I do not own Twilight.
Part three of the Alice/Bella story :)
The ride home is completely silent and I'm honestly surprised there aren't tears pouring from my eyes, but I think I'm in too much shock for that reaction.
When I pull up against the road beside my house and cut the engine, I turn in my seat to stare over at him. He's already watching me, side-eyeing me as though hoping I would just let this one go.
Well, I'm not.
"What the fuck was that," I demand.
He doesn't answer, only crosses his arms and stares out the windshield, but I'm not about to turn a blind eye to this one.
"Did he say something to you?" I ask harshly, having almost zero belief that Jasper would say something provoking to Edward. At least, not intentionally.
Again, he doesn't verbalize a response, only makes a sound of disbelief in the back of his throat and shakes his head.
I unbuckle and turn completely in the seat, pressing my back against my door so I can fully stare at him. I cross my arms, too. "I'm not leaving this car until you tell me what happened."
The only sound is the click as his seat belt unbuckles and then he's opening his own door, stretching his way out of the car. I'm out of the car and running to catch up with his long strides in seconds, the anger bubbling inside of me now.
"This isn't fucking fair to me, Edward," I'm yelling even as he opens the front door to my house with the key he knows is hidden in the small rock statue beside the railing.
Nobody is home tonight anyways and we always get him out before either of them gets back in the morning. For me, specifically, it's my mom. For him, specifically, it's Charlie because he "has a gun."
He steps inside and closes the door behind me when I come in hot and angry. I'm about to yell something else at him, but he grabs my face and pushes me back against the door. He's kissing me angrily, passionately, his tongue shoving its way into my mouth and I can taste just the smallest hint of blood from his lip before he releases me.
"I love you," he says, his eyes moving over my infuriated face. "Go upstairs to bed, and I will see you tomorrow, okay?" His voice is too calm for the anger that is still inside of me.
"Where the fuck are you going?" I demand, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. He watches the action with a hint of pain and I almost tell him that I only did it to make sure none of his blood was on me, but I think to make him suffer just a bit.
He takes a breath.
"Home," he says and all of the anger vanishes to be replaced with fear for him because I know if he turns up before his dad like this, he will look ten times worse tomorrow.
"No—"
He interrupts me by pressing his lips to mine quickly, softly and then resting his forehead against mine.
"I know I fucked up, Bella," he whispers. "I'll go home and if you don't want to talk to me tomorrow, I will understand."
I sigh and lift my chin a bit to kiss him back.
"Shut up, Edward," I breath against his mouth and then pull away. I take his hand and silently lead him to the bathroom as I have countless times before. The rubbing alcohol, gauze, bandages, Neosporin are all where I left them last and, as I tend to the drying blood on his face, his bruised knuckles, his gaze saddens with each passing moment and I know he is sobering up.
His hands run up my bare thighs as he sits on the toilet and I stand in between his legs. The dress rides up just a hint and a warmth trickles down between my legs at the intimate touch, but I'm already shaking my head.
"Not tonight, Edward," I whisper and he's looking up at me with those forlorn, lost eyes that glow greener than anything I've ever seen.
"I know," he whispers back and then buries his face against my stomach.
We stay like that for what feels like hours and, when I finally am able to coax him to my bedroom, his eyes are rimmed with red and there's a small wet patch on the front of my dress. He's blinking back against the lights, or more tears, but whatever it is, my heart melts and grows for him.
It's not until the early hours of the morning when I'm half asleep that I hear the tears in his rough voice, the sadness and regret in the movement of his fingers as they brush over my hair, the tight grip he has wound around my stomach, keeping me as close to him as physically possible in my full-sized bed.
"I'm sorry," he's whispering over and over again, thinking I am asleep. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."
I don't have it in me in the morning to tell him that I heard his breaking point.