A/N:

Hello lovelies! Sorry to be keeping you a week longer than expected, busy things. Thank you Kenz for editing, even when you're hungover!

Don't want to keep you all waiting, enjoy!

THE WAREHOUSE DEBACLE

I might as well be alone. Emmett refuses to even so much as look at me the entire trip to the warehouse in Colombia.

We arrived around midnight and are now on our way to the abandoned bread factory. The car is dead silent, Emmett staring straight ahead as he drives, knuckles white on the wheel.

"Back up is on standby if you guys need any help or run into trouble." Jasper says over the Bluetooth, his voice dripping with seriousness.

I glance over at Emmett, who silently declines to acknowledge our brother. I guess he's still giving Jazz the silent treatment, too.

"Thanks, Jazz." I say shortly.

Emmett parks the car a half a mile away from the factory behind a random dumpster. Getting out, we silently make out way to our desired location.

We scout out the factory as we did with the Cullen home, sans our usual playful banter.

The warehouse is gated all the way around, with barbed wire lining the tops of the fence. The place has an eerie feel with the moon shining, casting shadows on the property and its accompanying vines that snake their way out of the broken windows. We find a pad locked gate near the back and Emmett gets to work on it.

"Look," I whisper, tired of the icy cold shoulder I am being given, "I get that you're still mad at me, but we're still partners. Can we at least act cordially towards each other?" I finish exasperated, waving my hands around.

He looks back, giving me a blank stare. "Pass me the bolt cutters... please." He dead pans.

I roll my eyes, reaching into the bag and hand them to him.

After I hear metal give from the pressure, Emmett pushes open the fence enough for us to get through, not without a few creaks and moans.

I open my mouth to say something smart when Em suddenly grabs my arm, pulling me behind a wooden crate.

He puts a hand over my mouth, silencing me. I scrunch my eyebrows in confusion and he tilts his head towards the front of the factory.

A few seconds later, I see headlights brightening the place where we had just been standing and turn. I hear the car circle around the factory before heading off again.

"We should wait and see if that's a coincidence or a routine security check." Em murmurs, letting go of my face.

We both sit and wait, and sure enough, thirty minutes later, the car approaches us before circling around the gated warehouse. We wait for two more rounds before deciding to take any action, just to get the exact time down.

I look at Em, who is scanning the rest of the area.

"You keep look out." I mutter and go to stand.

Emmett grabs me and pulls me down again, "No, you keep look out. What if you run into someone?"

"Chances are, there's no security in there if they're patrolling the place with only one car—plus, it's abandoned. There's no need for top notch security. If you're out here and they decide to stop and take a look, you're stronger than me and can take them without having to use a gun, which means no unnecessary attention is drawn to us."

I really only want to go in there just to show Emmett that I'm capable of more than just being an analyst. Something I thought I had proven to him already, but apparently working over two years in the field with him means less than diddly.

He considers this for a moment before nodding his head. "Fine. But be quick—you have thirty minutes. If you trip an alarm they're probably less than that away from us."

I grab a flash light and a lock picking kit before heading towards the large wooden doors that make up the back entrance.

I run into another pad lock and huff before having to go back and grab the bolt cutters from Emmett, who insists he should handle it.

"I'm not some weak little girl, Emmett. I know how to use bolt cutters." I glower.

"Yeah, I know, I just—forget it." He grumbles, shaking his head.

Once the lock is open, I make my way quietly into the warehouse, closing the door behind me.

The roof is littered with wide windows, allowing the full moon's light to shine through enough for me to see without having to use the flashlight.

I look around and see nothing but empty conveyer belts and hundreds of large wooden crates. I'm in what appears to be the main room, which allows access to many other side rooms.

Making sure there aren't any cameras or motion sensors I can trip, I silently move to the first room on my right, only to find nothing but boxes of blackened and molded bread.

I scout out a few more rooms, trying to find an office of some sort but am only met with more large wooden crates. Overcome with curiosity, I use a metal rod to pry one of the boxes open to take a peek, using my flashlight to illuminate the contents.

