AN: Oh, hey! I hope 2020 is treating you good so far! Thanks for all the love last chapter!

I just wanted to mention there is a fandom fundraiser for Australia happening in the form of a compilation for donations. If you want to get your hands on the compilation, or you want to sign up to contribute yourself (banner makers/betas/writers) then please look up the facebook group Fandoms for Hope and Relief for all the deets. I'm currently planning on donating a Masen POV companion piece to this*

Feel free to add me on fb too whilst we're here; it's mainly gif related content and moodboards so if that's your thing it's Kate HTFM.

*may change as I am indecisive as hell

Enough rambling though! Onwards!

Chapter 27:

Two weeks, two cars, two states, seven different towns; dingy motel after dingy motel, sleepless night after sleepless night.

I'm restless and listless.

This wasn't what I imagined when Masen said normal.

One thing I'm sure of is that I couldn't ever live a nomadic lifestyle like this as a permanent thing; I need a place to call home. I need routine; structure, a job, home-cooked food...

Masen says soon, and it can't come quick enough.

Instead, I'm dwelling, thinking and thinking about the 'what if's' and 'might've been's' that haunt every sleepless minute and every minute of sleep.

Sometimes it's like I'm right back there, in that warehouse, about to lose my life.

And, even though he won't admit to it, I think Masen is more affected than he lets on.

It's in the way he barely leaves my side, how he startles out of sleep, hands searching me out. His paranoia about being followed; reprisals for leaving a family he swore an oath to that have seen us swap the car out twice and zig-zag across states never staying in the same place too long.

Being confined to four walls and a car with each other almost every hour of every day has also inevitably lead to bickering about nothing and everything.

Alone with weird salmon pink walls and dark floral curtains that are screaming to be in an eighties B-rated horror movie, I'm left glaring at the dark wood door he's just disappeared out of following an argument that started over something so petty, I can't even remember what it was.

He won't have gone far; probably chain smoking outside whilst the pretty blonde at reception flirts with him. She's been all over him ever since we checked in three days ago, eyeing me like I'm unworthy of him.

She's probably right.

We've argued about her too.

My fingernails curl into my palms at the thought, jealous.

Time passes and a feeling of wrong-doing sets in, anger and annoyance subsiding. I exhale loudly, huffily, not concentrating on the TV I've switched on to fill the silence.

I don't want him to regret this. Me. Us. His choice to leave everything he knows. I need to snap out of this mood, not just for him, but for me too. I'm sick of myself just as much as he must be.

I'm living, and breathing, and we're together.

I'm alive, that's what's important.

I shower, blow drying my hair with a hairdryer I found hidden in one of the drawers under the wardrobe. It smells funny and sounds even worse. Cheap red polish I picked up from a gas station is next. It's watery and takes three coats but when I've finished, I at least feel a bit more human, a bit more like myself. I inspect my face in the mirror, bruise completely faded, pale, slightly freckled olive skin and tired eyes. I still haven't gotten any makeup but I'm not going anywhere so, it doesn't really matter.

Keys jangle in the lock, the door opening and closing, the sound of it locking once more. I find him in the mirror, leaning against the door, hands in hoodie pockets. He's still for a minute as I brush through my hair again, his eyes roving over black underwear and naked flesh.

I've put on a little weight from two weeks of sitting, letting my feet heal up, and it's showing on my belly and my hips. I try not to feel self-conscious but I reach for a top anyway, a wistfulness for pole and yoga and being rushed off my feet at work.

Cold hands make me stop, one sliding around my waist, drawing me against him, nuzzling his face into my neck his newly grown beard tickling.

"I'm sorry," I tell him, "I'm being such a bitch. I just—I feel all over the place."

"I know."

"You know I'm a bitch? Or..."

He looks at me in the mirror from underneath his hair. "That you're all over the place. I'm sorry. I get it."

I hum as he places kisses all down my neck, my hand finding his, moving it from my waist down, pushing it to where I want it, fingers toying with simple black lace.

"Please," I beg, meeting his eyes in the mirror. "Please."

His fingers dance, a swipe of his tongue, teeth grazing against my neck; a soft whimper escaping my mouth. He's hesitating and I hate that. He's been holding off on this and it's been driving me crazy because I don't understand why.

