Posted 2021-07-04 & Beta'd by Eeyorefan12
There was something magnetic about a man in a tuxedo—not a boy, not some sweaty, nervous adolescent at prom, but a man who wore it like he had a right to. As Bella surreptitiously watched Edward fasten his cufflinks, she gave up trying to suppress her growing tuxedo fetish. She turned her attention to willing herself into feeling the confidence required to wear the dress she was in.
After nearly a week in Italy, during which time Bella had mercifully been left to her own devices while Edward was working, they had been invited to Sulpicia's promised party. A heavy cream envelope with an invitation to her "Baccanale di Primavera"—Spring Bacchanal, according to Edward's iphone translator—had been delivered to them by one of the staff, followed shortly thereafter by another note addressed to Bella. The missive had detailed—down to the undergarments—what Bella was to wear. She'd seriously debated not following Sulpicia's directives, but then, given what she'd seen of Aro's wife, she couldn't put it past the woman to check on her compliance regarding said undergarments—potentially in public.
Even sitting, Bella squirmed, unaccustomed to the supportive contraption the strapless burgundy dress required. A bustier, she finally remembered. Felicia had kindly kept a straight face earlier in the week when Bella had asked what the mitten-clip straps at the bottom were for.
"They hold up the stockings, Signorina."
"Why not just wear pantyhose?" Bella had asked, frustrated by the fiddly ribbons and clips, trying to figure out how they worked. In her mind, pantyhose were bad enough, but this—ugh!
Felicia took the clip from Bella and fastened it to the thigh-high stocking, shaking her head. "Covering these with . . . pantyhose"—she frowned—"would ruin the effect." She tapped the side of Bella's dress, under which sat some very French and very unfamiliarly lacy underwear. "And what woman wants to make a man struggle with pantyhose when she can guide his hands—or tongue—with a pretty trail of silk, satin, and lace? So much more accessible." She used her finger to mime whisking a line up from Bella's knee, inwards, chuckling. "It will be un amante fortunato who sees you in this, eh?"
Yes, she was very accessible, wasn't she? No matter. She certainly wouldn't be guiding anyone's tongue anywhere this evening, least of all Edward's.
Get all the blushing done now, Swan, because you probably don't want to be doing it in public.
At least the upper part of the dress felt secure. Bella knew because she'd tested it in private, turning, twisting, and bending like a gymnast to make sure she wouldn't fall out of it, or it off of her. The bottom though . . . she bit her lip. There wasn't much she could do about that. The long a-line dress had a slit so high that it had drawn Edward's gaze from the floor to the top of her thigh, where the stocking lace peeked out suggestively whenever she moved. He had cleared his throat and looked away immediately afterward. Bella wasn't sure if that indicated approval or if he wondered as much as she did about her ability to carry off something so provocative.
Enough, she told herself, standing up nervously from the desk she was using as a temporary vanity and almost knocking over the chair. Pretending to fuss with her bracelet, she continued to watch Edward, now working efficiently on his bowtie, while she mulled over the events of the last week. She'd calmed considerably since they'd arrived in Italy, with much of the credit for that due to him. She had decided Edward must have been a formidable opponent in any clandestine operations he'd been part of for the military. He played his part in their ruse so well as to make her sometimes almost forget it wasn't real.
She frowned slightly, unclasping and clasping the slim golden bangle at her wrist. No, Edward was excellent at feigning what needed to be feigned, but he was also legitimately a kind and caring person, at least when it came to her. The juxtaposition of that kindness with the brutality—no, the criminality of his work—still startled her, no matter the justifications.
Dropping her arm to her side, Bella cleared her throat. "Are you ready to go?"
"Well, I feel like a damn monkey, so I guess so," Edward mumbled, frowning at the mirror by the door and running his finger under the collar of his shirt as if it were strangling him. "This is worse than my dress blues."
She found herself idly wondering if a relationship could be formed based on a mutual loathing of formalwear.
Oh get real, Swan, seeing Edward in his dress uniform wouldn't be such a terrible thing.
