A/N Huge thanks to Team Prey – SaritaDreaming, beta-extraordinaire (have you read her stuff? Seriously, you should read her stuff. Woman has more wonderful fics to choose from than colours in a box of crayons.) And my gloriously awesome pre-readers, Popola, RubyLou & radioactive77 for bolstering my courage to post this one and keeping me on track with...everything. xoxoxoxo
Thanks as well to all my amazing readers, new and old. I think I managed to reply to most of my reviewers last time but if I missed you, please know I read and treasure each and every comment I receive.
Warning: This chapter contains mature content meant for adult readers. Please heed the M warning of this story.
Prey for the Wicked
Chapter 10
Iskušenje
. . . . . .
Once inside, we can conceive and believe
In a God we can't feel...
. . . . . .
Bella wakes up, disoriented, lost. Darkness surrounds her but her eyes adjust quickly. The familiar shapes of her bedroom furniture mix with the shadows. She's home, safe, all in one piece.
Edward...the bar...the feel of his mouth on her...
How the hell did she get back here?
Where is he?
She sits up too fast. The room spins. A light snaps on. Blinking, she fights for equilibrium and finds it in the dark eyes that watch her, their intensity burning through her foggy thoughts and bringing a clarity that is as stunning as he is.
The prior events rush back upon her.
His confessions, what he is, what he's done – his declaration that she belongs to him.
He smirks as though he can read her thoughts, something he claims he cannot.
"You brought me home?" She doesn't mean to phrase it as a question, but it comes out that way, the unspoken 'why' ringing in the aftermath.
"For now," he states simply, his words implying so much she can't comprehend. Threat, promise; it's all the same to her now.
She looks at her bedside clock. The green digital numbers flash steadily in the preset standard of 12:00.
"Power went out for a while. There's a storm brewing," he tells her matter-of-factly.
Bella hears it then, the rush of wind gusting through the trees and scraping around the house. The screen door at the back of the house that never latches right must have blown open. It bangs rhythmically against the siding. Light rain patters against the windows, sounding like dozens of sharp needles pricking the glass.
"What time is it?" She glances at the windows, not surprised to see them closed, though she knows she opened them earlier.
"Midnight."
She licks her lips, her mouth dry and tasting like the alcohol she drank earlier. She's been asleep – or unconscious – for over an hour, apparently missing the ride home. Shifting her legs, she realizes she's still in her robe. The silk clings to her skin. The heat of the room is making her sweat, or maybe that's her nerves. She needs a drink. She wants to open the windows and let in the growing storm. She does neither.
A flash of lightning temporarily obliterates the shadows that cling to the corners of the room where the pale light from the lamp fails to reach. She tries to ground herself in the familiarity of seeing the clothes she wore earlier draped over a chair where she left them. Inevitably though, her gaze is drawn to him, still there, still watching her with those dark, odd eyes so unfathomable. She shivers despite the heat, but not because she's cold. No, she is the farthest thing from cold...
Edward's nostrils flare as he inhales and rises to his feet, as fluid and graceful as any predator. Bella stares at the lines of his body, mesmerized as he lifts his shirt, pulls it over his head and tosses it carelessly to her floor, announcing his intentions quite clearly.
He isn't leaving. He isn't done with her.
His skin is pale and flawless, rippled with sinuous muscles, lean and whipcord fierce. She remembers how smooth his body feels, how cool and burnished it is and the impossible strength that radiates off him...
She rises to her knees and scoots back against the headboard, her heart beating wild. Excitement and fear and arousal race through her body, drawing her muscles up into quivering little knots. The deepest one curls up tight in her core with an ache that centers itself between her legs. The feeling is sweet and hot, pulsing dampness as he moves towards her, his lethal, wickedly elegant fingers undoing his belt, the button on his pants, the zipper. A flash of v-shaped muscle flexes, and then he's there on the bed before she can truly focus and take him in. Her little move of self-protection was futile. She never even feels him move her away from the headboard – one moment its solid presence is against her back, the next all she feels is the mattress and the slight rasp of her sheets, still scented with him.
