Chapter 12:
Feast and Submission
To pretend is to fool another. Never by pretending can one fool oneself.
She read it twice, even though she had locked it to memory the first time her eyes had passed over the words. The second time over, it made all the less sense to her. Esme had to disagree with this. The lovely printed script on a musty page could not trick her into believing it was impossible to fool herself.
Esme had little insight to herself since her change. She was, by all accounts, the same woman she was before, but memory did not allow her to make the connection to her former self. What dreams had she had when she was still a human? What was in her heart and soul? Esme wanted to believe her old self was still there, buried inside the shell of a snow-skinned beauty...but perhaps she wasn't. Perhaps she was just like the dust at the bottom of a strainer, the insignificant scraps left over from something that was once important.
For Esme, not pretending was the same as pretending. Her behavior was not unnatural, but it was somewhat inexplicable.
For instance, she took care not to look at Carlisle when he entered the room. It was a semi-conscious effort that quickly turned conscious. She didn't know why she felt the need to hide her eyes from his, but it was simply done out of instinct. Her heart begged her not to seek eye contact with the doctor.
He was nothing but kind to her, as was expected, and she was nothing but kind to him in return. Their relationship, if it could even be named so, was not a solid entity. It possessed fountain in place of foundation. It was always stirring, changing – a shy social liquid for them to swim within. While he was a brilliant swimmer, she was merely treading water.
Neither Carlisle nor Edward dared force Esme into being social. Sometimes she just did not feel like having a conversation, and that was understood. There was some comfort in knowing that they had both once been where she was now. They would see her through the highs and lows of these unsettling times of her rebirth. But sometimes she could sense that they wanted her to try harder to break her insecurity. Most especially Carlisle. He pushed her without pushing. He was distant and sensitive and all the things she wished he wouldn't be because they made her want to follow his every step.
The pushing was something that had always made Esme uneasy. Carlisle gave the impression that he would shy away from force of any sort, but really he was a manipulative and twisted influence beneath it. He used his distance to create a clever trap for her to come to him. Slowly, softly, she was ensnared – and it was always her own fault for falling.
Esme had always known there would come a time when Edward would not be present, and the doctor would have to accompany her into the forest in search of blood. The first time she found herself in said situation, she had denied her thirst in order to avoid it. And it was not such an easy thing to deny, especially when Carlisle was sugaring her with insistence.
It was not even her own fear of humiliation that had discouraged her from going with him, although that always had a small part in her decisions. She was not afraid of him seeing her with blood upon her lips; she was afraid of seeing him that way. With his precise little lips crushed passionately into the neck of some poor creature, the burnt caramel of his gaze diving into blackness before rising with the sun as he drained the blood with experienced incisors. She thought of what feral sounds he might have uttered, what losing his harness of impeccable control might have done to him. Mostly, she wondered if she could even handle seeing that...
Occasionally she permitted herself the imaginary scenario in her mind, thinking how preposterous it would have been to see the refined doctor in such a state. Frankly, it horrified her to even imagine such things. Carlisle was too pure, too human to really be this way. She tried to convince herself that he really was some odd breed of vampire – some non-animalistic variation, perhaps even a different species entirely.
Esme went for days, ignoring the private fire in her throat, positively daunted at the idea of participating in such a vicious activity while the doctor was in her presence. But she could only hold off on the inevitability for so long before it became inescapable.
On Saturday mornings, Edward would go into town to restock on the human necessities that were only needed to soothe suspicions. Carlisle never worked on the weekends unless he had taken a house call. It was impossible for Esme to ignore the fact that she and Carlisle were alone in the house, but even more nerve-wracking was the dangerous intensity of her long-neglected thirst. She stood, waist deep in denial, with the curtains curled over her mouth and nose as she looked out the window with wistful wishes. She tingled for the blood, more sensitive and on-edge than ever. An entire week without blood for a newborn was a challenge, and she was pushing her limits as it was. By Saturday afternoon there was no choice; she had to hunt. She had to hunt with him.
Maybe it had been some unconscious intention, pacing the halls wherever his scent led her. She was baiting herself for him, awaiting her coy capture willingly. He abandoned whatever importance his attentions seized for her, swathing her with that timbre of pity and urgency.
"Your eyes are too dark, Esme," he said in a strained voice as he passed her in the hall. "I understand that you wish to rush your progress, but denying yourself for so long will not help."
It was so perfect, the ways in which he misunderstood her motives for prolonging it.