"Please," I whisper again, pushing on his hand again, desperate for something. "Feel like you don't want me anymore."

He tuts in my ear, like I'm supposed to know better.

I watch our reflection as both his hands find my panties, pushing them down off my hips, before one hand finds hot, slick flesh.

There's heat in his eyes, a shakiness in his breath as he moves his hand over me, in me, one finger then two rhythmically pushing in and out, curling, a thumb on my clit, until I'm moving my hips searching for more, desperately, embarrassingly close already. My head lolls back against his shoulder.

"Look at yourself when you come," he says, roughly in my ear.

I do what he says. I think I look stupid as I let go, but one look at him; lips parted, eyes heavy, tells me he doesn't.

"Fuckin' beautiful," he murmurs, biting my ear.

I'm turning in his arms, knees hitting brown carpet, dragging his sweats and boxers down, mouth finding his cock, hard, ready.

"How can you think I don't want you?" he says, a hand finding my hair, pulling at it with a sharp inhale and a slow elongated "fuuuck" as I take all of him in my mouth.

I don't reply, enjoying how he responds to me until he tells me he's not going to last if I carry on like that. He let's me anyway, until he's sudden and decisive in his movements, pulling me to my feet, lifting me onto the dresser, feverish open mouth kisses all over as he nudges my legs apart, pushing in, making me gasp. It's been too long. Far too long, and I've missed this, him.

Large hands heavy on my waist, my own steadying myself on the dresser, a primal urgency takes over as he pounds into me, over and over again. The dresser rattles, his hands tighten. He's rougher than normal, and I like it. I want it. I'm telling him exactly that, to fuck me. I don't want gentle; I want to feel this tomorrow. His hands move me, pulling me towards him with every thrust, the dresser rocking against the wall, my moans swallowed.

He stutters 'I love you' as he makes me come with him. His body shuddering, the intensity of the feeling that washes over me makes me giggle, before it turns into a choked sob, and then another laugh; happy and sad all at the same time.

"You OK?" he pants. "Fuck, I didn't—"

"I'm fine," I nod, wiping away tears. "Just intense. I missed you." He presses my head into his sweaty chest, a kiss to the crown.

We stay like that until he carries me over to the bed, covering us in rough sheets before propping himself up on one arm.

"Hi," I whisper.

"Hi."

He smiles and I mirror him in quiet, blissed out satisfaction, a feeling of intimacy restored.

He asks me the question again that I haven't answered.

"You haven't touched me like that in weeks, not since… before," I tell him, self-conscious, insecure, gazing at the ceiling rather than him.

"Bella," he shakes his head, hand finding my face, a finger tracing the curve of my hairline. "Wanted you to have some time, after everythin', didn't wanna push you. Royce layin' his filthy hands on you..." His nose flares, his jaw clenched.

He hates he wasn't there to stop him from grabbing me; he hates it more, that he didn't make him suffer before he shot him dead, too.

Suddenly there's loud shouting from the room next door to us, the sound of something crashing against the wall. I jump out of my skin, clutching bed sheets to me, heart thundering.

We look at each other before Masen scrambles out of bed, pulling his sweats and boxers back on.

"Where are you goin'?" I ask, panicked.

"We ain't staying here," he tells me. "Can't fucking stand this place. Get dressed."

...

"I think I'm going to call him today."

Masen glances up from the newspaper he's reading, lowering it, as I busy myself buttering a slice of toast.

We're three days into a stay at a lake view hotel in Yellowstone National Park and I'm feeling a lot more upbeat. Being surrounded by vast swathes of green seems to have given me the refresh that I need. A natural reset button.

The past few mornings have seen us getting up early, going for walks in fresh air before having breakfast in the hotel sunroom, sitting and reading in the sunshine, going on even longer walks in the afternoon. I've even squeezed in some yoga and the peace I find with that has me wondering why I haven't been doing it before now.

We've spent this morning in bed; slow, lazy sex, followed by room service delivering breakfast to our suite. Masen has splashed out on an entire week here. It's his birthday on Friday and this is a celebration of sorts.

He slides a hand over the table to me, weaving his fingers with mine.