"Listen to your heart fly," Edward murmurs, his body poised over top of hers, only the barest millimetre of space between them. Fingers, cool and gentle, touch her face, ghost over her cheekbone and down to her pulse point, as though he needs tactile proof of what he hears.
He hums a sound that touches all her nerve endings while he takes her in, his dark gaze possessive and heated.
"How you please me, little beauty" he tells her, and somehow those simple words further ease that empty ache inside. Fill it up with something more, something else, something other – an odd rush of pride that he wants her, though she isn't even trying to please him, not really.
His head drops, and his mouth touches hers. Not a kiss, just an inhale and an exhale. Cool, sweetly scented breath fogs her thoughts, lulls her. Her body ignites.
"I want you, Isabella," he says, voice all wrapped in dark velvet. Words delivered with the promise of wicked pleasures. "Tell me you feel the same."
She wants to say no, wants to reclaim her sanity and stop this before it goes any farther, but she can't; she won't. It's without rhyme or reason, but oh, how she wants this, wants him. Of her own volition, she reaches up and trails her fingers along the sharp definition of his jaw, feeling the sudden tension in him that flexes beneath her fingers, rippling over the skin that only barely grazes her own. He draws back, and his eyes reflect emotion she can't read. Confusion perhaps, startled hesitation for sure. He's so beautiful it makes her ache. Something else moves in those eyes. Pain, longing. She knows those feelings well. They have been her constant companions her entire life. He's alone and empty, just like her. She doesn't question how she knows this, she simply does.
Her touch gentles as she moves to trace his mouth, his lips soft yet unyielding meeting her fingers and sending tingles of sensation shooting through her nerves. She feels lost but not alone. For the first time in her entire life, she doesn't feel alone.
Edward groans and closes his eyes. His expression a mixture of pleasure and pain. When he opens them only a second later, his eyes, awash with that vivid indescribable black, seem to devour her. Her robe opens under his touch, his hand sliding beneath her, lifting and pushing the fabric away, freeing her arms before laying her back down. The fabric bunches beneath her, mixing the feel of cool silk and the rougher texture of her sheets against her bare back. Her skin is suddenly so sensitive the dual sensations are extravagant.
"Tell me you want this, Isabella, even though I hardly need your words. Your body screams for me, little beauty, and still I want you to say it. I want to hear you give yourself to me freely."
"I want this. I want you," she replies without hesitation, her voice breathless. She can't deny him. She aches and he's the only cure. Even if it means accepting all this madness, she can't say no, can't find the will to push him away. Instead, her body curves up to his, arching off the bed until their skin connects. Sparks fly, electric pulses jolt, and as if it must keep up the storm begins in earnest, spiking the room with lightning, pelting the windows with sheets of rain. Bella hardly notices when the light goes out, the power failing once more. Nothing is darker than his eyes or this place she's falling into...nothing.
. . . . . .
Edward hisses at her words, and then again at the contact of her naked, hot skin against his as she arches like a perfect little wanton against him. He feels the curve of her breasts, and the slopes of her concave stomach, the sharp satin-covered edges of her hipbones, and the silky hair on her sex. She keeps herself as a woman should, neat but feminine, clean yet natural. His mouth waters copiously at the remembered honeyed taste of her. He plans to have her taste in his mouth again, soon.
Unable to resist, he dips his head to hers and takes her mouth. Not even the alcohol she consumed can taint her delicate flavour. Her mouth is a hot, wet-honey paradise, and he dips his tongue inside, flickering into its shadowed recesses to capture her full essence. Her whimpering response draws his cock up tight against his abdomen, full and rigid, aching. He shifts to give it a place to rest between her thighs, silken skin parting to accept him, wetter and plusher and even more inviting than her mouth. He glides back and forth, continuing to kiss her, swallowing her gasp and the moans that follow, one after the other.
