A/N - *Revised 2/24/22. Changes made are minor and do not change the plot or storyline.
Warning - This chapter contains scenes of violence that include mentions of sexual assault and death. Sensitive readers beware.
Thanks and love to my amazing pre-readers Ania and Popola for all their help with this chapter.
This one hasn't been beta'd. I've done my best to edit, but stuff slips by me. Feel free to point out big goofs but please graciously forgive little ones.
Lyrics after the chapter title belong to the song Temptation by the Tea Party. Characters belong to Stephenie Meyer
Prey for the Wicked
Chapter 4
Tentazzjoni
. . . . . .
Drowning in a sea of rage
I taste the embrace...
. . . . . .
From the thick cover of trees just across the road from Isabella Swan's house, Edward watches and listens to the slow, deep breathing of his human at rest. The droning sounds of late summer insects ended abruptly the moment he arrived, and the surrounding nocturnal wildlife gives him a wide berth. He times his breath to hers for novelty sake, blocking all other noise including the humans slumbering in neighbouring houses. Their dreams hold no interest. If he were granted access hers would no doubt hold him captivated, but even in her most unguarded state, her mind is quiet.
He leans against the nearest thick tree trunk and quietly ponders all he's learned in the time since he left her bed.
Such a complicated weave a human life creates. It's been so long since there was any real humanity in him that he stopped paying attention to the tapestries of human existence. The way they all twist and twine, overlapping each other like colourful magazine pictures in a child's art collage. Creating complications he never needed to address before when his only desire was to feed, never to possess.
And possession is exactly what he has in mind now.
It was an easy decision to make, all things considered. He is at heart a selfish creature, tired of the lingering nuisance of a conscience. Balancing his sins with the necessary evils his survival requires has made him weary and jaded. This one time he will have what he truly wants. Her. Something pure and sublime and solely his. Nothing will stop him.
No one will stop him.
He flicks dried blood from the skin around his fingernails, watching the rust-coloured flakes drift to the ground at his feet. The iron smell of death wafts from his spattered clothes, lacking appeal. If he were human he'd liken it to comparing cheap red wine to an expensive french merlot.
Isabella.
So sweet and nuanced in comparison to the blood of the man he buried deep in the woods, pieces scattered over miles of untouched wilderness. Edward licks his teeth, regretting the few swallows he indulged in. It tainted the lingering essence of her. A sacrilege and a waste.
He soothes himself by replaying the decadent screams and pleas for mercy he coaxed from the man whose bland flavour coats his tongue. Lingering on those final seconds before he went silent forever.
He finds it interesting that he had not set out to kill. He merely wanted to deliver a warning to stay away. Certainly, he'd contemplated some pain in the form of broken fingers. Retaliation for the bruises left on Isabella's wrist. He has no patience with the mark of another man on her skin. He'd meant to make sure it didn't happen again.
Proof, he supposes, that plans can go awry.
He mills that thought over as he runs through the memory of finding the worthless human creeping out of the nightclub's back door, reeking of alcohol, perfume and virgin blood. Newton's vile mind was full of the knowledge of his sins against a young girl rendered incompetent to make choices by the drugs and liquor she'd consumed. Taking her forcefully against a damp cement wall in a stairwell against her will was enough to warrant his death in Edward's mind, but when his filth-strewn thoughts superimposed Isabella's image over the girls? Well, the cretin sealed his own fate.
As if that wasn't enough, Newton's thoughts travelled down darker, unexpected paths as he left the scene of his crime. Curious, Edward fell into place behind him, matching his footsteps and cadence to the human to mask his approach, listening as the depths of the man's depravity tumbled out like rotting garbage from an overflowing trashcan. He learned that Isabella had been coveted for years with an unholy obsession. Stalked, secretly photographed, those images plastered on the walls of his home. Images he desecrated with self-induced ejaculations amid twisted fantasies ripe with the desire to torture and humiliate the creature who just gave Edward reason to exist for the first time in a century of doldrum.