Well this is definitely not sourdough, I say to myself.

Inside this particular crate is what looks to be kilos of cocaine, all packaged in tight Saran wrap and duct tape. The box stands about five feet high and maybe four feet wide. There has got to be tens of thousands of dollars' worth of drugs in here, maybe even hundreds.

I pry open a few more crates— as suspected, they contain the same neatly packed cocaine in them.

Leaving the crates to go scout out the rest of the rooms, I shoot Emmett a text letting him know what I found.

Near the entrance, I run into a steel door with a key code lock. I reach in my cargo pants and fish out a small code grabber Jasper left me.

I lean against the door, waiting for the grabber to figure out the four-digit passcode. As I'm waiting I hear the crunch of paper a few feet behind me. Out of instinct I quickly retract my gun from my waistband and point it in the direction of the noise as I turn on my flashlight.

I see nothing but hear the crunching again. Lowering my flashlight, I see the culprit—a rather large rat going to town on a molded newspaper.

"Thanks, pal." I whisper to the little guy, annoyed at how he's made my heart race.

The code grabber finally figures out the code and I type it in. The door clicks softly and I push it open.

I use a tiny scrap of stray wood to prop the door open just enough to not allow it to close behind me.

It's pitch black in the room, so I assume there must be no windows here. I turn on my flashlight again and see there are rows and rows of shelves in this room, all filled with stacks of paper. There are also large stacks of paper littering the floor.

I approach the shelf nearest to me and realize that this isn't normal run of the mill paper. The entire room—which has to be the size of my apartment back in Chicago—is overflowing with crisp, hundred dollar bills. By now, I deduce that this must be a stash house.

I spot a filing cabinet in the far corner and have to step over piles of money to get to it.

The cabinet is padlocked, but I still have the bolt cutters Emmett used earlier in case I ran into this problem again.

The padlock, not having grass to quiet the fall, makes a loud thud as it hits the cement floor. I still, listening intently for any sign of movement outside the room. When I hear none, I open the first drawer.

I find nothing but balance sheets and income statements, but I don't have time to read through these thoroughly. I grab as many as I can and tuck them underneath my arm. I reach to open the second cabinet when the door creeks open.

I drop my flashlight and the files from surprise and jump back against the cabinet, my gun aimed at the door.

From the floor, the flashlight only illuminates the room enough to see a shadow—which outlines a tall, muscular man standing at a familiar height.

I breathe out a sigh of relief, "Jesus fucking Christ, Emmett. You scared the shit out of me."

I lower my gun and turn back to the filing cabinet, distractedly putting it back into my waistband. He ignores me, apparently still not talking to me even after we agreed to be amicable.

"What happened to keeping look out? I don't need you to babysit me in here, you know." I mutter distractedly as I sift through more of the papers.

I'm reading the title of a statement when I feel an arm come around my neck and tighten. My hands reach up quickly and try to pull off the arm.

I try to breathe in, but am only able to take a half breath. The scent my nose picks up is one of stale cigarettes and very expensive smelling cologne—both of which I've never smelled on my brother.

I push back against the body and as we crash into some shelves I jerk my elbow back as hard as I can, causing the man to loosen his grip. I take advantage of this by using his brute strength against him and pull on the arm while bending my body forward, effectively tossing him over me. He lands on his back with a loud thud and a grunt.

I run towards the door, reaching for my gun but he grabs onto my foot. My head hits the door handle on my way down, but that does not slow me down.

I kick back my free leg forcefully, feeling my foot connect with something hard. I hear another groan and my leg goes free.

I quickly stand and realize I've lost my gun in the scuffle. I don't make it but a few feet out the door before a large body slams into me effectively knocking me back down.

My breath rushes out of me as I hit the ground. I fight to push him off but he's too heavy, using his weight to keep me immobilized.

He flips me onto my back, unaware of the fact that he isn't dealing with some pathetic little damsel in distress who can't hold her own. I throw a punch, which manages to make contact with his chin and he lets out another satisfying grunt.