Not for the first time, she promised herself she could live in nothing but sweats and t-shirts for a month after she went home.
"I'd say you're looking more James Bond than Curious George," Bella said, slipping on her shoes. She stopped, abruptly wondering if her comment was more on point than she'd intended, given what he usually wore under his jackets. "Uh . . . are you, like, all James Bond under that?"
She watched his lips twitch with a suppressed laugh. Then he held his arms out from his sides. "Wanna frisk me and find out?" He winked.
"Um, thanks but no." She ignored his invitation, knowing her cheeks were warming, but she didn't miss the flash of disappointment he quickly masked.
Crap, there went another opportunity. As each day passed, Bella became more and more aware of Edward's efforts to make them look like a couple. She was trying her best to play along but her hyperawareness of the camera and microphones in their room made it nearly impossible; except for the couple of times the two of them had walked around the property together, she still felt too much like an exhibit in a zoo.
"But you do look beautiful, Bella," Edward said softly. "Though, I'm sure both my sisters would chastise me for not being more eloquent."
That compliment certainly made her blush.
"And to think, I haven't even gotten started teasing you yet." He tapped her nose with his pointer finger and smiled.
"Not much point in crowing about accomplishing something so easy," Bella mumbled. His playfulness disconcerted her, and she realized that his teasing felt more intimate than his kisses.
Odd.
"Fair enough." Edward sounded somewhat chastised. "Do I need to apologize for that?"
The shift in tone made her look up. "No." She smiled. "Thank you for the compliment. You, um, look pretty good yourself."
He held out his arm for her, linking them together as they left the room.
The noise from the party reached them long before they reached it. The dining hall was lit with fairy lights and flickering tapers, a few larger lamps glowing weakly overhead. A man Bella didn't recognize waved to them just as they were about to enter. "Signor Cullen?" he called.
"Yes, Pietro." Only Bella heard Edward's barely-concealed sigh.
"Mi scuso per l'interruzione. We had a problem with the new credentialing. I know you wanted to have that all done tonight during the backup, but it's not syncing with the data points we set and—" He rambled on, using terms that became less and less familiar to Bella. What was apparent was that Edward would need to step away to deal with problems she didn't understand.
"Edward?" Aro's distinctive voice could be heard over the surrounding hubbub.
"Aro," Edward said, nodding. "It looks like I'm needed somewhere else—briefly." He directed his next words to Bella. "Why don't you wait for me in our room?"
"No, no, Edward. I'll make sure Isabella meets some friendly faces. I am sure you will not be very long."
Bella stared up at Edward. Please don't leave me with Aro. Please don't leave me with Aro.
His expression was apologetic as he stroked a finger down her cheek. "I'll just be gone a few minutes—twenty, tops, okay?"
No! "Sure."
Edward's arm slipped away and Aro's replaced it, the feeling of him patting her hand with his cold and thin one making her shiver. "Now, Isabella, there are two rules at this party. The first is that you must always carry your drink"—he plucked a black punch glass from the passing server's tray and gave it to her—"and the second is that you enjoy yourself."
He didn't let go of her arm, and she walked with him, captive in his hold, as he introduced her to several people, giving their name and relationship to the Morandi organization. She struggled to commit the many unfamiliar names and positions to memory. When he came to a small group of guests by the window though, the expected occupational descriptions were notably absent.
"This is Giacamo and this, Isobel," Aro said, nodding to a burly man and a tall, slim woman with long platinum-blonde hair leaning against him. Gesturing to the two men with them, he said, "and this is Patrick, and this, John. Signore e signora, Isabella doesn't have much Italian yet. Perhaps you can make her feel at ease in her mother tongue?" He turned to Bella. "Mia cara, please excuse me. I have other guests to greet, but I do hope you have a pleasant evening."
She nodded politely at each of her new companions after Aro had gone. "It's nice to meet you. Um . . . " She struggled to think of something else to say, finally blurting out, "What do you do for Aro?"