The cesspool of memories spilled over, lapping into the future. Newton's conquest of the young girl gave him newfound courage and he began to contemplate a plan. Edward saw Isabella in a parking lot at night, vulnerable, alone. Being offered a ride home. A hypodermic needle. A brief struggle. Duct tape and rope. A room with a platform. Flashed images of rape in multiple forms.
Pheremones stinking of Newton's sweat and sour breath that sped up in excitement wafted back to Edward. Hasty images bombarded him. Pleading, screaming, crying, blood. And finally, silence, stillness. Isabella's open eyes, seeing nothing...
Newton stopped, shuddered, gripped his engorged prick through his pants. He groaned furtively and Edward, feeling a rage unlike any other, stopped hiding his presence.
Edward smiles again, replaying the litany of pleas and screams that came with a slow painful death. The confessions with no hope of absolution to be gained.
He'd be lying if he said he didn't enjoy every second.
Now, Edward takes the bracelet he found in the miscreant's pocket as he disposed of his limbs and holds it up to the moonlight, refractions of light spin from the fake jewels dancing across his knuckles. His jaw clenches and he wishes the degenerate's heart still beat if only for a few minutes more. In hindsight, he would've liked to remove the appendage Newton viewed as the ultimate tool to degrade and hurt women. It would have been far more fitting than the arms and legs heaped in a pile.
There is nothing he loathes more than sexual predators. Now, Newton's name joins the long tally in Edward's mind of like-minded men he dispatched to hell where they belonged.
He should feel accomplished at best, nothing at all at least.
He should likewise be immune to the visions he saw. He's seen worse. Yet the detailed look into that mind has left him with a fit of simmering anger he isn't sure how to calm. Finding the very epitome of evil he's been reaping justice upon for decades right under his nose, an evil whose intentions were inclined to threaten the safety of the gift Edward only just found, has him shaken in a way that is profoundly unusual.
Shifting his shoulders in an effort to quell the strange crawling sensation in his spine, Edward closes his fingers around Isabella's bracelet.
He promised he would tear apart any man who touches her. He's kept his promise.
Across the way in her small house, Isabella emits a soft cry in her sleep, troubled perhaps by unpleasant dreams. He wonders if they are of him, then fervently hopes they are for he wants to be in her mind and thoughts in all ways. Fearful or pleasant, at this point it matters only that she thinks of him. There will be time enough later to demonstrate he can be a caring master.
She was troubled and fearful earlier this evening, he does know this much. Eavesdropping upon her conversation with a female visitor showed Edward she was struggling to make sense of what happened between them. He assumed Isabella would be like most humans, searching for logical answers even when none could be found. Her expressions conveyed through the eyes of the other woman seemed to attest to that, but he couldn't be sure. It aggravated him endlessly to be so blocked from her mind he was forced to rely on the petty musings of her vain companion.
The woman Isabella called Jess latched onto a dozen wrong possibilities for her friend's odd state. Each one gave him a glimpse into the lifestyle and personality of the woman currently sleeping in her bed.
Through the limits of Jessica Stanley's self-centred mind, he was able to monitor the discarding of speculations which led her to conclude Isabella had been with a man. The mark Edward's bite had left on her throat was thought to be some juvenile interpretation of a hickey. That made him laugh out loud, the sharp bark of sound almost carrying to the house and its open windows.
The laugh died instantly when the young woman's thoughts began mulling over a veritable roster of possible lovers, from several mutual friends to men he took to be wishful, would-be suitors. Finally, she narrowed it down to Mike Newton, or Bella's ex-boyfriend, Jake.
Hope as he might, Miss Stanley's thoughts would not stay on the ex, frustrating him greatly. He caught the vague image of a young man, largely built with dark hair and eyes and Native American features before the girl allowed her thoughts to wander off-topic.
He would very much like to know more about this man named Jake.
It's that thought that compels him now, back to the house, back through the door. He moves to her room and places her bracelet on the pillow beside her.
He wants her to know he came back. He wants to remind her who she belongs to now.
Fire ignites in his throat, begging for the balm of her blood. He forces himself away from her side and back to the woods. As he drags in familiar scents he's surprised to find a wealth of memories jousting for the lead position in his mind. The life he once lived here in this tiny town is something he's repressed. He's surprised to find they still have the power to bring an ache to his chest.
