Do you want to talk about it?"
Lifting his head abruptly, he fixed an unwavering glare on her. "About what?" he asked pointedly.
She surprised him by braving his glare and leaning back into the soft cushions to glower at him. "You didn't kill her," she reminded him patiently. "I believe you."
"Damn it, I wouldn't touch a hair on her head," he bellowed, pacing the length of Zachary Preston's New York office mercilessly, oblivious to the breathtaking view from the wide twenty-second floor window.
His high school best friend slouched into his black leather chair with a grim frown across his brow. "I believe you, Derek," he said emphatically, shoving an impatient hand into his light brown hair.
"That makes you the only one," Derek answered bitterly, pausing mid-stride to shove his hands deep into the pockets of his charcoal suit-pants. Even though Zack was a reasonably influential man whose association to Derek in the untimely crisis was likely to cause him some critical appraisal, he wouldn't have it otherwise.
"Don't say that, Derek. Your mother…"
"She's not my mother," he interrupted harshly.
Zack was visibly stunned as he murmured an expletive under his breath and sat up tensely. "What are the papers about?" he asked, gathering the folder Derek had placed on his desk earlier.
He stopped pacing and fell into the uncomfortable chair, designed to keep visitors on the edge of their seats. "Legal forms that give you full reign over my assets and investments. If you'll do it, I want you to handle everything until I get out," he explained calmly.
The folder dropped back to the swamped desk. "We're not doing this. They're not going to win," he said stubbornly, his green eyes steadfast with their belief in justice.
Derek shrugged and came to his feet. "They've already won."
"There's still a chance the jury will believe you're telling the truth," Zack argued.
A sardonic grin tilted his lips. "My own lawyer doesn't believe me."
"It's in the past," he said with firm finality. "It's over."
"It must have been terrible," she murmured, her voice soft with sympathy as it brought back the worst of years wasted. Handcuffs slapped around his wrists. Boxed possessions. Visiting hours.
The familiar rage rose like bile in the back of his throat, unforgotten, simmering beneath a thick surface. "I don't need your pity," he snapped, angrily finishing the wine in his glass.
"Not pity," she said softly. "Not pity, compassion."
He stilled her with a long hard look. "I don't need that either."
Her nod was slight and disappointed. "Okay," she muttered in agreement. "I'll clear the dishes."
Some of you may recognize Zachary Preston from my other story, Where The Heart Is. His role here is entirely different, and nothing that applied there will apply to this fic. Well not nothing, but just think of him as another character. I just liked his character and wanted him to appear again.
Thank you so much for continuing to read this story!