"Yeah? You mean it this time or you just gonna chicken out again?"

I've been saying I'm going to call Papà for the past week, ever since Masen spoke to him. I didn't feel ready then, but now it's all I can think about at night when I'm wide awake unable to sleep. I know I need to get it over with. Tick it off the list, take another step forward. But…

I pull my hand away, reaching for the strawberry jelly. "I haven't spoken to him in like, nine years. It's a big deal." A strong surge of guilt fills my chest as I speak.

"It'll be fine. He's alright."

He's refused to tell me anything about his talk with Papà, his mouth pulling into a terse line whenever I bring it up, pressing for details.

"What were you supposed to think? A jury convicted him, right? I'd have felt the same," he continues, shrugging and I feel a rush of love for him for trying to make me feel better.

Standing up, I lean across the table, planting a kiss on his lips.

"Thank you."

I pull back, biting my lip, mind wondering to his birthday and what the hell I can do for him.

"What's wrong?"

"Just thinkin' about your birthday. I can't get you anything and it feels really shitty," I admit, sitting down again, taking a bite of toast.

I've got no access to my bank account, no access to any money apart from what Masen has in the holdall he bought from his Mom's.

A 'just in case fund' he called it, but he's told me there's just shy of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars in there and there's nothing 'just in case' about that at all. My gut says that money is dirty or bloody, or both.

"I don't care about stuff. It's just stuff. You being with me is enough. If you feel that bad, we'll go into town or somethin'. You buy me what you want, or whatever."

I wrinkle my nose. That doesn't feel right either.

"Isn't that, like, cheating? Using your own money to buy you a gift?"

He shrugs. "I don't care. I've had some pretty shitty birthdays, this ain't gonna be one of them; gift or no gift."

"If you're sure." I get that: the birthday thing. Apart from my last, they've usually been non-events, it's not like James made an effort, really.

"I hate not having my own money," I tell him, frowning. It makes me feel dependant, it makes me feel like I'm slipping down the same slope I went down with James. But it's not like that with Masen; it never has been, he's never tried controlling me like that.

"It won't be for long," Masen reassures me. "When we're settled, we can find jobs... But you don't have to, you can do what you were gonna do and get your GED and go to school. I'll support you, whatever."

I consider him. Starting new, at almost thirty-one. The life he's just left is all he's known since he was in his teens.

"What do you want to do? Like, job wise?"

He looks down at his plate, then out at the lake, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck.

"I dunno," he tells me but there's a little flush at the tips of his ears that makes me think he does, he's just shy about it.

"Really? You never thought about it? I won't laugh or anything."

"Somethin' physical," he says.

"Like… a stripper? Mmm, I dunno about that," I say tapping my finger on my chin, teasing.

"Think that's more your thing," he says leaning back in his chair.

"I don't strip."

He leans forward.

"You do for me. New year's eve is a personal highlight."

I swallow a mouthful of toast and hum in agreement as his lips curl into a devious smile.

"I think I want to go into nursing... but then I dunno whether I'd cope. I could qualify as a yoga teacher or even teach pole, maybe. Don't need a GED for either of those."

It's the first time I've voiced these things out loud and I'm kind of hoping that it coaxes it out of him, what he sees himself doing.

"Why don't you think you'd cope with nursing?" Masen asks as I take another bite of toast.

"There's a lot of life and death stuff, and I worry that it'll trigger, like panic attacks and stuff. Before the other week I was pretty much certain that was what I was aiming for but now everything feels… I'm—I'm finding it hard to think beyond, like, the next few days."

Masen's eyes soften, he looks across the water again and then back to me. "Mechanic," he says.

I beam at him. He loves his cars.

"You'd be good at that."

I glance at the clock and my smile fades. If I'm going to call Papà, I need to do it now. Demetri said it was the best time; one of the guards on shift getting backhanders for ignoring Papà for a half hour or so. It doesn't guarantee it but it makes it more likely.

"Can you give me some time? If I call him?" I ask with a sigh. "I think I need to do this alone."

"Sure," Masen says easily. "Sure I can find somethin' to do."

...

The cell feels heavy in my hand as my thumb finally lands on the call button. It rings twice before I bring it to my ear, my lip between my teeth.