The shadow of who he used to be, haunts him. Brother, son, family, friend. Monikers that were given to him at a time he attempted a laughable charade of mortal mimicry.
He scoffs now at that life, even as he feels the buried knot of loss for those he abandoned re-emerge. He has, in truth, been lonely for a very long time so the feeling is nothing new. Even before he forsook the ties of those whose affections bound him to a lifestyle he failed to master, he'd lived as a singular entity, miserable and adrift. Eventually, when not even their love could bind him, he left, too tired of their endless self-deluding to keep up the pretences.
Heartsick, Edward had accepted his fate, embraced his true nature, selfish and hurtful as those actions were to those who did not warrant such wounds. He's learned to live without light and without hope, knowing it's no less than he deserves.
But now? Light is being offered up to him on a decadent silver platter, and he is a starving being.
Isabella... Delicate, enticing, Bella.
He drags in the perfect, throat-searing scent that carries easily to him on the last vestiges of the night breeze, enjoying the burn that claws at him for satiation.
He is an abomination, and Isabella is the antithesis of such a thing. Perhaps, if a trace of something good remained inside him, he could turn and leave, race away to the other side of the world and bury himself in a crypt, let her live her little mortal life out fully.
Pity he has no soul.
Night shadows vanish under dawn's insistence. Edward quits his musings, relegating his memories back to their dusty corners. His stride lengthens, taking him deeper into the woods. There is much to do in the coming days if he is to make Isabella his.
He takes the sound of her heartbeat with him, memorized perfectly in his mind, and as he moves on silent feet with immeasurable speed, he composes and hums an accompanying melody.
For the first time in his existence, Edward looks forward to the days ahead.
. . . . . .
Jake slams the door on the truck shut, jamming his keys in his pocket as he makes his way toward the diner, whistling quietly. A slight grin plays around his mouth as his stomach snarls happily at the prospect of the meal ahead. He skipped breakfast unintentionally, and he's starving now; not that he's complaining.
He arrived at his shop a little early this morning, even before any of his mechanics were in, quickly grabbing and chugging a cup of rot-gut coffee as he made his way through the silent garage to his office. He'd planned to grab some paperwork and head to the coffee shop across the street for some real java and a quick bite, but he was waylaid by the sight of Leah's perky ass bent over his filing cabinet. A complimentary comment, and his patent 'come hither' smirk, got her to sashay that ass his way, dropping to her knees and undoing his belt buckle with her own matching smirk. He forgot all about coffee, paperwork and breakfast the second that same pretty mouth swallowed him whole.
Leah gave amazing head, and the fact she wanted nothing to do with commitment or rings or any other relationship trappings - with him at least - made them a good match. For now, anyway.
After he laid her out on his desk to give back as good as he'd got, it was time to earn a living. The doing of such explains why he feels like he could eat a horse. It's been a busy morning.
Jake's smile fades as his long strides eat up the short distance of the parking lot. Thinking about his 'fun' with Leah is a dual-edged sword. Good as it is with her, it's still just sex, and thinking about that only reminds him that while he may not want a commitment with Leah, he used to want it with someone else.
The thought is just born when the best friend of that 'someone else' slips out of the diner's exit door.
Jessica Stanley looks up at him with a surprised expression that rapidly turns smug and amused. Her blue eyes light up like she's in on something secret and dying to bust it out.
Jake narrowly avoids rolling his eyes. She's hot in a girl-next-door kind of way, and when she's not in full-on bitch mode she can be all right. But personally, Jake has had too many run-ins with her when she was sticking her nose in his relationship with the very girl he was just thinking about to consider her a friend.
"Well, well. If it isn't Jacob Black." She smiles like the proverbial cat that ate the canary.
"Jess," he greets, wondering what's up with the look.
"I was just talking to Bella." She holds up her little pink cell phone before his eyes can give him away as an overeager sap by darting over her shoulder and looking for Bella in person. He should know better. Bella hates the diner. Seeing as how she's a fantastic cook, he didn't care that she never wanted to come here when they were together. He feels a prick of guilt over that thought. She was always cooking for him. He should have taken her out more...