He grabs a hold of my neck with his beefy, oversized hands and shakes me vigorously as he squeezes.

Stars materialize in my eyes as he continues to aggressively choke me. He doesn't loosen his grip. After a few seconds, I realize he has no intention to.

My arms are useless as they squirm underneath the knees that hold them down. I writhe under his weight violently, trying to buck him off me.

Out of the corner of my eye I see something catch in the moonlight. My gun. I stretch for it but it's a few inches too far from my reach.

I'm starting to lose energy as my body uses the last of it's oxygen. I jerk one last time, hoping the force of it will bring me close enough to my gun.

I look back up to the man, making sure he doesn't see my end goal, but he is too focused on not letting go of me.

My fingers graze the grip of the gun and I use my nails to drag it closer to me.

The stars turn into spots of white and as my hand closes around the handle firmly I'm faced with a decision I have never had to make before.

His life or mine.

I choose mine.

I pretend that I'm at the last of my life and stop struggling, his knees give up a little on my arms and I take advantage of that by slipping my arm from underneath one.

I swiftly bring the gun up under his chin and pull the trigger.

When I was younger, my father used to take my brother and I on hunting trips twice a year. Once during bow season, and once during rifle season.

My first hunting trip happened to be during rifle season. Emmett and I were twelve and we were ecstatic about finally being able to join Jasper and Charlie.

Before I held the rifle in my own hands, Charlie sat us all down. My brothers and I sat outside on rocks as we watched him clean his rifle.

"Now I've already told Jasper this, but a refresher is always good—especially when dealing with something as serious as a gun." He said solemnly. "When you're holding a gun, you hold all the power. It's up to you on how you use that power. When you pull that trigger, you better make sure you damn well mean it. Once you take a life—any life—you can't take that back…

We do not kill for sport. We kill to eat. Whatever we don't eat we give to a family in need. Understood?"

I remember Emmett and I nodding our heads excitedly, our twelve-year-old minds not quite understanding what he meant—too eager to get out there.

Even after my first deer kill, I never really understood the wisdom behind his words. I thought I did—but looking back, I didn't even have a fraction of an idea of what he meant.

Now?... Now I fully grasped what he had told to us. It's like everything he said finally clicked, like the sound the trigger makes when clicking into place—but you never really hear it over the blaring gun shot. No lecture in the world could have prepared me for this. No amount of gun training classes that I had to sit through when I became a field agent could have readied me for this moment.

I've been lucky enough to have never had to take a life during my time in the field. Sure, I've shot my gun plenty of times, but I've never shot to kill.

I know this man is a criminal, a ruthless henchman for some crime boss who has probably taken countless lives. But he will never feel the cold, firm grip of metal handcuffs as they tighten around his wrists. He will never see a courtroom, or hear the pounding of a gavel against wood as the judge calls the verdict that sentences him to time he deserves. I've robbed him of that experience—of the basic human right to due process.

I feel his body lift off me and I scramble backwards on my hands, getting as far away from him as possible. When my back hits a wooden crate I draw my knees up.

Looking down, I see I'm drenched in blood—his blood. I start hyperventilating, my mind racing with images of a family who has lost a father, a brother, or a son. An empty chair at a dinner table as a wife weeps, waiting for a husband that will never return.

My shoulders shake and it takes me a minute to figure out I'm not the one controlling them.

I look up and my eyes focus on concerned brown eyes that are identical to mine. The ringing in my ears quiets enough for me to hear a voice.

"Bella… Bella…. Bella? Are you okay? Are you hurt?" Emmett's anxious voice is heard over the dull noise.

My rapid breathing does not allow me to form words, so I just stare at him with a wide, panicked eyes.

I feel warm liquid travel down my face and reach up to touch it. My hand is covered in blood, but I can't tell who's it is. My vision starts to darken around the edges as my breathing picks up tenfold.

I wouldn't know—never having had one up until now—but this must be what a panic attack feels like.

Emmett picks me up effortlessly and I know he's talking, but the ringing has increased to an earsplitting blaring.

Hours go by, or maybe it's minutes—I can't tell—when I hear more than one voice near me.