Isabella suddenly trembles and comes, so sweetly, so perfectly, drenching him in more heat and liquid, making his back and forth glide easier. She needs air so he drops his head to her neck, licking her fluttering pulse. Thunder erupts loudly, covering his guttural growl as he joins her, spilling violently against the top of her sex, her stomach, coating her in his essence, marking her as his.
Primal instincts flare, possessiveness radiating off him as he lifts her closer, moving his mouth to her breasts. Her nipples are sharp-hard, her chest covered in a deep-rose flush – a clear marker of both her orgasm and her continuing arousal. She says his name, and he feels...alive.
With a low growl he spins her fast, tumbling her lush body over and rising to part his legs so he can straddle the back of her thighs. His hands grasp down on her hips hard enough to leave the imprint of his hands in red marks that flare brightly against her porcelain flesh. His mouth tastes the nape of her neck, the bumps all the way down her spine. His incisors tingle, descending farther down from his gums. He scrapes them over the perfect taut globes of her ass, relishing her sweet, shocked cry born on an exhale that soaks the room in her perfumed breath. His tongue trails down the seam, gliding over the length of that deep split.
"No, Edward...God, what...don't."
Her breathless pleas match the clench of her shocked muscles, but he only laughs low in his throat. His hands tighten further on her hips as he lifts her lower half helplessly off the bed, dragging his tongue lower to taste the richness of her arousal as she fists the sheets in clenched fingers. Her denying gasp turns to a sound of pure pleasure, her thighs pushing outward to open herself more for him. She shudders and heaves, a delicate, fragile creature caught in his arms, helpless to whatever he wants.
Perfect, so perfect, so responsive, so his...
His cock aches, wanting the place where his tongue is. Rising, he slides one arm underneath her, laying his palm flat between her breasts and lifting her until her back is flush with his chest, both of them on their knees. He turns her head to kiss her deeply, taking her mouth so she can taste her own sweetness, so she can know how perfect she is for him.
Lightning flashes, turning her skin silvery white and incandescent. The power flickers on, and the artistry of her changes, the pale light washing her in gold now, as though he needs more proof of what a treasure he's found. Edward cups her sex and slides a finger inside the sheath of her, keeping her on the knife edge of arousal. She's so drenched...ah, his sweet Isabella. His, for always. He will never let her go, never...
"So hot for me, Isabella, so ripe. I feel you clenching around me, trembling, right here, so deep." He adds a second finger and she cries out, pushing against his touch, her back arching, pushing her pert breasts into his other hand as he takes a nipple and strokes it with his thumb, back and forth against the tightly beaded tip. He presses the base of his other thumb against her clitoris, letting it rock against that hot, swollen little bud with each plunge and withdraw of his fingers. She cries out once more and the lights flicker, again and again, yet somehow stay on. She's gloriously oblivious to the faltering electricity and the howling wind, the tree branches that creak and crack, and the leaves that are torn free, swirling against the house. Her hips rock, trying to make him go faster, deeper, to give her more, to give her release. He slows his movements and relishes her whimper of frustration.
Scraping his teeth against the curve of her ear gently, he smiles, whispering low and sensuous, "Do you want to come, my Isabella? Do you want to come all over my fingers, sweet little lamb?"
"Please," she begs, perfectly desperate, trembling, her skin dewed with perspiration, a new flavour to savour. Edward drops his head and licks her satiny skin where her neck meets her shoulder, groaning at the taste of her and the promise of the taste to come when he sinks his teeth... Not yet; not tonight. He draws back and tightens his restraint. Soon he will drink from her, but he's taken enough already. He must be careful. She's so fragile, so breakable...
"Please what, Isabella? Tell me what you want, my beauty, what you need."
"You," she gasps. "I want you. I need you."
Such a perfect answer; more proof that she is meant to be his and his alone.
Withdrawing his touch has her gasping and pleading, but he merely captures her hands in his and raises them to the headboard, placing her grasp over the top.