Jess breaks into his remorseful ass-kicking with a wink as odd as the grin. "She said she's feeling better."
What?
He frowns down at Jess. "Is she sick? Shit. Don't tell me she hurt herself again..." Bella tended to be accident-prone so it wouldn't shock him.
Jess laughs with a little eye roll. "Yeah, right. Like you don't know, Romeo."
Romeo? What the hell?
"Jess, you're standing between me and a meal I've been waiting all day for. If you've got a point, make it. Did something happen to Bella?" His heart gives a sharp kick at the thought, even as he doubts it's serious given the grin curling Jess's lipsticked mouth up.
Her smile falters, and she holds up both hands in a mock surrendering motion. "Fine, play it your way. Bella wasn't coughing up any details about your little 'interlude' either." She uses her already raised hands to make quotation motions with her fingers to emphasize the word 'interlude'.
"Not that she needed to," she adds, laughing and shaking her head. "That giant hickey you left on her neck told me all I needed to know." Her nose wrinkles a little, an expression of disgust flitting over her face as she playfully shudders. "God knows I still need therapy from the memory I have of walking in on you two at Lauren's infamous birthday bash last year, so I could have done without this new little visual. Really, Jake, you're like a dog marking his territory. Didn't you grow out of hickeys with the rest of us in the tenth grade?"
She snorts as she looks away from him to tuck her cell phone inside her purse and rummage for her car keys, missing his expression. This was probably a good thing as it quickly went from confused to pissed before he caught himself and schooled it into something he hopes passes for disinterest.
He hasn't seen Bella in almost two weeks. Hasn't even talked to her since she dropped off a box of his shit that he left behind in the house and they ended up getting into a spitting match over some dumb thing or another. But someone has seen her and talked to her. A hell of a lot more than just seen and talked, if he's deciphering the innuendos pouring out of Jess's mouth correctly. And he's pretty damn sure he is.
His expression might be neutral, but if Jess looked down she'd see the veins and tendons sticking out of his forearms in rigid ropes as his hands curl into fists.
"Listen, Jake. A word of advice?" She shoves her purse back on her shoulder, her car keys clenched like a weapon as she uses her free hand to punch his shoulder, only half playfully. "I'm all for you guys getting back together if that's what the other night was, but don't screw it up this time, okay?"
He's saved from having to form an answer when Angela Webber comes up behind her, asking if Jess is ready to go with a polite smile his way. He does manage to grunt a suitable sounding good-bye before spinning on his heel and heading back towards his truck, hunger forgotten. A heavy foot on the gas spins the ancient Chevy truck's rear wheels, spitting gravel and dust in its wake as he races out of the parking lot and heads in the direction of his former home and ex-girlfriend.
. . . . . .
The first thing he notices when he arrives on the front porch is a loose board on the third step. The second is that Bella's got the screen door locked, which means only one thing. The lock on the main door is busted. He mutters a few profanities as his fist hits the chipped and peeling paint on the door's frame in a rapid, staccato knock. When he lived here with Bella, the place was a run-down shit hole, but at least it was a safe run-down shit hole. The fact she has a busted lock nearly pisses him off as much as the thing he hasn't allowed himself to think about since he raced out of the diner parking lot.
Bad luck has always been attracted to Bella like a magnet to metal. She knows it as well as he does and still, she leaves it a fucking open door to walk through like an engraved invitation.
He waits till the count of ten and then snags the spare keys she still keeps under the flower pot, though he's bitched her out a hundred goddamn times to quit doing it. He uses the smallest one to unlock the screen door, not soothed at all that she at least engaged its latch. A two-year-old could break that flimsy thing. He spins the knob on the inner door, frowning when he hears the sound of something loose rattling around inside the locking mechanism. What the hell could've done that?
He's barely two feet past the threshold when Bella comes around the corner from the hall leading to the bedroom. Her hair is wet and dripping, and she's holding a towel, dressed in one of his old football jerseys. Even in the gloom of the gray, late afternoon light that filters through those crappy Grandma-style sheers they never got around to switching out, he can see the shape of her body. She's not wearing anything under it. Even as pissed as he is, he's instantly half hard with the dozens of memories he has of peeling that shirt off her.