Giacomo laughed, Isobel smiled knowingly, and Patrick and John exchanged amused looks. It was Isobel who spoke, though. "I work in . . . special acquisitions, you could say."
Right. Smart that, asking the people in the criminal organization what they do.
"Of course," she said, clearing her throat nervously, casting about for a safe topic of conversation. This had never been her strong suit. "Er, do you live in the area?"
"For now." Isobel sipped her drink, eyeing Bella before glancing at her hand. Bella followed the woman's gaze to her glass, wondering if she'd spilled it somehow. She hadn't.
"You said you were hungry?" Giacomo said to Isobel. He looked bored.
"Yes." She smirked at him knowingly and then nodded in farewell before the two of them wandered away.
"You look a wee bit fresh to things," Patrick said, taking a swallow of his drink and chuckling at her uncertain expression. "Young, I mean."
"I guess I am," Bella said. "I just graduated."
"Just out of your uniform then? That is young." He elbowed his friend.
He thought she looked like a teenager?
"Uh, no. University." And, what the heck, she thought. "Harvard." She'd earned the right to say it.
"Ah, that makes more sense, then." Patrick laughed. "Even Aro has his limits. No schoolgirls. Good." He nodded towards her hand. "I see you're here with someone."
What would make him think that? The Claddagh on her right hand obviously wasn't an engagement ring. Then she recalled the explanation from Reneé when she gave it to her: the design carried romantic significance for the Irish. Of course. "I am, yes. He had to step away for a bit."
"Well, you'll excuse us then. We've not been so lucky and the first round is about to start."
The first round of dancing, maybe? She hoped no one would expect her to.
"Of course. It was nice to meet you." She saluted them with her glass.
Look at me, chasing away all the English speakers.
It was good that Edward didn't expect her to network or anything—because she was failing pretty spectacularly at it so far.
Locating an empty couch tucked away by a corner window, Bella sat down and sipped the last of her drink. The cups were small and the punch seemed to be very light on alcoholic content. Still, she should probably go more slowly, just in case.
"Another, Signora?" one of the waitstaff asked.
"Thank you," she said, taking a new glass from the tray. Aro had said to hold onto one, and she didn't think it would be wise to break one of the two rules for this party. She didn't have a hope in hell of following the second.
A sonorous voice rang out from hidden speakers, "Round one is now closed." The overhead lights in the room dimmed even further.
"Oh jay-sus, we missed it," Patrick's voice called behind her.
Turning slightly, she saw Patrick and John moving to one of the small balconies nearby. "Lively, man, or we'll be the losers left out of round two, as well." Patrick chuckled with his friend.
They hadn't seen her, and Bella sank a little lower into the sofa. She wasn't trying to eavesdrop on their conversation—not that it was much of a conversation since Patrick did most of the talking—but she didn't want to stand up and draw anyone else's attention. Squinting into the dimness, she hoped to find Edward. She wasn't sure how much time had passed, but she did notice that the crowd had thinned considerably. The dancing must be in another room.
Not having toured the entire building yet, it wouldn't have surprised her if she found an elephant hidden somewhere in it. If she'd thought the Cullen compound was large, Aro's home felt like a small fiefdom.
"Isobel, eh?" Patrick said.
"Hmph." John was definitely not a talkative guy.
"You ever fucked her?" Patrick asked congenially, though it sounded more like: "y'ever fecked 'er?"
"No. You?"
"Not that I'm one to kiss and tell"—they both laughed at this—"but yeah, once. It was fucked up, I can tell you that."
"Fucking her?" They both chuckled.
Bella wondered if all men were born with their senses of humor taped to their privates.
"She does eggs, eh?" Patrick said, his low voice lowered even more.
Whatever "eggs" was code for, it sounded ominous.
"Ach," John said, clearly disgusted.
"I know."
Over the quiet chatter of the remaining guests in the room, Bella could hear the sound of muffled voices drifting towards her from another balcony. The room was fairly warm, and the open windows let in more than air. These other, more distant voices were not producing words but indicated an altogether different type of activity. She was reminded of a fraternity party her freshman year roommate had dragged her to, one that she'd left quickly when certain proceedings became embarrassingly public.