I blink and my eyes refocus on what I'm seeing. There are about a dozen black cars, all surrounding the building. I'm sitting on top of the hood of a black SUV, a blanket has been placed around me.

Near the back entrance, I spot Emmett talking to a short man in a dark blue jacket. He's facing away from me so I can't see his face, but I can see the large yellow letters that say POLICIA on his jacket.

Emmett looks up and meets my eyes, saying something to the officer before walking over to me.

"Bells?" He asks once he reaches me, putting a hand on my shoulder.

I still can't find my voice, so I just nod shakily.

Another man approaches Emmett and I, introducing himself as James Hunt. He's taller than the guy Em was talking to earlier. He has mustard yellow blonde hair, pale skin, and isn't wearing a dark blue jacket so I assume he works for the Agency.

"We've identified the man in the warehouse as Marcus Volturi. We ran his prints and got a hit from when he was around eighteen and was arrested for car theft in Italy. We were lucky he's the only one in the Volturi family with any record."

"Holy shit…. That was one of the Volturi brothers? What was he doing around here?" Emmett questions, bewildered.

"This looks to be one of their main stash houses. So far, the Agency and Colombian Police have gathered millions of dollars' worth of drugs. They haven't even touched the rooms locked up with money in it… I assume that's why one of the brothers was out here. This'll be a big loss for the Volturi. You guys did good work out here."

I'm repulsed by the fact that I'm being complimented for taking a life, no matter how evil. I can only think about what the higher ups are going to say about this. They probably won't even ask for the paperwork on this… I might even get a promotion.

Bile rises in my throat and I find myself unable to control my body as I hurl. I feel Em gently hold my hair away from my face as I heave the contents of my stomach onto the grass.

"Is she okay?" I hear James say, slight disgust in his tone.

"Yeah, she's fine. She just inhaled some of that mold in there, doesn't feel too good." Em replies shortly.

"What were you guys doing out here anyway?"

How the fuck can you still ask questions when you're watching someone vomit right in front of you?

"Need to know."

"Ah, gotcha… Well, I'm sure your boss is happy... What were your names again?"

Emmett doesn't reply to this, but from the disappearing of James' feet from my view, I gather that he got the hint he's no longer needed.

I straighten up once I have nothing left in me, wiping my face with the back of my hand.

"Come on," Emmett murmurs softly, "let's get you out of here."

I blink and find myself sitting on the couch in my hotel room. I can't remember the drive here or how I got up to my room. I try to remember being in a car at all, but my mind is still hazy.

I hear water running somewhere, but can't find it in me to go see where it's coming from.

"Bella…?"

I look up to see Emmett kneeling in front of me, eyeing me like a scared, cornered pup.

A reply forms in my head but doesn't reach my lips.

"Your head needs a couple stitches, I'm gonna patch you up, okay?" He holds up a needle and some surgical suture.

I nod my head, silently giving him the okay.

He opens up a first aid kit on the table next to me and goes to work cleaning up my wound. He's known I have an allergy to anesthetic for years now, but he still offers me a sympathetic look and an apology before he starts stitching me up. I don't feel a thing.

Once done, he gets up and picks me up without a word, walking me over to the bathroom and setting me down gently on the tile, making sure I have my balance before letting go.

"I'll be right outside, okay?" He offers soothingly.

Waiting on the sound of a door closing, I begin peeling off my blood-stained clothes.

I don't have the strength to stand, so I sit in the shower, and watch as the water washes away the grime and blood, circling the drain as the evidence disappears.

I can't understand how murderers live with themselves after killing an innocent person. I'm utterly disgusted with myself, even knowing Marcus Volturi deserved what came to him. I saw no hesitation in his eyes as he choked the life out of me, only determination.

I killed to survive, while his goal was to avoid the loss of drug money and to keep his family's criminal empire thriving. I was just an obstacle to him, not a real person. He would have easily stepped over my body and dumped me somewhere, forgetting I ever existed within minutes. The thought shakes me to my core.