Even though it's been months since she last let him touch her, he can still remember the way her skin felt and the taste of her in his mouth.
Fucking hell. The vivid memories and the sharp slice of pain they always bring, amp up his temper. It's on the tip of his tongue to tell her he wants his goddamn jersey back but the truth is he doesn't. He could care less about the fucking thing. Besides, the part of him into self-torture likes seeing her in it, even if he knows she isn't wearing it because she misses him.
He bites all that back and instead, in a tone he knows isn't going to win him any points, settles for saying, "Bella, why is the damn lock busted on this door, and why the hell didn't you call me to fix it the second it broke?"
"Jeez, Jake," she snarks. "Hello to you, too. Nice of you to knock by the way."
"I did knock," he snaps, letting the door close with a muffled bang and moving to stand in the middle of the room where he can see her better.
"Yeah, well, I was in the shower. And you don't live here anymore..."
"Is there someone else here?" He cuts her off before she can launch into boundary rules, like not letting himself in.
"What? No!"
Her answer is quick, but a tad defensive sounding. Flaring his nostrils slightly, he drags in the air that stinks like she's got a giant bouquet of dead flowers rotting in a vase somewhere. She used to tell him he had a nose like a bloodhound, and once upon a time, it used to amuse her. Once upon a time a lot of things about him amused her. Now he just seems to piss her off, and he knows he needs to be careful or she'll kick his ass out before he can figure out who the hell's been in their bed.
Shit.
Her bed. It isn't their bed anymore. Hasn't been for longer than he cares to think about.
Regardless, someone's been in it. And not just it. Her. He's fucking certain of it. And not just because of what Jess said either. It's in the look in her eyes when she can't quite meet his, and in the sly way she's just pushed all her hair over to cover the left side of her neck. As though she wants to cover something like a hickey. A "giant hickey," to use Jess's description.
"Look, Jake. I've been sick. I still kind of feel like crap, so can we do this some other day." She says 'this' like a curse, and he has to grit his teeth not to snarl something inappropriate. Now that he's looking, really looking at her, he can see there is some ring of truth to what she just said. She's pale, which is saying something for her since calling her fair-skinned would normally mean she had a tan. She also looks exhausted, the purple rings under her eyes pronounced and heavy. Tiny and thin, her little frame looks completely swallowed up by his old jersey, and he feels a protective tug of emotion mix up with his jealous anger.
"I'm fixing the lock on the door first, Bella. No arguing." He drops the keys on the coffee table. "And for the hundredth time, quit leaving these under that stupid pot. Everyone and his brother hides a damn spare key in places like that. It's the first spot someone with less than good intentions is going to look!"
Bella rolls her eyes and stalks off to the kitchen, pert ass shifting under cotton that used to belong to him. He hears her mumble something about him having the key and his stupid intentions, but he ignores her, noting that she seems less steady on her feet than normal.
Jake grabs the old toolbox he left in the house for her to use, not that she knows how to fix anything, and watches her pour coffee in a mug. He could use a cup himself, but she doesn't offer.
"So Jake, what brings you here? Oh wait, let me guess. You were just driving by, and you spotted the busted door from the road and had to swoop in and play Mr. Fix-it. Right?" She snorts like she finds her sarcasm funny, stirring more sugar in her coffee than any one person should ingest. He can never figure out why she drinks the stuff when she clearly hates the taste so much she feels the need to turn it into syrup.
He debates several lame excuses and discards them all in favour of playing it straight. He's too pissed and jumpy feeling to play games. The green-eyed monster definitely has him by the throat, but it's more than just jealousy that has him blurting out the truth. It's protectiveness and concern. For as long as he can remember, he's been trying to keep Bella safe. Old habits die hard.
"I ran into Jess at the diner," he states simply and evenly, watching her like a hawk to gauge her reaction.
"Oh?"