"Hands on the headboard, Isabella. Do not let go. Eyes closed. Breathe. You're going to need air in your lungs to scream my name," he orders. Then, in one smooth arch he bends her, takes her hips and draws her back until her arms are extended in front of her.
Edward watches her hands clench down tightly to keep her grasp from slipping, the muscles in her arms pulling taut, the line of her spine straight as an arrow. Such grand obedience. He lowers his head to the small of her back, kissing her spine while reaching lower to part the curves of her behind and press his thumb to the tight rosette he exposes. She cries out, half fear half embarrassment, but he merely strokes over the flesh and all those rich nerves, gentle yet insistent.
"You're all mine, Isabella. Every inch, every spot, every part of you, is mine. Do you understand? I will show you pleasure you've never dreamed of, little one, but I won't be denied. Not tonight, not ever."
He moves and places the tip of his cock where she's so wet she soaks the head of him in liquid fire, making his jaw snap shut and his unnecessary breathing halt in his throat. A deep growl is born in the place his air lays trapped. Never has he known pleasure like this, sensation this good, this pure and untainted. Not even quenching his fiery thirst matches this for there is no niggling or unwanted guilt here, only pleasure – his, hers, theirs.
Isabella's hips move back, her fingers nearly slipping from the headboard in her quest to get him inside of her. Breathing again, Edward chuckles. "So impatient, my beauty."
She sobs and he relents, flexing his hips and sliding inside of her slowly, so slowly. All the more to tease her and to prolong the incredible feel of her femininity opening for him, engulfing him. She's so tight, hot...Christ, he can hardly stand to move slowly. The stolen blood in his veins seems to boil, his cock hardening even more, stretching until he's enveloped in her as deep as he can possibly go. One hand glides up her back, pressing down lightly on the center to keep her in place. The other slips around her waist and down to cup her sex. Making a V shape, he rests two fingers on either side of her clitoris, drawing back its silky little hood and fully exposing her sensitive nerves to the air of the room as he begins to thrust. The action denies her the stimulation she needs to climax, prolonging both her pleasure and her agony of frustrated need.
Her agony is his as the pleasure of her tight clutch and the friction of their bodies sends his senses reeling. The storm lashes the house, only now he's just as oblivious as her. The lights flicker again and go out, plunging the room into darkness that neither of them notices. Nothing exists, nothing except this rocking, heated, thrusting movement that takes them both into a place of pure need, pure desire. He groans and growls, the sounds born out of his mouth without his control. She whimpers and moans, crying out again and again, pleading with him.
"Please, Edward...oh, God, please, please."
"Not yet, Isabella, not yet." His mastery over her is too sublime to end, and he wants her to understand the pleasures he can give her if she only submits to his will.
Her skin grows as slick as her sex, the heat in the room delicious, making her sweat for him. Her entire body is drawn tight like a bow with the most perfect arch, gorgeous in her tension. He finds the place inside of her that makes her nearly weep, strokes his cock over it again and again until she's shaking in her need, until he would shake as well if it were possible. He grips her hair and tugs back, growling her name as she tightens around him even more, impossibly more. His hand skates down her back to return to her sweet little ass, thumb dipping to where they're joined then back up to that forbidden passage, again and again until she's as slippery there as she is everywhere else. Nothing is or will be taboo, and she's too far gone to deny him. Tight, gripping restraint melts away and she cries out loudly, pushing back, accepting the dark, naughty invasion, denying him nothing.
The feel of her submission, her body open in all ways, makes him burn with pleasure. "Yes, perfect, my little beauty. Good, so good, such a good girl..."
"Please. God! I need to...come, Edward...please."
She's lost all restraint, all sense of propriety and manners, exactly as he wants. She exists only as his, only for this moment with him. Edward's fingers squeeze closed over her clitoris as he presses inside of her harder, teasing her bottom with shallow little thrusts of his thumb, her sex with deep, penetrating thrusts of his cock, growling, growling... He can feel his own need to come boiling within him, heat and tension coiling together in ever increasing delight.
