Bella remained on the floor for what seemed like an eternity, her eyes staring straight ahead at the overly white-washed wall, her mind in turmoil. She'd only just been reunited with her father but her heart was already calling her back to Bastian. She feared for his life. Tristan's eyes had looked like black holes when he'd told her that Bastian was 'going to get what was coming to him'—empty voids without a twinge of fear or any other discernible emotion other than hate within them. She had no doubt in her mind that he was capable of murder that night, even though his motive was ridiculous. Jealousy thinly disguised as justice. At the very least, she knew he would try to assert his dominance the only way he knew how; with physical force. It was as if they'd all been hurtled back hundred of years in time. Suddenly, all the laws of civilisation that society had painstakingly built up throughout history no longer seemed to matter. It had simply become a case of fighting for what he considered his property—stone-age style.

It all seemed so absurd to Bella, yet it would happen unless she did something about it. Calling the police was useless. She was pretty sure Tristan's family more or less owned them. Whatever the outcome, Tristan would no doubt get away with whatever he did—it was almost inevitable. He would make Bastian suffer and then walk away with a smile on his face. Not that Bastian would be an easy target—she had seen how effective he was at defending himself—but a heavy feeling of dread nonetheless weighed down her heart. Tristan could easily figure out Bastian's weaknesses—one of which was, she realised with a gulp, was her—and then he would go in for the kill, like a wild animal pouncing on its prey. The subject of his parents would be another sore point. Bastian had become a wreck in her arms when he had told her of their deaths. God only knew how he would react when he was directly accused of their murder.

Once again, Bella just could not shake that awful feeling of uncertainty. Every fibre of her being screamed that he was not the one responsible for their merciless slaughter, but she could not help but admit that it was a very real possibility. The same strength and dexterity that would help Bastian fight off Tristan could also make him a killer. But Bastian had no motive—that was what stopped her from completely condemning him. That, and the fact that she knew—she just knew—deep down with every beat of her heart that he didn't do it, he wouldn't have done it…would he?

Bella groaned and felt like banging her head repeatedly against the wall. Maybe that would force her thoughts to order themselves so that she could decide what to do. She would normally be running through the forest without a thought once more, feeling the cool slap of wet leaves on her face and hearing the soft squelch of mud beneath her feet, but the factor that stopped her from doing exactly that was on the other side of the wall that she was leaning against. Her one and only father. She'd chosen Bastian over him before, no matter how unwillingly; she could not do it again, yet she ached to help Bastian. Perhaps if she got there quick enough, she could talk Tristan out of it.

She hated herself for thinking such things. Her father was recovering from a heart attack in the next room. She knew he was in the best possible care but guilt loomed over like a black cloud. Guilt over leaving him again, at putting herself at risk to save a man who may have killed his own family.

But she loved that man, more deeply that she had ever loved anyone or anything. She knew that now, no matter how many times she had tried to deny it to herself. The thought of him in danger tore her apart internally.

She got up, ignoring the stiffness in her joints. To her left was the corridor that would take her out of the hospital. To her right was the door to her father's side.

"Forgive me," she whispered, and made her choice.

………………………………………………………………………………………………

Tristan stormed into the tavern and made a path for himself through the crowd merely by staring at them. They backed away in horror—you didn't mess with Tristan at the best of times, and when he was in a foul mood like he clearly was at that moment, you didn't even think about it. While the men dare not meet his gaze, taking a sudden interest in their beverage of choice instead, the women that accompanied them found themselves thinking how irresistible he looked when he was angry.

At the bar, Tristan asked the nearest barmaid (Kelly Lefevre, tall, blonde) for a whisky, not caring that she was in the middle of pouring a pint for the man standing next to him. Luckily for Kelly, the patron was only too happy to surrender his chance of service to a man like Tristan.

Kelly poured him the whisky, winking at him while she did so. Clearly, she was hoping for an encore of the night they'd spent together a few weeks previously. She was so busy not concentrating on what she was doing that she poured at least half of the whisky onto the bar top instead of in the glass. She pushed the glass towards him with a coy smile. He looked at her as if she'd just given him poison.

"What's that?" he barked.

She giggled.

"Whisky, of course. And it's on the house, especially for you," she cooed.

Tristan was not in the mood.

"Put some more in it then, you stupid girl!"

Kelly did as she was told, biting a trembling lip. Tristan could tell she was upset, but she wasn't Bella so it hardly mattered. He felt the liquid warm him as it trickled down his throat. His father was right; whisky did make him feel better.

"Another please, Kelly," he asked in the most genteel way he could manage.

She seemed to instantly forgive his former rudeness and smiled mischievously as she poured him his second whisky.

Tristan had just drained his glass and requested a third when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

"Hey, buddy!" said Luc, his broad grin making him look even more gormless. "What are you up to? Haven't seen you since the party."

Tristan finished swallowing.

"Hi, Luc! Just the man I was looking for."

Luc felt himself bursting with pride.

"Really?"

"Of course! Listen, do you have Andre, Fernand and Max with you?"

Andre, Fernand and Max were three guys that hung around with Tristan and Luc when they felt like it. That way, they got all the benefits of knowing Tristan without the responsibilities.

Luc nodded and pointed to the far end of the pub where Fernand stood watching Andre and Max argue over a game of pool.

"Ok, great! I need you all to help me with something. Of course, I could do it by myself but no harm in having back-up, is there?"

Luc nodded enthusiastically.

"Of course not."

Humouring Tristan came very naturally to Luc. It simply involved agreeing with everything he said and keeping his mouth shut when it was necessary. It was a piece of cake, and the advantages that came with it were fantastic—respect, free drinks, women (women that Tristan had discarded, but still women). In turn, Luc did everything Tristan told him to do. He was wrapped around Tristan's little finger, although secretly he begged to differ.

"What did you have in mind?"

Tristan had ordered and slugged back another whisky in the time it took Luc to finish the question.

"Tell them to meet us outside in five minutes and to bring some others. We're gonna have us a hell of a party!"

He grinned in a manner that Luc found frightening, yet he acted as if he hadn't noticed.

………………………………………………………………………………………………

After Bella had left so abruptly, Bastian didn't know what to feel, think or do. It had all been so sudden. One minute she was there, the next she had vanished into the night. For a while, he could do nothing but stand still until the full reality of the situation hit him like a thousand bricks falling onto his head.

He was alone once more.

She wouldn't come back. Why would she come back? There was nothing here for her except a lifetime of emptiness.

He'd tried so hard—battled with his long-implanted demons, changed the way he looked and acted, given her everything that was in his power to give—and it still hadn't been enough to keep her. One reminder that she had a life outside his house and she hadn't been able to get out of the door quick enough. No hesitation, not even a goodbye. A wall of thorns wouldn't have been able to stop her, let alone the pathetic love of a hopeless man.

Bastian threw his head back and screamed. It felt good. All his anger, all his love, all his hate, all his hope was in that scream and it burst forth from his lungs like the wail of a banshee. It was raw agony wrapped in intense emotion and it was long and loud and shattering.

When it was finally over, Bastian's eyes were a brutal tempest as he accepted his fate. Never again would he allow anybody to into his life, his head, his heart—the cruel nature of hope was unbearable.

He stormed off into the garden to once again become a living shadow. Woe betide anyone who disturbed him.


Sorry, folks, no review responses this time! Haven't got the time! I really hope you all like this chapter and thanks sooooooo much for all your wonderful reviews so far. It is completely true that this story wouldn't have gone anywhere without your encouragement and kind words, so can never thank you guys enough. Another huge thanks to Trudi for being such a great beta! (lol this is ounding like an Oscar speech again!) Over and out!