"I just thought that if I waited long enough, I would grow used to the feeling," she played along, lingering on the steps as though prepared to dart back upstairs to her room, to her safety. She was suddenly made all too aware of the position she had unintentionally constructed for herself. She was caged, cornered, locked into what she knew was unavoidable, and he was still insisting…
"It isn't wise to test yourself," Carlisle countered in a whisper, his warm eyes begging her.
Silence.
"Please, Esme. You've waited long enough. I must take you right now."
If there had been any connotative undertones to what he said then, she had only noticed them in the deepest, most sinful part of her mind. Perhaps that was what made the unease in the pit of her stomach feel so awkwardly pleasant.
She nodded reluctantly and he rushed to the door at once. He held it open for her then led her swiftly towards the mouth of the forest. As soon as Carlisle began to run, Esme was dumbfounded as to why she had ever been foolish enough to turn down his offers before.
She had been given the chance to see him in such a bewildering state.
The fear she suspected he had regarding his own abilities was no longer there. Not here. Not now.
One step into that forest, and he was a wild angel, defying the forces of nature with a viscosity that rivaled air itself. His body was nothing but a flash of solid colors striking the air as he ran alongside her.
The witchy hands of tree branches snagged at his clothes, trying so vainly to disrupt his run. The wind that sailed through the empty air grasped desperately at his figure as he pierced straight through it, but it never caught him. Every fall of his foot made the earth tremble; every unfortunate particle that hovered in his path was reduced to vapor as he passed through with impossible speed.
Finding Carlisle considerably slower than Edward, Esme held back with effort so that she would stay in sync with him and not leave his sight completely. It was not so frustrating to slow her pace when it meant she could watch his every move.
And watch him she did.
Far too often, with far too much interest.
But it wasn't her fault that he was so fascinating.
It was all part of this disturbing ritual they called the hunt. When the body was abandoned and fueled solely on its sensual capabilities. And the driving force behind this psychotic spiral was the spell-binding perfume of blood that tainted Mother Nature's warm breath in the depths of the forest.
Like a fair scarlet princess held captive in the darkness, they searched for it, fought for it, killed for it.
Even he lost himself to that scent.
She was smitten by his grace as he made a fool of Newton's laws, looking sickeningly dashing in those charcoal leather boots that nearly reached his knees.
She was demurely distracted by the reserved growl of warning that blossomed from the back of his throat just before he pounced.
And she swore her long lost pulse resurrected for one fleeting instant, the first time his lips latched possessively onto the neck of a submissive doe.
Because if she was being brutally honest, it was so thrilling to watch such a kind and gentle man submit to a fleeting façade of vicious carnality. He was a poised and placid predator. A soft and sober sadist.
Esme snatched her own prey from its last leap of desperation and brought it crashing down beneath her weight on the damp forest floor. It writhed desperately for a few seconds under her fierce grip, its numb black eyes glassy with terror. She stared at the deer's innocent face with a curious intensity, as she had always done before she dove in to drink. Its eyes stared blankly back at her, and there was a sinful fascination in that stare shared between the dominator and the submissive. The tension Esme felt facing her prey a final time before taking its life was often as thrilling as the drink that followed.
Before she could so much as bend her head forward, the neck of the pleading-eyed creature was snapped sharply in half with a sickening crack, echoing throughout the forest. In an instant, its eyes were emptied of their listless black energy. It was dead.
"Do not let her suffer."
She heard her angel begging over her shoulder, his breath further sweetened by the blood he had already consumed. A pang within her heart forced her to face him with guilt-laden eyes. There was a chilling sternness to Carlisle's inherently soft golden gaze as he released the neck of the animal and rose to his feet.
Esme stilled for a moment, in perfect shock that he had reprimanded her for something she had never once considered cruel. But now that he had brought it to light, it seemed so very reprehensible. Edward had never made the effort to ensure that his prey did not suffer in the hunt, and so Esme had followed his example. She should have known the doctor would find sin in something so instinctive. Lord, he had not even referred to the dying doe as an 'it' – he called it 'her'...
Esme bowed her head in apologetic shame for a moment as Carlisle settled on his knee beside the deer he had killed for himself. He was lovingly swift in snapping its neck, his hands steady with the skill acquired after years and years of practice.
Esme's unsteady hands tried not to feel the soft coat of fur, or the warmth that was slowly seeping from her kill as she gripped the deer's neck and lifted it to her mouth. But even as she split the hide and tore the vein, her eyes were peering up at her elegant counterpart, forever famished for the feast that had nothing to do with the thirst in her permanently parched throat.