Once I feel my skin pruning and the water turn cold, I step out of the shower on unsteady legs and put on the clothes Emmett's laid out for me on the counter.

I open the bathroom door to find Emmett sitting on the bed, talking into his cellphone with a hushed voice. Once he sees me he ends the call and tucks me into bed, much like our mother used to when we were children.

"Will you stay with me?" I whisper, my voice coarse.

He looks down at me as tears pool in my eyes, worry etched all over his face. "Of course."

As he settles down next to me, I lay my head on his chest and he wraps an arm around my shoulder.

We lay like that for a long time before my thoughts can no longer keep themselves confined in the walls of my mind.

"Does it always… Feel like this?" I rasp.

"Yes. But you learn to stomach it over time… Find a way to lock those feelings away."

"I'm sorry..."

"For what?"

"I never fully appreciated what you did for me—never really thought twice about it until now. In our past missions when we've been forced to take someone down, you've always been the one to pull the trigger. I always just thought you were quicker than I was, because you already had the experience."

"I was trying to spare you from this feeling. I'm always going to try to protect you from what this cruel world has to world offer, Bella."

I stay silent, thinking of a way to apologize for the vile words I threw at him last week. I can't form any words to excuse myself for how I reacted.

Emmett's soft snores interrupt me from my thoughts. I close my eyes, promising to make proper amends tomorrow morning.

"… There were no survivors, police confirm... Third bombing today... As we mourn the loss of so many law enforcement officials..."

I turn over and open my heavy lids, taking a moment to remember where I am.

Emmett stars at the TV screen somberly as he shovels oatmeal into his mouth. My stirring causes him to glance back at me.

"Shit's hitting the fan everywhere since last night..." He mutters, turning back to the TV.

I stand and go to sit closer to hear what's going on. Emmett taps my shoulder, holding up a warm bowl of oatmeal. I take it, but don't eat any—my appetite still eluding me.

Focusing on the TV, I see a news reporter standing a few hundred feet away from a building that's in ruins. There are still some fire fighters working to put out the last of the flames. The news blurb below her flashes black and red.

THIRD TERRORIST BOMBING TODAY: CIA SURVEILLANCE BUILDING IN KEY WEST, FLORIDA.

The channel changes before I can hear what she has to say and another news reporter appears before me.

"… Police are still sifting through the wreckage for any evidence of what caused the explosion. The SWAT van had nine men riding in it when the attack occurred. There were no survivors... "

Again, the channel changes and I become aware it's Emmett who's clicking through them.

"… No news yet on the terrorist attack on a Homeland Security office in New York. Police have confirmed fourteen dead and six injured. No terrorist group has come forth to claim the attack, law enforcement officials are still narrowing down the suspects—"

"It started a few hours after we took down that stash house." Emmett murmurs as he mutes the TV, "The media is going crazy, throwing names around of the people they think are responsible for this. But we already know who it is."

"Aro Volturi." I affirm.

He nods his head once, "It's a message."

He doesn't need to explain further. I already know what that message is. Aro is telling everyone to back the fuck off—angry over the loss of his brother and his money. He wants to show everyone what he is capable of if we keep after him.

"Is this just in the US?" I ask.

"Couple low coverage attacks in Colombia, but they're shits all sorts of fucked up that the news reporters are scared to report much. The warehouse might have been on Colombian soil but the Volturi some how know it was Americans who lead that raid. We're the only ones he wants to intimidate. Everyone else doesn't have shit on him so he doesn't need to make a statement.

A few years ago, the Italians busted a few of his boys—they weren't high up or anything—bunch of drug dealers and low-level pimps. Aro still retaliated, killing the police officers that made the arrest. He thinks he's untouchable."

Our conversation is interrupted by Emmett's phone ringing. I half expect it to be Rosalie, but when he answers I can tell it is Jasper who's called from his short tone.

He holds the phone up to his ear for a few moments before hanging up the call without a goodbye. I can see the events that have transpired over the last twelve hours still haven't gotten him to forget Jasper not telling him about Edward and I.

"We have a mole." Emmett growls.