"Yes, now, Isabella. Come for me now." He rocks his squeezed fingers in quick little bursts, fast, faster, and she screams, coming and coming for him, so beautifully. Edward doesn't let up, not once, dragging another climax from her on the heels of the first until he can resist no longer and lets himself go, releasing inside of her while he clenches his jaw shut to keep from taking her blood, teeth gnashing together as he spills...and spills and spills and spills. Deep, jetting pulses that feel as visceral as the blood that pumps from a victim's carotid artery...
Edward pulls away from her as the pleasure wanes and his thirst rages. She collapses against the damp sheets, gasping and nearly insensate, unaware of how dangerous this moment could have been. He moves to lie beside her, turning her on her side and drawing her close to him, cradling her spent sublime body and kissing her slack, warm mouth. Slowly, still testing the edges of his control, he lifts her wrists as her eyes flutter open and wearily, warily, watch him. She's so beautiful in her satiated state that something in his chest aches, making him only want to cradle her closer, to keep her forever; he will keep her forever.
He runs his tongue over her wrist and she shivers, dark brown bottomless eyes watching him closely. A tiny nick, a small suckle, the perfume of her released blood almost stronger than the meagre taste he allows himself. It coats his tongue and throat, soothing the dry burn. Gently he licks her again, sealing the small wound, placing a gentle kiss for good measure.
Isabella shivers again and Edward pulls her closer, taking her leg and draping it over his thigh, rejoining their bodies smoothly and effortlessly with the slickness that covers them both.
"Oh," she gasps, eyelids fluttering closed. "No, I can't...oh. Edward, no, not like last time, I can't take it like that again, please..."
"Fragile little human," he teases laughingly, flicking his tongue across her lip, a gentle lash that makes her moan.
"I can't..." she repeats breathlessly. A false denial since he can already feel her body trembling in that now familiar way, her reactions committed to his eidetic memory.
"Yes, you can," he tells her, rocking forward, backwards, moving his mouth from her wrist to her fingers, wetting the tips of two and moving them between their bodies. "Easy this time, little beauty. Slow and easy, no restraint just let go; fall into me, over me – come for me." With gentle insistence he presses them right over her sensitive clitoris, stroking softly, their fingers linked together as her head falls back and she proves him perfectly, beautifully, erotically right as she bows to his will and his guiding touch – coming, coming...
"My Isabella. Such a good girl." He chuckles against her lips, kissing the whimpers from her mouth and swallowing them whole, relishing the taste of her fading climax on her breath.
"Mine," he reminds her, more determined than ever to make her accept her fate. "Forever mine, Isabella."
The bedside clock continues to flash twelve as the storm dies away and their bodies move, slow and gentle now for his delicate human. Her hands fist in his hair as he moves over top of her, velvet warm thighs wrapping around his hips as he coaxes more whimpers and sounds of pleasure from her throat. He watches her, and her eyes open, drowsy and full of repletion that makes him harder inside of her with pride and desire. She draws him in as his body rapidly nears release. Just before his head falls back to keep his aching teeth away from her flesh, denying himself yet again for her safety, he has a moment to wonder if he isn't as much hers as she is his.
. . . . . .
Jake rubs his eyes and leans back in his chair, trying to ease the kink in his back. They've been at this for hours. Running through several computer programs searching for any trace of Mike Newton has been gruelling and labour intensive. They've also broken several laws, but the heartburn and headache he's suffering have nothing to do with a guilty conscience. "This is ridiculous," he groans wearily, his patience fading. "How the hell can there be nothing. Not a God damn trace."
Seth stretches his back as well, joints snapping pleasurably as he shuts his laptop, looking at Jake in half apology, half exasperation. "It's pretty simple, man. There's nothing because Newton hasn't used a credit card or made any ATM withdrawals, paid for anything with debit, checked into any motel or..."