She waited for the moment when he would catch her staring, and their eyes met for a shy slice of a second before they averted their guilty gazes. The sparkling chills that swept up her spine like chords on a harp were arguably more delicious than the blood itself.
She shut her eyes tightly to keep from looking back and promised herself she would only listen. But the soft purrs of contentment that sounded from his chest as he drank made her realize that listening was not an option either.
In fact Esme forbade herself from engaging in any of her senses while in Carlisle's presence during the hunt.
They slaughtered an unhealthy percentage of the forest that morning. Esme was surprised to find that the doctor was just as thirsty as she had been, or perhaps he only continued to hunt just to spare her the unease of feeling greedy. After all, it was only necessary that he follow her everywhere she went.
She always finished before him, even if she made a conscious effort to take her prey at a sluggish pace. He was a slow drinker. A patient drinker.
He was patient with everything. Even the dead creatures he fed upon.
She leaned against the bark of a tree and watched him drain the last of the blood, with her hands behind her back so that he would not see the ruby smears that stained them.
His hands always came out clean. There was never a speck of soil, nor drop of blood to be seen in the palms of this meticulous surgeon. Not a single stain to mar the sheer buttermilk melanin of his skin.
It seemed Carlisle was always clean.
Esme, it seemed, was always a mess. The hem of her skirt was tattered by jagged branches and thorns from her run, anything white was a washed out pink from the blood that spattered haphazardly as she plucked at her prey. Her fair brown locks were made almost beast-like by the wind whipping past her as she sprinted.
Yet Carlisle survived the hunt without a single hair out of place, his shirt tucked neatly within the confines of his waistband, the tie about his neck never lopsided. His eyes were like lemon-colored crystals, startlingly clear and sated after feeding. Esme felt ashamed to look at him for a while, knowing her eyes would never be as bright. But his eyes were so beautiful it made her just as miserable to look away.
It was mildly infuriating to her that he should be so consistently perfect. Yet she couldn't help but admire him and adore him ruthlessly for it, in the silent safety of her own mind.
He was always kind to her, never making any mentions of her glaring dishevelment, even as he himself could have emerged from the forest perfectly prepared to merge with the rest of high society.
He made her feel almost comfortable, chasing away her shame with the simplest of gestures. Anything he did, no matter how insignificant it might have seemed, put her at ease and made her feel cared for. She would have argued that she did not deserve such treatment, but he would only retaliate with the same gallant affection. It was just in his nature.
It did not matter that he had just slaughtered these animals and fed on their blood right before her eyes. He was still the same doctor, the same man beneath it all. This had changed nothing as she had feared. This was bearable. This was…pleasant.
"Does it ever grow tiring? Running like this?" she asked him as they dashed through the forest beside each other on their way home.
"Physically?" His voice was muffled from their speed, but never unclear in her ears.
"No, just... I suppose it loses its novelty at some point?" she guessed, glancing over at him as he began to slow down behind her.
Esme harnessed her own grand momentum with effort and veered back to fall into sync with Carlisle's leisurely pace. He looked thoughtfully at her for a few moments as she skipped lightly ahead of him, and suddenly he grinned – a youthful grin that made his dimples flicker and teeth twinkle like tiny stars.
"It is entirely up to you if any of this loses its novelty," he told her.
She smiled back at him, quite pleased with the idea that she could be forever in awe of her abilities if she chose to be.
"Has it lost its novelty for you?" she questioned curiously.
He gazed at her thoughtfully for a moment, then there was a glitter to his eyes as his smile broadened almost mischievously. "Do you know how long I have been a vampire?"
She shook her head, anticipating that he was going to reveal his true age to her, but he merely turned his head away with a roguish smirk that looked as though it had been stolen straight off the face of his son.
"We'd best save that story for another time."
Well, what a tease that was.
"Oh, goodness," Esme gasped as the hem of her skirt was abruptly caught in a dangling mess of sharp branches. Her hands reached back to tug on the fabric, hoping the doctor had walked far enough ahead of her that he would not take notice to her brief struggle.
There was a startling snapping sound from behind her just as her skirt became free, followed by the soft rip of shredding cotton. She sighed in exasperation, thinking her tendency to underestimate her strength had not yet waned. With an irritated huff, she turned quickly to gather up the torn hem.
Blond was all she saw at first. Just blond. Then Carlisle's innocent eyes staring up at her from where he was kneeling behind her, with a sizable strip of her dress in his hands.
"Forgive me," he murmured. With those wry dimples prodding at his cheeks, the words seemed hardly genuine. "There was no saving it," he justified, winding the sorry bit of fabric about his wrist as he stood to his full height.
