A/N: Hello, everyone! I appreciate the positive early response to the story. Thank you so much! I'll try my best to answer reviews, but I can't always get to all of them. Please know I read and treasure each and every one, and I appreciate those of you who take the time.
This chapter is a bit longer than the last one, and you'll get a bit more information. This story will unfold over time, so don't expect all secrets to be revealed too quickly.
Thanks to my awesome prereaders, Keye, Sandy, and Aleea, for their valuable feedback and cheerleading skills.
Thank God for my lovely betas, wmr1601 and Katmom, for wielding those Sparkly Reds. Mwah!
Chapter 3
Guilty Innocence
The morning dawns gray and misty. Isabella stirs early, going about her day while I listen from the woods. Her breakfast consists of tea and scrambled eggs. I hear her crack the eggs and whisk them in a bowl, followed by the sizzle as they hit the surface of a heated frying pan.
After eating, she hums to herself as she cleans the cabin: vacuuming, dusting, polishing.
My curiosity grows when I hear her in the kitchen starting on lunch, and I ease myself into the branches of a tree to catch a glimpse.
Her slight form is bent over the counter spreading mustard on a slice of bread, the long, dark hair falling in silken ribbons over her shoulders and obscuring most of her face. When she turns to get something, I really see her for the first time: soft brown eyes set in a heart-shaped face with a slightly upturned nose and plump lips that look as if they should hold more color than they do. Her skin, too, has a deathly pallor to it.
A chunk of ice falls from the top of the tree I'm perched in, landing in the snow with a soft thump, and I jump down, hiding amongst the trees.
Inside, the sounds of Isabella humming and preparing lunch continue, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Unable to see her, I close my eyes and listen to the sound of her off-key singing. I'm not sure what I'm waiting for; she's not going to proclaim her innocence or solidify her guilt while she's here by herself. I've yet to hear a perp give themselves away while alone—except in their minds. I still hear nothing from Isabella's mind.
A sudden loud sound disturbs my thoughts. My eyes fly open to find Isabella several yards away at the bottom of the front steps, cocking a rifle, which is pointed at my chest.
Isabella's off-key singing still comes from inside the cabin, yet there is only one heartbeat.
"Who the fuck are you?" she snaps.
Up until now, her heartbeat remained steady, but since she's thrown down the gauntlet, it races like a fluttering bird behind her ribcage.
I raise my hands, schooling my features into a reassuring expression. It would be very bad if Isabella shot me. Not only would the bullet be ineffectual against me, but it might bounce off my rock hard body and ricochet back at her.
"I'm Edward Masen," I answer softly.
Isabella tilts her head to the side, raking her eyes over me from head to toe and back. "Is that supposed to mean something to me? I've never heard of you, and you're trespassing."
"That rifle weighs almost as much as you; why don't you put it down, and we can talk?"
"Put it down? Surely you don't think me that gullible, Mr. Masen."
It appears we're at an impasse, so I decide to sit down, the soft snow giving way beneath me easily. "Here. Is this better? Surely a man sitting cross-legged can't hurt you."
"I'm fine as I am, thank you. What are you doing here?"
"Honestly? I came to find you, Isabella."
She gasps, tightening her hands on the gun as her skin pales even more, which seems impossible until it happens. "Who sent you?"
"I'm a bounty hunter. My job is to deliver you back to Seattle to stand trial for attempted murder."
She nibbles thoughtfully at her bottom lip, and inappropriate urges flood through me as my dick twitches. Jesus, Masen, get a grip!
"I'm not sure what to do with you now, Edward Masen. I won't be taken back, so you can leave or . . ."
"Or what?" I prompt.
"I can incapacitate you."
"Pardon?"
"Well, I'm not going to kill a man just doing his job . . . so, I'll have to shoot out your kneecaps. Don't worry; I'll send an ambulance once I'm safely away from here."
"You're going to shoot me in the knees?" I ask incredulously.
"Would you prefer some other region that will keep you from chasing after me?"
Feisty. I like that. So does my cock apparently.
"You could tie me up," I suggest, lifting an eyebrow. The thoughts tumbling in my head have nothing to do with her restraining me; rather, the image behind my eyes is of her trussed to my bed.
"Unbelievable!" she sputters, raising the shotgun to her shoulder as she moves closer.
Only now do I realize she's out in the snow wearing fluffy pink slippers with sweat pants and a t-shirt. I would laugh if it wasn't for the look in her eyes. She's really going to shoot me! I can't allow it.
Before Isabella can blink, I'm up off my feet, and in one fluid movement, I snatch the gun from her hands and toss it into the woods. Stepping around behind her, I pull her back against my chest, pinning her arms to her sides. All of this takes one point three seconds.
"Wha . . ." Her head shakes back and forth, looking for me, for her gun, but she soon realizes her predicament. "Oh, fuck," she mutters, going limp in my arms.
"Isabella?"
"Please don't break me," she whispers.
"Break you? Why should I do that?"
"Because I was trying to escape. I'll be good; I promise."
The scent of adrenaline and fear is overwhelming; it's obvious she thinks I'm going to hurt her, not bring her in for trial. I wonder why.