"I know that, but it doesn't make any sense," Jake replies harshly, cutting Seth off. "He's been missing for over a week. No one in this day and age carries enough cash to get away without needing to use credit or at least hit a bank machine for this long. This is bullshit, Seth. Are you sure you've got this program running right?"
Reaching for the last slice of cold pizza in the box on Jake's desk, Seth shrugs, unaffected by Jake's temper. He's used to it. Most people in Jake's life are. "It's working fine, just like I told you the last ten times you asked."
From across the room, sprawled lazily on the beat up old couch, Quil cracks his knuckles and sighs, tossing the folder he was reading on the floor, risking Jake's ire further.
Jake reins it in, just barely, and strides over to pick it up and shuffle the papers back in neatly, giving Quil a warning glare.
"The cops have nothing," Quil says around a jaw-cracking yawn, pointing at the folder. "Nothing in there but basic evidence from the pictures and the initial missing persons report issued by his parents. Embry says it'll be weeks before they get DNA off the sheets in Newton's apartment, or positive confirmation from the fingerprints they lifted off the photos and walls. A hundred bucks says they won't get anything off them anyway. Fingerprints will be Newton's; DNA off the bed will probably be the creep's as well from his wank sessions over..." He quickly thinks twice about using Bella's name when Jake's jaw clenches so hard the muscles twitch under the pressure.
Jake manages to ignore Quil and tosses the folder on his desk, frustrated. He gleaned the same information when he read the paperwork himself after he nearly dragged them out of Embry physically. The photocopied police forms show nothing, but he hoped a second pair of eyes might turn up something useful. Not going to happen. Wherever Newton is, he doesn't want to be found. Either that or someone else doesn't want him to be found.
"Seth, what have you turned up on that band that was playing the last night Newton was seen?"
"I've got their tour schedule right here," he answers, holding up a sheet for Jake. "Looks like they'll be playing in a few places in Seattle over the next week."
Jake nods, making note of the days and locations, his mind spinning.
"Thinking about going out there and asking questions?" Quil asks.
"Thinking about it," Jake replies.
Quil snorts and rolls his eyes. "You should leave this to the cops, Jake. Embry said he's already spoken to them on the phone. Newton isn't with them."
Jake shrugs, trying to flex some of the tension out of his shoulders and neck. "I think an in-person visit might be a little more enlightening. Who's to say Newton's not with them and they're not covering for him by lying?"
Quil shrugs as well, watching Jake with amusement, his expression all too clearly conveying that he knows damn well what Jake will do. "Don't you think Chief Swan would have thought of that already?"
Jake huffs an exhale in irritation at the mention of the man he practically considered a father-in-law not too long ago. "I think Charlie is used to dealing with vandalism and stolen bikes rather than serious shit like this, Quil. That's what I think."
Standing up, Quil cracks his knuckles then fishes his keys out of his pocket, studying Jake with a suddenly wary expression. "This is just my opinion, and you can take it or leave it, but I say good riddance to bad garbage. Sounds to me like Newton doing a disappearing act is a good thing, Jake. Let the cops do their job."
"You don't know what you're talking about, Quil," Jake fires back. "You didn't see those fucking pictures...Christ. He's been following Bella around for years, man." He makes another effort to control his anger, shaking his head at the whole situation as he sinks back down in his chair.
"Look," Quil tries again, but Jake just holds up his hand and cuts him off.
"Don't, just don't. You don't know, man. I was there in that apartment with all those pictures. I saw her face, Quil. I saw Bella's face, and she was just...sick, and that's not even the half of it. Charlie and I didn't even show her the damn photo album the twisted fucker had stashed away. I still don't even know how he got half of those pictures."
"What are you talking about? There's no photo album mentioned in the police report, or did I miss something?" Quil strides to the desk reaching for the folder again, but Jake waves him off.
"There isn't anything about it in there, and there won't be either. Charlie destroyed it."