Different country. Different rules, Bella reminded herself, grateful that no one was around to see her blush. Apparently, having sex on a balcony was cool at this party as well?
"She told me she keeps them, eh? Until they crack," Patrick continued.
"Her contracts?" John's voice rose incredulously.
"Mm-hmm."
"And you still fucked 'er?"
"That's how I found out about it." There was a distinct note of regret in Patrick's voice.
"About, like—she talks about her targets when—?"
"Yeah—like, I'm fuckin' her and she starts tellin' me all about it." Patrick's voice sounded looser with drink than Bella had heard earlier on. "It got 'er goin', eh? Turned on, like, as she was talking about how she finished this one with morphine, all peaceful and everything—while it was still holding its cargo."
John made some sort of indistinct noise, and then there was a noticeable pause. "And the cargo?" He sounded hesitant to ask.
"She cut it out and gave it to the father."
With her drink halfway to her mouth, Bella froze. They were talking about people. The egg—a cracked egg—cargo. The metaphor made a cold and brutal sense, now.
Aro had introduced her to his hit-men—and women. People who murdered people. People who murdered—she shuddered, thinking of what Patrick had described.
She could really use her personal James Bond right now.
The overhead lighting increased slightly, just as she heard John and Patrick exchange quick farewells immediately behind her.
"Isabella?" Patrick asked, noticing her and waking over. "You changed yer mind?" He said this with a smile, the lilt in his voice suggesting seeing her again had just made his day.
"Round two has begun," the smooth voice said again over the speakers, and then again, Bella presumed, in Italian. The lights dimmed as they had before.
Changed my mind about what?
Patrick plopped himself down beside her. "Or were you a smart girl and just waitin' until you had the right man in yer sights?" He grinned. "Not that I mind a woman bein' coy." He slid his hand onto and up her thigh, well beyond where the lace of the stocking ended, at the same time plucking her drink from her hand, leaning in and planting his lips on hers.
She gasped and used her hands to shove him away, but he grabbed her by the upper arms and pushed her back into the sofa cushion behind her, his lips still firmly against hers.
Despite Patrick's efforts to otherwise occupy her mouth, she was sure her frantic "get off!" was distinct enough for him.
And then he was gone.
She caught the start of Patrick's "What the h—?" right before Edward's fist cracked into his jaw.
"I think she was pretty damn clear," Edward said. He stood between Bella and Patrick, who had been staggered by Edward's punch.
"You can take yer pick, man. There's plenty," Patrick said, his hand to his jaw, swearing under his breath.
"She's. Off. Limits."
Bella couldn't see Edward's face from where she was but the tone in his voice sent a chill down her spine.
At this point, Franco and a few other similarly built men arrived, Felix included. Bella's eyes widened, seeing him, and she stood up to edge closer to Edward.
"Are you okay?" Edward asked her.
She nodded, confused and still not sure what was going on. She looked at Felix, who was looking from her to Patrick to Edward and frowning.
Franco muttered into his lapel, holding up his hand when Patrick looked about to move.
Aro arrived a moment later.
"Aro," Edward all but growled.
"Edward, Isabella," he said politely, looking around the circle and frowning, much as Felix was. "Signori, it would appear there's been a misunderstanding?"
"Yes." Edward looked like he was ready to physically take on the entire group of men in front of him. "Did you ask for this man's attentions, Bella?"
She shook her head. This felt very, very familiar, in a superbly uncomfortable way.
"Look at 'er glass, man." Patrick waved his hand to where Bella's drink sat on the side table as if this absolved him of any wrongdoing.
Edward did, and then he turned to Aro. "Did you warn her?"
"You did not?" Aro asked, arching an eyebrow.
"How could I have?" Edward's tone was like ice. "I'd have hoped that someone else would have taken into account that Bella is new to . . . all this." He indicated the room with a dismissive sweep of his arm.