"I have no intentions of breaking you or harming you in any other way. I have nothing personal against you; I was simply hired to do a job."
Isabella's answer is a derisive snort.
I want to look in her eyes. I want to know why I can't hear her. My nose is buried in her hair, which smells clean and fresh. She intrigues me, stimulates me, in multiple ways.
What's wrong with you, man? This isn't a shampoo commercial, and you're not here to seduce her. Although if circumstances were different, Isabella Swan-Hunter would most definitely be sharing my bed tonight.
I'm not sure why I'm having so much trouble suppressing my urges, but I recognize the need to get myself under control.
"Let's get you inside; you must be freezing out here in those ridiculous slippers," I say, turning us toward the open front door, where her off-key singing continues.
"These slippers are awesome!" she retorts.
It's awkward, but I manage to walk us into the house with my arms still wrapped around her. Once we're inside, I shove the door closed with my boot.
"I'm going to let go of you, Isabella. Don't try anything because I will protect myself if necessary."
"Understood."
I let go, stepping back from her.
She stands stock still for about twenty seconds before making her way slowly to the couch in the living room. Steeling herself, she turns to face me, sitting down as she does. Her eyes focus on my boots, slowly moving up my denim clad legs and over my parka to my face. She skips my eyes, her gaze roving over my tousled hair before heading back to the floor. I find it curious that although she took me in carefully, she never once met my eyes.
She wouldn't find anything amiss because I wear contact lenses to hide the burgundy hue. Granted, I have to carry several pairs with me because the venom in my eyes breaks them down over the course of a day. The contacts obscure my excellent vision slightly; a small price to pay for the taste of the sweet, sweet blood of ladies that allow me to take them home.
Leaning forward, Isabella snatches a remote off the coffee table and presses a button. The sound of off-key singing ceases.
Impressed, I raise my eyebrows. She sure faked you out, Masen.
"You knew I was outside, and you did a bait and switch?"
"You bet," she answers with a touch of pride in her voice. "Not that it did me much good. I never had a chance against you, did I?"
I wonder what she means by that. If I was human, she would have gotten away quite easily.
"You did well, Isabella. You really did."
"Don't patronize me."
"I'm not." I crouch on the other side of the coffee table, trying to catch her eye, but she still refuses to look at me. "If circumstances were different, your ploy would have worked fine."
I can't explain why, but a part of me is rooting for her, and I don't even know if she's guilty or innocent yet.
"Yes, circumstances," she mutters with a resigned sigh. "So what now, Edward Masen?"
"Now I want to know if you're guilty or innocent."
"Well, that's a loaded question."
"Did you try to kill your husband?"
"Yes," she answers simply.
"I guess I have my answer then. We leave in the morning. That should give you time to gather your things."
"Aren't you afraid I might escape while you sleep?"
"Actually, no." I fight back a smirk.
Standing up, I move to the living room window and watch the sun beginning to set behind the trees. She's guilty. I have to bring her back. A much larger part of me than I care to admit wanted her to be innocent.
A tangy scent hits my nose, one I haven't smelled in quite some time but recognize nonetheless. Tears. Turning her way, I see twin tracks making their way down her cheeks. She looks despondent. To be expected, I suppose.
"I – I need to eat soon. May I get up?"
"By all means."
Isabella stands on shaking legs, her eyes cutting to the refrigerator then back to me.
"You're going to watch me?"
"Every move, I'm afraid."
Her eyes flutter closed, and she moves to the kitchen area. There really are no separate rooms on the first floor; the living room simply segues into the kitchen. She hesitates, again looking toward the refrigerator.
"Is there a problem?"
"Other than you breathing down my neck, you mean?" she snaps then presses her palm to her forehead. Swaying, she grips the edge of the counter, and I rush to her side to steady her.
"Isabella?"
She stiffens at the feel of my hands on her arms, drawing in a sharp breath. Her heart is beating hard against her ribs, and I can scent adrenaline in the air. Turning her gently to face me, I tilt her stubborn chin up until she finally looks into my eyes. Her soft brown eyes are so soulful and kind, even though she's angry. Gazing into them, I don't want to believe she's a murderess. Once her eyes lock onto mine, Isabella seems to have no problem holding them there. Her brows arch up a vague expression of surprise. What was it she was expecting to see?
"Are you all right?" I ask.
"No. But that seems to be my lot in life." She smiles slightly. "I need something from the fridge."
"If you're not feeling well, I can prepare something for you. I'm not good in a kitchen, but I can make a sandwich or something."
Her body starts to collapse, and I help her over to one of the chairs at the small, rustic wooden table.
"I need . . . I need medicine. On the shelf in the door of the refrigerator."
Moving away from her, I open it. There are boxes lined up, filling all the shelves of the door.
Neupogen.
I turn sharply. "Neupogen?"
"Yes."
"Why are you taking Neupogen?"
"Leukemia," she whispers just as she slumps over in the chair.