Apprehension curls in my stomach, a fuzziness in my head and heart trying to think of what to say. Sorry is at the top of my list, but then what? How do you talk to someone when you have no idea what to say? When you don't really know them?

"Falcone."

I'm not ready when he answers. Business like, brusque, slightly accented, a voice that's familiar but not at the same time. My breath catches as I swallow.

"Hello?" he asks after a beat.

"Papà?"

I hear his own breathing shallow, a crackle and buzz between us.

"Bella?"

I pause, closing my eyes, wondering where to begin. Wondering what I can possibly say to start healing a relationship that never really was.

The line crackles again. It's not me who speaks first though, it's him.

"You called."

"Demetri said," I tell him, pressing the burner closer to my ear as I stare out the window, out across a vast expanse of lake. "Sorry, it's taken me a while… I just..."

I struggle to find the right words, lapsing into silence, uncomfortable. He knows what happened to me and I think it makes it harder; he knows what James did; he knows what Caius almost did. I feel hot. Those things… it feels wrong that he knows that stuff, I'm embarrassed by it.

"How are you?"

How am I?

"OK," I settle on, because I think that's mostly what he wants to hear, and it's mostly true. Physically, at least, I'm healing.

In the same moment I decide to plough into what I want to say, he seems to do the same and instead we end up talking over each other.

I laugh awkwardly.

"Go on," he urges me.

My gaze finds a solitary bird in cloud-covered grey sky, following it as it glides on thermals.

"I wanted to—to say sorry. I was wrong about everything… and—and I should've listened to Nonna. And to you." My voice catches, rubbing a clammy hand on my dressing gown.

He sighs, heavy and weighted. "I didn't think you'd find out how you found out. This internet thing wasn't around when I was sent down... I meant for everyone to think I did it, to keep you safe. I thought you'd listen to your Nonna, but what's done is done. You don't have to be sorry, the only person here who's sorry is me. My life... you're living the consequences of my choices. And there's only so much I can do to make things right."

His voice is calm, like he's put some thought into what he's got to say. I don't expect he apologizes much to anyone.

"I said some horrible things to you and Nonna," I admit regretfully. "I wish I hadn't. I wish she was here so I could tell her sorry too."

"She loved you very much… as I do," he pauses and I feel a lump in my chest, I rub at it. "I saw you that day in here. You've grown up so much… not the little girl I read bedtime stories to."

"I thought it was you but I wasn't—I wasn't sure."

"I pulled some strings. Made a move to Chicago as soon as we found out you were there, somewhere," he tells me. "Spent years not knowing, after your Nonna passed. By the time I knew she'd gone, so had you. I couldn't get Demetri to you fast enough… no records of you anywhere until last summer, some credit card companies."

James.

"That wasn't... I didn't take out those."

"I know."

"Did you do it?" I ask, feeling brave. "James?"

"Not myself," is his measured response. "No one touches my daughter like that and lives. Filth gets what filth deserves."

His voice chills me. The contempt in it, a tiny glimpse of the man Caius told me he was.

He changes the subject to my last few years in Phoenix instead. Not long after that he has to go, the disconnection sudden and abrupt. I guess that's what happens when you're talking on a cell smuggled into a prison.

We talk again the next day and the next and it feels positive, to be having these small conversations even if I'm not sure how I feel about him yet.

…

The day before Masen's birthday, we end up in the nearest town. Demetri meets us in a parking lot, sun beating down, the cool air of the tree we're stood under wrapping around my bare legs. Masen says he has some things to do, and I needed to get him something for his birthday, even if it's just a card, so we've agreed to split up. Me with Demetri and him on his own.

I quickly realise having Demetri with me is how I imagine celebrities feel with their minders. An ever-watchful shadow, walking beside me.

What I'm not prepared for is how much being around crowds of people bothers me, to the point my hands are sweaty and my breathing is uneven. Demetri's quick to notice, making me sit on a bench and people watch to acclimatize.

"It's OK," he says, when I apologize. "You take as long as you need."

He's distracts me by telling me stories from his youth; growing up in Eastern Europe, making me laugh with one involving a lot of vodka and him waking up in tge front room of a house he didn't recognise to an elderly woman beating him with a broom.