Her voice is deadpan, and if he were anyone else she might be able to pull off the innocent, almost bored attitude she's trying for. But he's not anyone else, and he knows her too well. Her face stays calm, but her fingers shake just enough to make the spoon in her coffee cup clatter against the edges. Plus, she bites her lip, something she only ever does when she's feeling some kind of strong emotion. Embarrassed, frustrated or even his prior favourite, horny, though he'd bet money what she's feeling right now is the farthest thing from any of that. She's scared. Of what he's not sure. Him finding out she's seeing someone else? Fucking someone else? His temper is notorious, so it probably makes sense her wanting to keep him in the dark.
He forces his voice to stay calm. He has no right to be pissed, he knows that. Intellectually at least.
"Yeah. She seemed to be under the impression you and I might be getting back together. Or at the very least that we hooked up the other night."
This time the spoon doesn't just clatter against the cup, it falls out of her fingers and hits the tabletop with a clang, bouncing a few times the way silverware does, before skidding to the edge of the table. He catches it a second before it hits the floor and puts it back on the table, carefully.
"Want to explain to me why Jess is under that impression, Bells?" Jakes voice is even, calm, but she blanches anyway and takes a step away from him, shrugging a bit too emphatically.
"I don't know what she's talking about," she laughs nervously. "Was she drunk? I mean you know Jess..."
"Bella, cut the crap. Are you seeing someone? Is that what's going on here?"
She spins on her small, bare heel and levels him with a stony stare. The light in the kitchen is better thanks to the new window he put in last year, and he notices she looks even paler than he previously thought. The word ashen comes to mind, though he's damned if he knows where he picked up a word like that.
"And it'd be your business, how?" She instantly looks like she wants to take the question back. It takes him a second to remember her issues with asking why and correlate it with her question being damn near on the borderline of it.
"Never mind," she says, shaking her head. "Don't answer that. I will. It isn't your business, Jake. You gave up the right to ask me anything when you quit listening to me and started listening to Charlie. Oh, and let's not forget the day you started screwing Leah Clearwater."
"Fuck, Bella. We've been through this. I never cheated on you with Leah." He slams his hand on the table, and she jumps a little before reaching up and massaging her temples. Her coffee has sloshed over the edge of the cup and formed a puddle beneath it. She stares at it like it has some answer to a riddle she's never been able to solve.
"Jake. Please," she pleads. "Not today, okay? Just, not today." She shakes her head at him again, and he's instantly contrite and a little worried. The Bella he knows has a quick temper, and if anything pushes her buttons it's the gray area surrounding the time they broke up and the first time he hooked up with Leah. He can admit that he wanted to stir up a fight. It's the quickest way he knows to get her to tell him about this guy she's doing. Pissed off Bella always loses her filter. But looking at her now, her shoulders slumped and her pale face pinched, he can see he isn't about to get answers. She's stubbornly inclined to keep secrets on a good day. Pushing her on a bad one will only end in a bigger fight.
"Fine. Not today. But, Bella? I am going to ask again." Jake grabs the toolbox and heads for the door, fighting back the anger he can feel building at just the thought of what she's practically admitted to by omission. The thought of someone else touching her, fucking her, worse yet, making love to her, makes him see red.
"My life, Jake. Not yours." Five words, so damn familiar. She spits them at him every time they argue. It makes him want to shake her till her head rattles right off her stubborn neck.
"We're not together anymore. When are you going to get that through your head? My life, my decisions, my business. Stay out of it."
He turns around slowly and glares at her, though he keeps his tone calm. "I told you, Bella. Your life and your decisions are always going to be my business. I made it my business before we were a couple. I'm making it my business after. I'm not going to stop caring about you no matter how hard you try to push me away."
She looks like she wants to cry, and her arms go around her middle in a move he's grown to hate over the years. Because no matter how many times he's tried to fool himself into believing different, he knows why she does it. Bella's never been truly happy in her life. Not before him, not with him, and now, not even after him. There's something inside of her that's empty. Some cavern or well of space that he never could fill, no matter how hard he tried.
And fuck. He tried.