"This is most unfortunate," Aro said diplomatically, completely ignoring the fact that Edward had just called him out for neglecting his duties as host. "Patrick, perhaps we'll visit together another time?" The tilt of his head suggested the man should leave the scene.
Franco took hold of Patrick's arm but he yanked himself away. "I'll see myself out." He stalked off towards one of the main exits, followed closely by Franco.
"You'll see to it that Bella is better . . . informed?" Aro asked Edward. Their host did little to disguise his smirk. He was amused at her expense. Again.
Edward gave him a stiff nod.
The circle of big and angry men dissolved, leaving Bella with only her own big, angry man.
"Edward?"
"Yes?"
"What did I do wrong?" Crap, even her voice was shaking.
"Absolutely nothing," he said, taking her hand and leading her to another couch. "But I'm thinking you've never heard of a key party?"
She shook her head, trying to think if she'd seen keys anywhere tonight.
"Swingers?"
Oh. Thoughts began to coalesce in her head and she remembered Angela telling her something about this. She looked at her drink. "The cup colors?"
"Yes."
Aro had given her a black one. She'd picked up a red one. Apparently, she'd advertised her "availability".
"I'm so sorry. I didn't know—"
"Bella, no. There's nothing to be sorry for. None of this was your fault." He glanced around the room as if looking for somewhere to assign blame.
"Um . . . when did you realize that we weren't, you know, um . . . in Kansas anymore?"
He chuckled, a small smile replacing his frown. "I came back through the main entrance." He lifted his chin to the far side of the room.
"And?"
"Do you really want to know?"
No. Yes. "Maybe?" But perhaps it was something she should have picked up on. "Would it have made it obvious? Even to me?"
Edward picked up two black glasses from the tray a staff member held out, passing one to Bella. "Hey, don't be hard on yourself—you were blindsided. And yes, I think the naked women and men standing around in nothing but grape leaves and price tags would have clued you in."
She choked on her drink. Edward rubbed her back.
"Definitely not in Kansas," she whispered.
"No," Edward agreed.
"Is your hand okay?" she asked, peering at it in his lap. She thought of the crunching sound his punch to Patrick's face had made.
"Yes, my hand is fine." He said this with some amusement.
Right. Former Marine. The realization returned her thoughts to the occupations of the people that Aro had initially left her with. She'd barely had time to consider his reasons for doing so—it hadn't been so she could chat with English speakers. No, there was a message for her in there somewhere. She felt herself shiver.
"Are you sure you're okay?" Edward asked immediately.
No. "I'm ready to leave."
"Me, too." He stood, helping her up and keeping his arm around her waist. "Given with whom and how completely our female host was . . . occupied when I arrived, I don't think we're expected to make our farewells."
Inside the room, Edward took off his cufflinks, setting them on the dresser. She watched him glance at the camera and then slide his arms around her waist from behind, putting his face to her neck. She didn't freeze, but it took her a moment to remind herself that he was playing for the camera. She knew he had managed to access the video feed while he was in the security office, and although he'd been informed Aro wouldn't tolerate his disabling it, he had identified a couple of areas in the bedroom that the camera couldn't pick up, as well as the ones where their actions would be front and center.
"Safe zones" or not, they couldn't let down their guards. We have to do this, and it's okay to enjoy it, she reminded herself, because it'll be more convincing. She focused on the not unpleasant sensation of Edward's bodily warmth seeping into her back. The latest drink she'd consumed was at its peak effect, just enough to loosen one or two inhibitions.
She felt his face tighten against her neck—whether into a grin or a grimace, she couldn't tell. He broke the brief and silent spell of her moment's peace. "Want to be my Bond girl in the privacy of the bathroom?"
Play along, Swan. "Ah, I was waiting for that to come back. Count me in."
What she didn't expect, once they were in the bathroom, was for Edward to pull off his jacket—and then unholster the gun he was wearing. She sucked in a breath.
Edward didn't seem to notice. He set the pistol down on the countertop. "Do you know how to use one of these?" he asked, all of his playfulness gone.