He's patient when I spend ages trying to pick out some foundation in the drugstore, and when I ask for his opinion on things I see for Masen.

I'm dead set on getting him an iPod with an in-car adaptor for our time on the road until Demetri points out he'll have to login to iTunes and spend money online, and we're not doing that. We can't do that. Not yet anyway.

Instead, I pick out a load of CDs, things I know he likes: Radiohead, Nine Inch Nails, System of a Down, and Jurassic 5. Then I toss in the Spice Girls just for the look of disgust on his face.

By the time we meet back up, I've bought Masen a couple of shirts, a new watch, and found the aftershave he likes wearing.

"How'd it go?" he asks as he loads my bags in the trunk of the car. "I hope this ain't all for me?"

I give him a sour look and Demetri laughs.

"It was fine. Don't be ungrateful," I chide, pecking him on the cheek.

In the morning, I wake him up with a badly sung rendition of 'Happy Birthday' bringing a tray of stacked pancakes over to the bed and placing it down, a single candle glowing bright on top.

"So old now," I say with a laugh as he groans, throwing an arm over his face in protest. "Can't even get up to blow out your candle."

He blinks, sitting up slowly, stomach muscles tensing. "I got somethin' for you to blow."

I shove him gently. "You're obsessed."

"With you."

He blows out his candle, before taking a bite out of syrup-soaked carbs.

"Did you make a wish?"

"You ain't supposed to tell your wish," he says, taking another bite, leaning over, coating sweet syrupy goodness all over my lips.

Masen likes his presents and when we've finally stopped messing around, he tells me he wants to go on a long hike that afternoon.

He's already got it all planned out to my surprise; food, water, and the route. It's not too far from the hotel, a short drive and then a four-mile circuit.

By the time we're up the elevation, it's sweltering mid-afternoon sun and blue cloudless skies that look like they go on forever. I've stripped off my hoodie in favor of a sports bra, enjoying the warmth on my back.

We rest at a picnic bench overlooking a valley, in the shade of huge pines, the river flowing far below, slicing through the landscape elk and buffalo dotted around

"This is beautiful," I say turning to him after pausing to take in the view, feeling serene, taking in deep lungfuls of air.

I dump my hoodie and baseball cap, throwing my sunnies up onto my head as I take sips of water, turning back to take it all in.

Up here, away from Chicago, we could be anyone. I'm not a survivor or a victim, I'm not drowning in bad memories and nightmares... all of that feels distant somehow. A world away.

Masen grins and shakes his head taking off his own hat, coming to stand behind me to admire it. When I look up at him, he's not looking at the views though, he's looking at me.

"What?"

"Nothin'. Just… I like it when you smile; when you're happy like this, with me," he says, resting his chin on top of my head, wrapping arms around me.

"You make me happy."

I look up when he doesn't say anything else. I want to ask him what's wrong, because he has a weird look on his face. He turns to me.

"Y'know I'm not—I'm not great at words, but..." He pulls a small velvet black box out of his pocket. His Adam's apple bobs as he flips it open, diamonds sparkling bright in the sun. "Marry me?"

My hand finds my mouth, a little shocked, a lot surprised, eyes bouncing between the ring and him and all I can muster up are the words: "Are you kidding me?"

I don't even wait for him to respond before I fling myself at him, strong arms lifting me up as my legs wrap around his waist, lips colliding with his.

"Yes!" I chant into his mouth.

When he finally sets me down, he brings my left hand to him, sliding the ring onto my ring finger.

I stare at it, glistening in the sun, my fingers doing that thing people do to make it sparkle and catch the light. I don't know anything much about diamonds or rings but this is beautiful: one large stone, two smaller

"Do you like it?" he asks hesitantly. "We can change it if you don't—"

I look at him like he's crazy. People do that? "I love it. I love it because you chose it for me, but I love you way more than any ring." I grab at him, bouncing on my feet. "Oh my god! You're sure about this?"

"More sure than I've ever been about anythin'," he tells me. "I figured this is a new start for us, so we should start it off right."

A few people milling around congratulate us, one with a Polaroid camera even hands us a couple of developing snaps he managed to capture.

Touched, I hug him too, holding onto them tightly, buried in Masen's side as he declares it his best birthday ever.