Quil blinks at this. Charlie Swan is known for his hard-ass, by the book, to the letter of the law, mentality. Saying he destroyed evidence is like saying he wouldn't haul Quil's ass in for possession if he saw the stash he has in his glove box right now.
"You never heard this," Jake tells him, his expression tight with warning as he looks at Seth as well. He runs a hand over his face, suddenly dead tired. The feeling he got when he looked at that album, like his guts were going to churn inside out, returns with a vengeance, making him regret the half a pizza he gulped an hour ago. Leaning forward, he swipes a stack of papers carelessly to the side, wanting to close his eyes and lay his head down right there on the cleared space, though he resists.
"What was in the album, Jake?" Quil asks him quietly, like he's afraid a louder tone will set him off.
Jake exhales and stares at the floor with an unfocused look, his mind supplying images he wishes like hell he could wipe from his brain. "More pictures – some of Bella but messed up, photo-shopped. Sick shit with her head but some other girl's naked body all bound up in ropes and chains, bloody, gagged... Fuck, just some really wrong hardcore BDSM stuff." He reaches out and grabs his half-finished beer, gulping down the piss-warm contents with a grimace, the drink doing nothing for his churning guts or the memories. "Pictures of her and me...personal pictures..."
"Personal as in...intimate kind of stuff?" Seth ears get a little pink as he stammers out the question.
Jake nods, fists clenching on the arms of his chair.
"How the hell did he get pictures like that?" Quil asks, looking suddenly murderous.
Exhaling roughly, Jake can only shake his head at his own stupid naive ass. "The Res bonfire on First Beach last year. Everyone left; I thought we were alone. We went for a swim. I put some blankets down by the fire..." He gets to his feet, unable to stay sitting with the memory of those pictures eating him alive. Newton was there that night. Lurking somewhere close enough to get damn good quality images of them while Jake was oblivious. Completely fucking oblivious. When he thinks of it, the urge to puke grows until he wonders if it's inevitable and eyes the garbage can by his desk.
"You got laid at a Res bonfire? Dude!" Seth snorts an inappropriate laugh, and Jake spins around, fire evident in his eyes. Seth leans back nervously at the look, and Quil, closest to Seth, cuffs him on the back of his head knocking him forward again. The old office chair creaks ominously at the rocking motion but holds together.
"Shit, Seth. Don't you have any couth?" Quil snaps.
Jake, continuing to glare, shakes his head. "I made love to my girlfriend after a Res bonfire when we thought everyone else was long gone, yes," he corrects, holding onto his cool by a hair. "Watch your mouth, Seth, when you're talking about Bella." Then softer and full of his shock and disappointment in himself, "I never knew that fucker was there. Christ, I can't believe I didn't know he was there."
Seth swallows and shifts. "Yeah, sorry. I didn't mean to be...couthless."
Quil snorts a short laugh, and Jake tries to let some of his tension go. Seth is a good kid, a little clueless sometimes, but good.
"Jake, don't blame yourself." Quil sits on the edge of Jake's desk, crossing his arms over his chest. "No one suspected Newton. You can't take this on yourself, man."
"Yeah, I can, Quil. You don't get it, do you? This is Bella we're talking about. Bella! I should have seen what he was doing. I should have kept it from happening."
"Jake, one of these days you're going to have to accept that you can't always protect Bella. She's not a damsel in distress..."
"You didn't see her face when she saw those pictures, Quil."
"I'm sure she was upset; anyone would be, but, man, you've gotta take a step back here. Newton's gone, and I get that you want to know where he is, I get that you want to keep her safe, but this whole knight in armour thing you've got going on with her, it's not healthy. She cut you loose, Jake. She's not yours to protect anymore. You need to let go a little."
The whole time Quil talks, Jake knows the tenuous hold he's got on his temper is about to slip. His hands slide effortlessly into clenched fists and his blood pounds in his brain. He feels the familiar fine tremors in his muscles starting – the same quiver in his joints and bones that always accompany his rages.