"What?" I gasp.

"That CIA office in Key West that listens in to Cuba? No one knows where it is. You would only know if you work for the Agency. Which means someone fed the location to the Volturi."

I rest my head in my hands, trying to work through this new development.

"There are only a handful of people who know what we're working on right now, Bella. Out of those, two are family. Kate's the third, but I'd trust that woman with my life and anyone else she brought into that room. No one knows about us. If you want to pull out of the mission now, I wouldn't blame you—"

"No!" I blurt, interrupting him. I shrink back, a little embarrassed of my outburst. "I'm not leaving you alone and I'm not backing out now. I'm not scared of the Volturi."

He studies me for a moment before going to pack up his things.

Edward still believes I'm in Wyoming with Angela setting up her wedding. I'm supposed to arrive later today back home.

I walk into the bathroom to brush my teeth and change. The woman that looks back at me in the mirror isn't Isabella Swan. She looks like a feeble, scared, and utterly beaten woman. She stares back at me with bloodshot eyes. Her neck sporting bright, red scratch marks that adorn the deep, purple bruises. She has matching bruises all along her upper arms and a stitched up gash on the side of her head.

One word comes to my mind as I examine her. Weak.

I hastily turn away from her in mild disgust, not wanting to look any longer. I dress quietly, avoiding the mirror and anything else reflective.

I make sure to put a scarf on and pull my baseball cap low on my head before heading out with Emmett to the airport.

I break my promise of making amends with him. Seeing my reflection in the mirror brought all the memories of last night rushing back to the forefront of my mind. I don't want Emmett to see I'm still being affected by it, so I play tired and pretend to sleep during the car ride.

"I'll see you tomorrow." I mutter as Emmett hands me my duffle bag.

Bringing up the fact that I'll see him at Rosalie's birthday party has Emmett looking bitter again. I can tell he's still upset with me, too. Jasper and I are going to have some trouble getting through to him.

I take a Tylenol PM before the plane takes off to help with my headache and fall asleep in minutes.

I arrive at my apartment in Chicago late in the evening. The sun has started to set, making my apartment appear darker.

After I hurriedly turn on all the lights, I double check the windows are locked and place a chair in front of my front door, fastening it under the knob.

I look around at my apartment and feel completely out of place. It's quiet, but the furniture glares back at me accusingly, as if to tell me I don't belong here.

Feeling my breathing pick up, I rush to the bathroom to start a bath in my clawfoot tub, pouring in some Epsom salt for my sore muscles.

Once the water reaches the top, I step in to the warm, welcoming water.

I draw my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around my legs, resting my head on them as sob after sob rips out of me.

I lose control of my mind, the barrier I had put up to hold myself together long enough to make it through the airport has completely disintegrated.

Flashes of Marcus as he stares down at me, choking me as I squirm utterly helpless, race across my mind. My lungs constrict as if he's still holding me down.

I cry until my eyes run dry and the water turns ice cold. When my breathing calms and my sobs turn to whimpers, I stare at the stark white tiles on the wall, finding little patterns in the cracks.

Outside of the bathroom, I hear my phone go off but don't move. I stay in my safe haven. I know if I step out of the tub, the breakdown that follows will be the worst one yet.

I close my eyes and daydream about what my night would have looked like if I hadn't been so stubborn and let Emmett search the warehouse. He's much stronger than I am and would have come out unscathed.

I picture a different conversation with James Hunt, one where I'm not bent over dry heaving. I imagine myself stitching up Emmett as he makes playful banter at me and we rejoice about the bust we made together, our fight long forgotten and apologies exchanged.

Thump, thump, thump... "Marie?" … Thump, thump, thump.

I jolt awake, looking around to see I fell asleep in the bathtub. Goose bumps riddle my skin as I shiver from the cold water.

I stare out through the bathroom door, towards the source of the thumping.

"Marie? Are you in there? I haven't heard from you... I'm getting worried." Edwards voice carries over to me, filled with concern.

There's no way in hell he can see me like this.