"I—I've seen them."
He looked at her this time—really looked at her. "Why are you so scared?"
"You just pulled out a gun."
"I'd like to show you how to use it."
"Um, right." Her heart was already racing. She needed to keep her shit together.
"Do you know who you were with tonight? That man, Patrick?"
"Yes." She shivered.
He narrowed his eyes at her. "What do you know about him?"
"I heard him and his friend talking outside about—they were talking about a woman named Isobel . . . and how she . . . operates. I—figured it out."
He closed his eyes for a moment, his hand tight in his hair before he looked at her again. "I'm so sorry. That must have been terrifying—"
"It's fine," she shook her head. "I was so distracted by what he was doing that I forgot to worry about him killing me."
She realized how ridiculous her words sounded as soon as they came out of her mouth.
"Shit." Edward's jaw tightened and he drew a deep breath before dropping his chin to his chest, exhaling slowly. The tension rolling off of him was palpable. "I should have been there," he said with obvious self-reproach, not looking at her. "I won't leave you alone like that again."
"Okay," she said softly. His chastened expression almost made her want to give him a hug, but she suspected it wouldn't be welcome at this moment. She was getting pretty good at reading this man.
He frowned down at the pistol in front of him for a moment before finally lifting his gaze to hers and rewording his original question. "So, have you used a gun before?"
"No." It wasn't for her father's lack of trying. He'd wanted her to know, too. The idea had unsettled her. "I don't ever want a gun to be on my list of problem-solving options. I don't like touching them."
They stood facing each other at the bathroom vanity, the handgun on the counter between them like a dividing line.
"I've promised to keep you safe, and I will do everything I can to do so, but I wish—I would feel better if you'd let me teach you how to handle one of these."
She was already shaking her head. She'd never seen any good come from guns, and she had no interest in someone trying to persuade her otherwise. Even with their present circumstances, her feelings on the matter remained unchanged. If anything, her heart rate was rising at the mere sight of the damn thing.
Edward blew out a slow breath. "How about this? How about just learning how to disarm it?"
She could hear the concern in his voice. This was something that meant a lot to him. He wasn't asking her to shoot it, after all.
"Why?"
"I just think that for someone like you, who genuinely fears them, learning to make the gun useless might be helpful for you. Will you let me at least show you that?"
Bella chewed on her cheek.
"Trust me?"
Had she really once accused this guy of knowing nothing about human psychology? She still had little idea about his training for his work in intelligence but whether he'd been taught to do so or he was one of those people who instinctively sized up such situations, she recognized the concept of graded exposure to combat fear.
She looked up at him. "You're smarter than you look sometimes, Cullen."
He grinned back. "That's double-oh-seven, to you."
"Okay," she said, squaring her shoulders. "I'm not sure I'm dressed for this but show me. I assume this is a military thing? Neutralizing a threat?"
"Sometimes the only way around something is through it," he said softly, looking for a moment like he was a million miles away. "But eliminating the threat is always best."
With that, he picked up the gun.
Gently, patiently, he spent several minutes going through the safety rules. Then he showed her how to properly hold the pistol, where the safety was, and how to remove the magazine. Finally, after he'd emptied the magazine of ammo, he used his hands to guide hers through the steps until Bella dared to hold the "Glock" herself.
She practiced locking and unlocking the internal safety, removing the empty magazine and replacing it, and checking the chamber to make sure it was empty.
"Good work," Edward said quietly.
She couldn't help the little thrill of pride that ran through her when she heard it. Her hands were still a bit sweaty with nerves but she felt a sense of accomplishment. She had safely handled a gun and learned to make it inoperative and she had to admit that Edward had been right. It was harder to fear something when you had all the control. It was a feeling she hadn't had in several weeks.
"If you need to use it—"
"I don't need to know that, Edward." She almost rolled her eyes. "You're pushing your luck."