Seth shifts uncomfortably, clearing his throat as though looking for something to say, and coming up empty, decides to just make some kind of distracting noise.
Jake ignores him, levelling a look that should have made Quil back off; except Quil isn't looking at him, he's staring at a spot on the carpet, his expression contemplative and conflicted.
"You need to shut up, Quil," Jake tells him warningly, his tone of voice tight.
"Look, man, I'm just trying to have your back," Quil responds. His temper is nothing compared to Jakes, but he's getting mad himself.
"Having my back means being there for me when I'm trying to look after my girl."
"That's just it, Jake," Quil answers, his voice too quiet, his arms dropping to his sides in exasperation. "She's not yours anymore. She hasn't been for a long time. For all you know," he continues, voice growing softer but the inflection changing, something flashing in his eyes – pity maybe, concern definitely – "she's moving on. You need to do the same, brother."
"What the hell are you saying?" Jake steps toward him, his body tight and ready for action. He crowds Quil's space, forcing him to stand up. Jake towers over Quil, his expression lethal, his superior strength apparent in the width of his shoulders and the bulk of his muscles.
"Calm down," Quil demands, and Jake snaps like a rubber band stretched too tight. In one move too fast to follow, he shoves Quil, catches him by the shirt collar and bunches it in his fist before the force of that shove moves Quil an inch. He hauls him up, and Quil finds himself pinned against a wall, the impact nearly knocking the air out of his lungs.
"Don't tell me to calm the fuck down, ever," Jake snarls, his voice oddly quiet despite the anger in him. His body settles into that peculiar state where he feels disconnected and powerful. The rage isn't hot, it's cool. His senses feel heightened, his concentration absolute and crystal clear. Only the slight tremor remains, and even that is muted, like quivering electric pulses rather than jumping shocks. "Now, tell me what the fuck you're trying to say." He says this last through clenched teeth.
Quil doesn't bother to struggle. He's been in this position before with Jake. He knows he can't break the hold, that it's futile to even try.
"Fine," he spits, mad but wary enough to know crossing Jake right now would be a very bad idea. "I was there the night Newton disappeared, at the Twilight Tavern. I saw Bella. I was outside, smoking a cigarette, waiting for Claire to come out of the bathroom so we could head home. Bella had some words with Newton. I don't know what was said, but he looked pissed and so did she. Next thing I know, Newton's storming past me and Bella's walking away."
"So the fuck what?"
Quil shakes his head. "You don't get it, man. She didn't leave alone. She was with someone. She was with another guy."
Jake freezes, staring hard at Quil as though looking for some proof that he's telling the truth.
"Let me go." Quil's demand is met with stony silence. He waits, and finally after what seems like a long time, Jake releases him though he stays close, not moving an inch back or giving Quil any space.
"Who was she with?" The question is delivered like an order. Quil doesn't even think about refusing to answer.
"I don't know. Never seen him before."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Because you need to hear it."
"It doesn't mean anything."
"Doesn't it?"
Jake feels the heat in his body reignite. His concentration is still intense, except now his body wants action, not quiet watchfulness. He finally moves away from Quil, crossing the room away from bodies he can hurt. At the far wall, he pulls his fist back and slams it forward. The action drives his hand through plaster and lathe as a sound leaves his throat that sounds suspiciously like a howl.
. . . . . .
A/N So... (blushes) That lemon was a bit *ahem* out of my comfort zone. I sincerely hope you all liked it.
As for the second half of this chapter, it's my intention to show a Jacob who makes sense. This isn't teen-wolf Jacob from the series crushing on Bella like a dog getting all possessive over a bone that's not his. In this story, Jake and Bella have a deep history and connection. They've lived together and loved together in a serious long-term relationship. He's struggling here, but he's entitled to that. I hope that is coming through, but you tell me?
For those of you who have left comments regarding your worries that this is a triangle story, I ask you to bear with me. We're less than halfway through and there are still lots of pieces to fall together.
Thank you, as always, for reading.
xo
Aleea