I shrink back into the water, leaving only my eyes peeking above it, as if Edward has some super human power that allows him to see through the door—but apparently not through an acrylic tub.

He pounds at the door for a few more minutes before giving up and leaving.

I let out a sigh of relief, causing the water to ripple around me. My shudders get a bit more violent, so I drain the tub and fill it once more with scalding hot water. I do this every few hours—when I can no longer stand the cold, waking up a quivering mess while I wait to become warm again.

When sunlight filters in through the bathroom window, I argue with myself about getting out or not. I don't want to get hypothermia or start developing sores on my skin, so I drain the tub, meeting my subconscious half way and not staying submerged in water.

It takes another few hours for me to hurry out of the tub and change quickly. I snatch a pillow and blanket off my bed, sprinting back to the tub, but not before I grab a tub full of muffins sitting on my kitchen island.

I settle back into my safe haven, wrapping the blanket around me and appeasing my loud, rumbling stomach with a blueberry muffin.

I'm very well aware that at some point, I will need to not only leave the security of my tub, but my apartment entirely. For now, I'm content with convincing myself that I can stay here forever, never dealing with what lies outside of my bathroom door. Never having to fill out a statement and complete paperwork as you do every time you shoot your gun. Not having to deal with any Agency psychologists, or lying to the Cullen's, or the aftermath of the Volturi attacks.

I have full control over my life from this small, confined white space. I have all the power here. I feel strong here.

I fall asleep after devouring the muffin, unbothered by the flower shop or any outstanding orders I have there.

My stomach wakes me sometime later in the day and I reach for another muffin—okay maybe I reached for two.

I'm biting into my second muffin when I hear a knock at my door. I stop midbite and gaze out through the living area.

"Marie, it's Edward." Knock, knock.

I look back at the bathroom window and see that the sky is beginning to darken. Shit, Rosalie's birthday party.

"Marie, I know you're in there. I checked with the airline. You made your flight and it arrived on time. Your neighbor also heard you come in yesterday."

I wrap my blanket tighter around me as I scowl at the door. Of course he'd check.

"Did I do something to upset you?... I'm sorry for whatever I did, Marie. Please, just talk to me."

It pulls at my heartstrings to hear him sound so crestfallen.

But I can't open that door. I can't let him see me like this. As I was running back to the bathroom I caught sight of myself in the mirror. It's as if the bruises are worse today—almost black in color now.

This time it takes him longer to give up and walk away. He doesn't keep knocking, doesn't say anything else, but I can see the shadow of his feet in the tiny crack between the door and floor.

I close my eyes after the shadows leave, welcoming the numbness of sleep.

My feet pound on the cement floor as I run down the empty hall filled with locked doors. I'm out of breath, but I keep going, not wanting the man behind me to catch up.

I try one last door, pounding my fists against it, begging anyone who can hear to let me in.

The man grabs me and effortlessly pulls me back. I crash into the wall behind me, falling to the ground.

He climbs over me, his big hands closing over my throat as I stare up helplessly.

Marcus looks down at me as I struggle to breathe, his lip curled in disgust as his evil eyes stare down at me, not letting go.

I'm stunned awake by a shrill scream, out of breath as my body tremors violently. I cover my mouth and discover the scream had been my own.

A sob tears out of my chest as tears run down my already wet cheeks.

Quickly shedding my clothes, I dump the blanket and pillow out of the tub before I can lose any more control.

I watch as the hot water embraces me once more, taking me in and keeping me safe from Marcus.

Just like that, I'm back to square one. Soaking in the water until it turns to ice and refilling the tub ever few hours. I don't close my eyes anymore—Not wanting to see what the darkness behind my eyelids hold.

I don't know how long I do this for, not paying attention to the brightness or darkness that filters in through the window, but when my hunger becomes insatiable and I reach for a muffin I find it to be stale.

When my muscles begin to get sore I drain the water again but don't turn on the faucet, instead opting to gladly accept the shivers that run down my spine from the bitter chill of the air around my wet skin.

I hear the lock on my front door click, followed by a knock.

"Bella... It's me. I'm coming in." Emmett calls from the other side.