He eyed her for a moment. "Okay." He reloaded the magazine as she watched and snapped it back into place before resetting the safety and holstering the gun. "Thank you for letting me show you all this. There is something else we need to talk about, though."
"Sure, shoot."
His face twitched like he was suppressing a grin.
"Okay, Bond," she said, "make fun of the pacifist."
He mussed his hair, laughing self-consciously. The behavior was unusual for him. "It's, um . . . you're not showing a lot of interest, physically."
Her face flamed.
"I'm not trying to embarrass you, Bella. It's just, we've been here a few days now and—"
"No need to explain. I got it." She should be taking more initiative on that front. They were supposedly in the throes of first love but so far, she was still making Edward take the lead. Even she had to admit, her tentative responses to his forehead kisses and gentle hugs didn't make her look all that interested. Not to mention her not-so-subtle distancing from him when they were in the bed.
"Do you?" He was utterly serious.
"Yes. Show more affection. Check."
His shoulders appeared to relax. "Okay. Given what the microphones heard me say earlier, we should be ready for bed when we leave the bathroom."
They took turns giving each other space to change into their nightclothes, which they had learned to leave hanging on the door hooks.
"Ready?" Edward asked, just before turning off the shower.
To go to bed? Absolutely. She was pooped. "Yes."
But Edward seemed to be very awake in bed, reaching over to take her hand. "What? All talk and no action, Bond girl?"
Understanding clicked. He meant—the words, ready, bed, and affection all collided in her head. He expected—she blushed—yes. She understood what they needed to do.
"Not at all," she replied, grateful it was dark. Kissing was good, right? She rolled onto her side where she found him waiting for her, then cupped his cheek and kissed him softly—chastely. With his hand to her hip, he pulled her closer, his lips nudging hers open to gently explore her mouth with his tongue.
No, he wasn't an inexperienced adolescent.
She kept her hands on his back, moving them slowly between his shoulders and his waist, letting herself relax. He was gentle, and she reminded herself that it was okay to enjoy this if she could. She realized in that moment that it wasn't difficult to do at all.
Then Edward slid his hand from her waist to her knee, grasping it and pulling her lower leg over his.
She tensed at the new position, which left her feeling vulnerable and exposed even under the covers, but wasn't exactly sure how to disentangle herself without tipping off those watching them about her discomfort.
When she rolled away slightly, Edward took it as an invitation to shift their positions and he eased her onto her back, his body poised over hers but not actually touching it. Despite the distance Edward was keeping between them, Bella froze.
"I'm not ready for that," she blurted out, pushing at his chest, slightly panicked. "Not . . . yet." Not ever, actually. Not like this—with a fake boyfriend, with cameras watching. There was something else there, too—memories flickering that she hadn't let travel through her consciousness for a very long time: the pressure of Jake's forearm across her chest, his weight pinning her as he laughed, his lips at her neck while he marked her. He'd acted like it was all a joke.
It hadn't been.
Snapping back to the present, she stared at Edward, knowing her breathing was far too fast and that her eyes were probably wide with fear.
Edward didn't miss a beat. "I know. I didn't expect it," he whispered soothingly, undeniably having picked up on her distress. "It's okay." He cupped the back of her head with his hand and kissed her forehead before he settled on his back beside her. Even in the room's darkness, she could make out the wrinkle at his forehead. He spoke at a normal volume when he said, "It's been a long day. Get some sleep, all right?"
She nodded, swallowing hard, knowing she had caused him to worry yet again. Even though she hadn't agreed to more than pretending physical affection, Bella was completely unnerved by the realization that she was failing at the charade on which both their lives depended. Edward wouldn't push her into anything; she was certain of it. But her reaction just then—which he'd clearly witnessed—now that she was still processing. It wasn't like she'd suppressed what had happened with Jake, but that memory—no, she'd simply not thought about it in a very long time.
Yeah, that's what they call suppression, Swan.
Maybe it had affected her more than she'd realized. She needed to find it in herself to do better than this . . . and soon.
DISCLAIMER: S. Meyer owns Twilight. No copyright infringement intended.