Scooping her limp body into my arms, I carry her up the stairs to her bedroom. She weighs nothing, so thin. Now the unhealthy pallor of her skin makes sense. Peeling back the covers, I deposit her gently on the bed. A sheen of sweat coats her skin, and her body starts to tremble. I press a hand to her forehead, and it's obvious she has a fever.
Wetting a washcloth, I wring it out and place it on her forehead. Covering her with the sheet, I zip downstairs to get the medication. I find syringes in the drawer nearest the refrigerator and am back upstairs in less than a minute.
Isabella is light as a feather, so I draw up 300mcg of Neupogen in the syringe. While I'm swabbing her arm with an alcohol pad, she opens her eyes groggily. "Wha . . . you doing?"
"Giving you the Neupogen. Hold still."
"No!" Her eyes are suddenly alert, and she tries to sit up.
"Whoa. Lay back." I push her back against the bed easily—too easily. She's extremely weak.
"Don't touch me. You don't know what you're doing."
"I drew up 300mcg of Neupogen. Is that not the correct dose?"
"How did you know?" Her brow creases, but she's too weak to fight anymore and just gives in.
I swab her arm and give her the injection as gently as I can. She winces, and I hate that I'm causing her pain.
When did you acquire a vagina, Masen?
I'm not sure what's happening. I've had to track down pretty girls before, some I even drank from before turning them in, but I feel like Isabella is digging around inside me, reaching places none of the others have. Maybe it's because she's so frail and sick right now. After all, I'm not a complete monster.
She slips into a fitful slumber, and I sit beside her through the night, monitoring her temperature. After a few hours, it returns to normal.
Sometime in the middle of the night, she starts mumbling in her sleep the way she did last night. This time, I listen closely because she might say something revealing.
"No . . . can't go back . . . James, you bastard! How could you? Blood . . . oh, no, no. Let her go . . . please. Please."
Her heart starts to race.
"Baby, I'm so sorry . . . I didn't know. Don't go . . . no! Hannah!"
She sits up, shrieking and tearing at her hair. I sit on the edge of the bed, capturing her hands so she can't do any damage to herself.
"Hey . . . it was a dream. You're right here in the cabin. It's okay."
Sobbing, she fists my clothes, pulling me close to her. Neither of us speak; she just cries into my shirt, and I let her. Eventually, she falls asleep slumped against me, and I ease her back down to the bed, tucking the covers around her.
Dawn finds me sitting on the window-seat in her bedroom. Even though she admitted to attempted murder, this girl is sick, and I'm not about to drag her clear across the country yet. There are still five weeks until her trial; surely it won't hurt to allow her time to recover, right?
Isabella begins to stir. I watch her from my post by the window, and when her eyes find me there, she gasps. "What are you doing in my bedroom?"
"Watching over you."
"Do I look like I'm strong enough to escape you?" Her tone is scathing.
"That's not what I meant," I say, perching on the side of the bed. When I reach out to check her forehead, she shrinks back, so I drop my hand. "I've been taking care of you through the night. You had a fever."
"You gave me a shot."
"I did."
"How did you know what dose to give me or how to administer the shot?"
"My father is a doctor."
Isabella lets out a most unladylike snort. "Your father?"
"Yes."
"That's your story, and you're sticking to it, huh?"
"What can I do for you? Can I bring you something to eat?" I ask, ignoring her question.
"Ugh. No food."
I reach out to feel her forehead, and this time she doesn't rebuff me. "Seems normal now. Do you feel better?"
"A little. Thank you . . . for taking care of me."
"You're welcome. Who's Hannah?"
Wrong thing to ask.
"What? How do you know about her?" Isabella's voice rises to a near-shriek.
"You were calling her name in your sleep."
"That subject is off-limits, you hear?"
"Got it."
Isabella pulls her knees in, resting her chin on them, and wraps her arms around her shins. She rocks slightly, giving the appearance of a frightened child more than the twenty-six year old woman that she is.
"I've made a decision," I announce, and her eyes meet mine timidly. "Your trial isn't for another five weeks. My job is to deliver you by your trial date, not by tomorrow. You should use your time wisely to recover."
"What? How long are you going to give me?"
"As long as you need—within reason, of course."
Suddenly, she sits up straighter, her expression suspicious. "What do you expect in return?"
"Nothing. Just don't try to run from me. If you do, things will get ugly fast, and I'll bring you in immediately. No second chances."
"Thank you, Mr. Masen."
"Please call me Edward."
"Thank you . . . Edward."
~*RK*~
A/N: Some answers but more questions, I'm sure. Ask whatever you'd like, but I won't answer anything that gives away future plot. I've already received a barrage of questions from many of you. (So impatient!) Before anyone asks: yes, I've done my research, and I work in the field. Neupogen is typically given to patients on chemotherapy to stimulate the white blood count but is used at times for patients with certain types of Leukemia who are not on chemo. I have no intention of delving deep into medical issues in this fic, so this should suffice.
Thank you all for reading! See you next Tuesday!
For IWIPB readers... I'm working on an update, but it's going slow. After that, I'm slated to work on Broken Windows. The holidays really mucked me up, and I'm working against a deadline for my novel. Love you all for sticking by me! Mwah! Best readers ever.
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