The chair scrapes against the hard wood floor. Em manages to get the door open just a sliver. He peeks in, looking for me.

"Bella? Can you let me in please?"

I stay cuddled in my safe haven, not acknowledging him.

I hear the chair scrape again, a loud smack follows. I look over and see the chair on the ground, but the thick door chain doesn't allow Emmett access in.

"Bella, please. I will break down this door if I have to. Everyone's worried about you."

I tighten my arms around my knees and tuck my head into them. Go away.

The noisy bang that comes from my living room alerts me that Emmett did in fact break down my door.

"Damn it!" He cries.

A warm blanket drapes over me as Emmett picks me up.

"Fuck, Bells. Why didn't you call me? I didn't know it was this bad."

"I'm fine." I wheeze through my sobs.

"You've been holed up in your bathtub for four days. I'm sure Webster doesn't have this listed under the definition of 'fine'."

He lays me down gently on my couch before walking away and bringing back a T-shirt and shorts for me. He turns away, letting me have my privacy as I put on my clothes.

Once I'm done, he sits down next to me, slowly as if not to scare me away.

"Bells?" He says tentatively.

"Hmm?"

"You have to talk to someone. I'm not saying you have to talk to me, but you can't keep this all in. It's not good for you, trust me. I know how you feel."

I slide my eyes over to him, unable to keep the scowl off my face.

Emmett has never been in a situation where he is at a disadvantage. He's never felt helpless. He can probably count the times someone's gotten a punch in on him with one hand.

He looks back at me sympathetically, "I'm not talking about that. I'm talking about feeling helpless—out of control... You resent yourself for letting your guard down, or not fighting back hard enough. You blame yourself for being put in that situation."

My scowl softens as my eyes water. I lean my head against his shoulder and he puts his arm around me, tucking me into his side.

"I was weak." I whimper.

"No, you weren't. You were caught off guard." He asserts firmly.

"You weren't there. I wasn't caught off guard, I let my guard down because I was stupid."

"I've seen you take on much more than him, and you always come out on top. Everyone makes mistakes."

"I could have shot him when I still had my gun in my hand when he came up behind me, maybe wounded him enough to stop..."

"I'm sure he wouldn't have stopped until you were dead. People like him never do."

"I should have let you go in. I should have kept look out."

"I'm sorry I let you go in there, Bells."

"It's not your fault, I just wanted to show you I'm strong enough to take these kinds of things on."

"You did show me. I would have made the same decision if it had been me. You're an amazing agent, don't ever sell yourself short. No matter what anyone says." I can see by the look in his eyes he's talking about what he said to me.

What happened with Marcus has hit me especially hard because things like this never happen to me. Becoming a field agent was probably the best decision I made—it made me feel worth so much more.

I've always been a step ahead of the enemy, I've always been exceptional at my job. I know my father being who he is has helped me progress a little faster than most, but I've gotten myself this far. No one in the Agency can deny that I'm the best at what I do.

Killing Marcus felt horrible, but what really shook me was being at the mercy of my mark. It's going to take a lot longer to get over that feeling of helplessness than it will take getting over taking that vile man's life. Emmett's assurances have started to help, and I know the rest will be up to me.

We sit in silence and again I can't formulate the words to apologize to my brother. I feel ashamed. I know I need to apologize soon, but bringing it up will only remind me of what a terrible sister I am.

"You need to see someone." Emmett insists. "A professional. I'm serious—it will help. I was so stubborn and didn't see one, thinking that only the weak sit and talk about their feelings. I bottled that shit up for a long time until I couldn't take it anymore. Talking to someone, even for a few sessions, it really helps. Maybe schedule a few phone call sessions with a psych... I promise, once you talk to someone, you won't feel helpless—you'll feel better."

I sniff and wipe my nose. When I see it's going to take much more than the back of my hand to clean my face, I reach over for a tissue.

A figure in my doorway catches my eye and I look up.

A pair of eyes, wide with surprise, gaze back at me.

A/N:

Cliffies are my guilty pleasure... ;)

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