Jake puts down the toolbox and goes to her, pressing a kiss to her forehead and rubbing her shoulders gently, feeling that all too common stab to his heart whenever he lets his guard down. He's going to love her for the rest of his life, whether he wants to or not, whether she's his or – God fucking forbid – someone else's. It's like breathing to him now, and seeing her in any kind of pain shreds him up, makes him want to lay the world at her feet like the stupid pussy-whipped schmuck he's always been with her.
"You look like shit, Bells. Go lay down, okay? I'm gonna fix the door, and I'll lock it on my way out."
She nods, and it takes everything in him not to pull her close, tip her head back and devour her mouth. Remind her how good it used to be between them before it all went to hell. As she turns and walks toward the bedroom, he silently curses the day he fucked everything up and lost the right to follow her.
. . . . . .
Her head pounds and Bella wishes she'd brushed her teeth before she crawled back into bed. The coffee left a bad taste in her mouth, and listening to Jake fix her front door is leaving another one.
Typical Jake. Always swooping in and fixing...her. Or trying to, anyway.
She curses internally, thinking of Jess and her big mouth. She hoped Jake wouldn't hear any part of their conversation last night, but with her brain less convoluted now, she realizes how naive that hope was. In a town the size of Forks, it was only a matter of time before Jess and Jake ran into one another. Jess's penchant for never really knowing how to shut up meant Jake getting an earful was unavoidable. If Bella had been in better shape, she might have thought all that out before she let Jess leave with the belief her mystery hickey creator was her ex.
So what would you have let her leave here believing? She wonders miserably, not surprised when her mind comes up short on answers.
The sound of footsteps coming down the hall has her closing her eyes quickly. She relaxes as much as possible, feigning sleep as she hears Jake quietly push open the bedroom door. She senses him there, watching her, and has the sudden almost overwhelming urge to push back the covers and invite him to stay.
She wants comfort, and loving Jake used to be so easy. Too easy. Like basking in the sun on a warm, lazy summer day.
At first, it was good being with him. Everything she thought she wanted and needed, but it didn't take long to figure out he was a placebo, not the real drug capable of curing the ache inside of her.
She feels that ache now, heavy and solid in her chest. A vast cavern of emptiness that has its own weight and feel. It's all she can do to resist the urge to wrap her arms around it in a move that never truly alleviates the pain. Like some vital part of her is missing.
Jake slips on silent feet farther into the room and covers her gently with the other blanket. Warm fingers brush her cheek, moving her hair off her face, and it's all she can do not to flinch away. The reaction is strange, especially seeing as how just seconds ago she wanted him to touch her, to hold her and make her feel safe. To enfold her in those huge arms of his and all that heat he always radiates in abundance.
Now that he's this close, she realizes she doesn't want it. Not at all.
As she listens to him quietly leaving the room, closing the door behind him, she realizes that what she does want is the very opposite of Jake. Where she once found surcease in his heat and unique brand of light, her body now aches in sudden spasms for a cool touch, one that will ease the burn deep inside of her...
Bella's eyes open, and she loses the fight to keep her breathing even. It comes out harsh now, almost panting as something close to wonder and fear mingle for dominance in her thoughts. With her eyes glued to the fading washes of sunlight on her ceiling, she realizes there was a time when she didn't feel this cavern in her chest. A few brief hours when she didn't hurt inside with these all too familiar gnawings of pain.
For a few short moments, she did experience relief. The only problem is, she found it in the arms of someone she suspects is no white knight.
Edward.
Wrapped in sheets that still smell like him, she traces the bracelet on her wrist, the familiar stones cool and solid beneath her fingertips. The bracelet she lost in the club that mysteriously showed up on her pillow when she woke in the dead of night. Her arms prickle anew with goosebumps, just as they did when she first saw it, and she wonders again what it means.
Was Edward here last night? Had he found this for her, left this for her?
Why?
As the shadows begin to fall into the corners of her room, her chest aches and her mind races even as her body loses the fight to stay awake. This all-encompassing fatigue is heavier and more demanding than anything she has the power to resist. As she drifts down into strange and twisted dreams, she has one last thought.
She can't want him. She can't need him.
She doesn't even know what he is.
. . . . . .