…

"Masen. How well do you know him?" Papà asks the next day when I speak to him, after I've told him our news.

I don't even hesitate in my answer.

"Well enough."

He hums a little, like he's dissatisfied.

"What? He saved my life. He's always looking out for me. Always!"

"I don't like that he's… involved with this business. Him leaving the De Luca family… He's always gonna be looking over his shoulder and that means you are too."

I stare at my ring, frowning, not sure where this is going, what he's trying to say.

"Wouldn't I anyway? I'm a Falcone. I trust him, Papà. With my life. I love him."

He's silent for a beat.

"You could do better. I'd reconsider your answer."

He tells me he has to go before I can argue just how wrong he is.

...

Over the next few weeks we travel further south in a bubble of contentment.

We do normal things that normal couples do; anonymous and swallowed whole by distance and time. Dates to the movies, eating ice cream in little parks, enjoying days strolling down sunlit boulevards and nights spent tangled up in each other in the best kind of way.

There's a certain surrealness to it, reality surfacing every now and then when Masen talks hurriedly to Demetri, or I spy a glimpse of the gun he carries with him at all times, or when he carries his holdall with all that money in it, his fingers knuckle white.

I sometimes wobble dangerously close to having panic attacks, my nightmares still raging.

Somehow though, by breathing deep and remembering how good it is to be able to do just that, I can get through them. I can choose to wallow in my own misery or I can be happy. So I choose happiness.

Happiness though…

It doesn't last.

…

There's a sharp knock on the cabin door, startling us from sleep. Bleary eyes find the alarm clock, red and glaring a little past one a.m. Masen swears, pulling his gun, getting out of bed and moving the curtain only slightly to look out the window before relaxing, throwing on a t-shirt and unbolting the door.

"The fuck are you doin' man?" he asks as Demetri barges past him into the room, bringing in a rush of cold night air.

Demetri doesn't reply, looking over the room until he finds the TV remote and switches it on, clicking through channel after channel before jabbing his finger at the screen.

"That."

Masen sinks down onto the end of the bed.

"... Edward 'Masen' Cullen is suspected of gunning down mob boss Caius De Luca in Chicago in early June with sources close to the investigation suggesting he's skipped states with the daughter of former mafia don Calagero Falcone… Isabella Falcone had previously been presumed dead, with her father being convicted on DNA evidence of her murder alongside her mother in nineteen ninety; however..."

I don't hear what they're suggesting because Masen's face fills the TV, a photo of him from a few years ago, what looks like a previous mugshot. Wanted, it states underneath, a ridiculously sized reward on offer.

Masen's quiet then he swears loudly, getting up, pacing. "How the fuck did this happen? How the FUCK did this happen?" He's jabbing a hand at the TV, a hand in his hair, the look of a wild animal caught, before slamming his hand against the doorjamb of the bathroom in frustration or anger or both. "Fuck. Fuuuuck!"

He looks at me and I feel my face crumple, hot and cold fear twisting my insides. "Baby," he says, voice tinged with desperation.

"We can hide, can't we? Isn't that what we're doing?"

Masen fists his hair again. "Will only be a matter of time," he murmurs with a shake of his head.

"Bella should come with me," Demetri says.

Masen jabs a finger at Demetri angrily. "Not fuckin' happening. I go where she goes."

"You're gonna take her down with you if you're fuckin' caught," Demetri growls. "You want that for her?"

"Don't you dare fuckin' start—"

"It'd be safer for her. We could get her a new identity!"

Their voices escalate until they're shouting loudly over each other.

"Shut up! Shut UP! SHUT UP!"

They both stop and stare at me. "I can't—I'm not going to live under another name! Look at all the shit that's happened from doing that the first time!"

It's like no one learns. I take a minute thinking, but the sinking feeling in my stomach tells me there's not much we can do here. Unless we head for an international border - Mexico, then onto… where?

"Maybe. Maybe you can just be honest. Surely shooting him was in defence, or something?"

"It's all the other stuff they might trace back to me, Bella, too. This is... If they catch me and prove I've done the stuff I have for Alec... I'm lookin' at life."

I close my eyes, voice small.

"Then what do we do?"