"I suppose dresses aren't exactly suitable for hunting in the forest," she mumbled with a miserable swat against her skirt.
He made a faint noise of amusement from beside her, almost a giggle – lighthearted, but strained – as if he were hesitant to laugh at her expense. She looked over at him to find him clearly biting the inside of his cheek.
"We'll just have to order another, then."
Esme was about to protest politely when she was suddenly cut short by his proffered hand. Unsure of whether to take it or not, she gazed up at him questioningly and found a peculiar openness to his eyes – wide and receptive they were, almost like an infant's as he stared. The disarming forwardness of his gaze gave her the distinct feeling that he was not merely looking at her; he was looking into her.
As though magnets had been at work, her hand found its way quite happily into the firm bed of his palm.
Something replaced oxygen just then. Something much heavier and hotter and colder at once. Something much harder to breathe. She had little idea as to what it could have been, but she was certain that it was not the kind of air her lungs were built for.
This was not the first time Carlisle had taken her hand, but it was the first time she had given her hand to him willingly. No amount of preparation time should have made a difference, but somehow she did not remember it being quite so...remarkable the first time.
Her eyes fastened onto her hand in his, improperly fascinated by how nicely it seemed to fit, nonsensically delighted at how tiny it looked while held by his. The heat stopped at her wrist and coiled through every one of her fingers meticulously, rendering each delicate digit slack.
There were the smallest traces of blood still glistening beneath her fingernails, but her insecurity was obliterated once she noticed the unmistakable rosy stains along the underside of his fingers as well. Something about it made her heart jump, knowing he was perhaps not as flawless as she had initially thought.
The doctor's smile was soft and easy as he helped her out of the tangled branches. "For a moment there I thought perhaps you were opposed to chivalry," he gently teased.
She shook her head once, playing against the edges of a don't-be-ridiculous smile that was both grateful and apologetic.
"There we are," he whispered approvingly as she stepped safely out of the brush and onto the soft ground beside his feet.
"Thank you." She tried to slow the words down, tried to draw out as best she could two words of one syllable each, in the hopes of prolonging the time he chose to keep her hand in his. It was embarrassingly ridiculous.
Why? Why did having her hand held feel so disastrously wonderful?
"Mmhm," he acknowledged her dismissively, but his gaze did not break from hers until his fingers loosened with reluctance. As his hand left hers, his eyes did as well.
Every fiber of her body was tingling in protest as his smooth fingers unwittingly teased her with their final brush of contact, and her hand dropped down to hang against her side.
There was a sickly limpness to her hand once his support was withdrawn. Her hand now felt heavy and clammy instead of light and warm; bulky and miserable instead of dainty and elated. Yet there was a lingering tremble upon her fingers, an unassumingly magical energy that still hovered around her hand, clouded about her wrist. She desperately tried to savor it for as long as it would last.
Their abruptly broken contact brought with it a heightened awareness of her unkempt appearance, and at once Esme felt terribly inadequate walking beside Carlisle in such a state.
And so she kept her lips tightly sealed as they sprinted the rest of the way home, allowing herself to surpass his speed this time. Though she was disappointed in having to deny herself the savage beauty of his run, there was not a moment to waste when she was in dire need of bathing.
He was not chasing after her, or at least, she never assumed that would be his intention as he ran behind her. He would never catch her unless she let him, which was not an entirely disagreeable option in the back of her mind. But somehow it felt like he was chasing her, and it felt like she was running away from him.
Esme's eyes zeroed in on the door to the house the instant it came into sight, and she was through the threshold in a flash, up the stairs and into her bedroom as though it were all a bizarre yet thrilling dream sequence.
She fell to her knees by the bathtub and turned the faucets to fill it, wondering vaguely why she was at all breathless from her run.
Her soiled clothing fell around her in soft shreds as she lifted her foot over the rim and stepped into the water.
The water never needed to be warm, but she liked to keep it that way. Not because it made her feel more human, but because hot water felt strong enough to rid her of the hideous red stains she still felt on her skin even after the splotches and smears had disappeared.
She scrubbed at her skin methodically, preoccupied with the distant sound of the doctor's footsteps as he locked the door to the house behind him.
Now that she had agreed to hunt with him once, it would be impossible for her to refuse it again. In a strange way she anticipated that she never would be opposed to it from then on. But now that she was considering someday joining Carlisle in the hunt again... her nerves were positively stinging at the thought.
With a sigh of confusion, she stepped from the bath and watched the rose-tinted water spiral down the drain, hoping that the next hunt would not make her feel so dirty.
