A/N Thanks to all of you who reviewed last chapter. I wasn't able to reply to many of you but I read and cherish every comment.
Huge thanks as always to team Prey. My beta Saritadreaming and pre-readers Popola and RubyLou are the best of the best! Special thanks to DoobaWrites who also pre-read. This chapter is a thousand times better because of all of you. xo
I have a tendency to tweak at the last minute. Any mistakes are all mine.
To Amy and Jo, my sweet fairytale sisters who hold my hand through everything I write, thank you. Give me a blank canvas, and I'll paint you a story...
Prey for the Wicked
. . . . . .
I've lost all control...
Chapter 15
Verleiding
. . . . . .
Bella leaves the rest stop bathroom and finds Edward waiting. Not that she expected different. Her hands shake. She stuffs them in the back pockets of her jeans to hide the weakness she doesn't want him to capitalize on. The position pushes her chest forward, making her feel open and vulnerable. Quickly, she switches to crossing her arms over her body. The action is familiar, only this time there is no crushing empty ache to cradle. Just anxiety and that odd excitement she doesn't want to feel.
Edward turns and holds out his hand to her. She wants to deny him, but her arms uncross and her hand is in his before she can stop herself.
She glances around quickly, looking for what she doesn't know. Escape? Help? Comfort?
Doesn't anyone see how messed up this is? Doesn't anyone notice he isn't normal?
Does she really want anyone to notice?
Edward tugs her forward, smirking. He raises her hand to his mouth and kisses the back of her palm. The touch of his mouth is cool and gentle.
Always such a contradiction, she thinks, as the action conveys tenderness and affection while his motives remain shadowy and suspect.
What does he really want from her?
"Have you eaten today, Isabella?"
"No." It's pointless to lie, she knows.
"Come then. Let's get you fed."
Yes. Mustn't let the plaything starve, she thinks snidely. Then he puts his arm around her waist and asks her what she wants, guiding her forward, encouraging her to choose whatever she likes, making her feel like he actually cares, that the idea of her being hungry for even a second longer is disagreeable and unpleasant.
She chooses a simple vegetable soup from the small non-chain coffee shop, not surprised when the teenager working the counter ignores her completely in favour of staring at Edward with wide eyes. Edward seems oblivious to the girls near drooling and pays before Bella can get her wallet out. He scowls at her attempt, like he's personally affronted by her desire to pay for her own meal. It reminds her of the money in her bank account, the catalyst for running. Instead of making her more determined to pay for herself, it defeats her. He is a force she cannot stop.
He leads her to a table and places the tray in front of her when she sits. She stares at the food, hungry and not. Her stomach is in knots.
Again, he throws her off by reaching out and opening her cracker package, placing the straw in her coke, the spoon in her bowl. The actions seem caring, though she supposes they could just as easily be condescending.
He examines his fingers, brushing off stray clinging cracker crumbs the way one would brush off dirt. "Eat, Isabella. You're pale, and this has been a strenuous day. You need the nourishment."
"My stomach hurts." She hates that she sounds child-like and small. She hates even more that she feels child-like and small. He's stripping away her independence, piece by piece.
He watches her quietly. Yet another surprise. She expects him to demand and order, at the very least to scoff. Instead, he nods. Turning his head, he looks out the wall of windows.
"There are tables outside. Would you prefer to eat out there, in the air and sun, away from others?"
Bella follows his line of sight, seeing the small outdoor patio he refers to. A cluster of umbrella covered tables sits vacant, other travellers choosing the air-conditioned interior over the heat. She wonders if he knows how much she hates crowds and that she's cold and feeling claustrophobic. She wonders even more that he's even trying to accommodate her at all.
At her nod of agreement, Edward gathers her tray and stands, holding out his hand, an exact repeat of his previous action. She takes it, this time after only a short hesitation, and allows herself to be led outside. Not that she has a choice.
The little tables are surprisingly clean, and Edward takes her to the one at the farthest end, away from the windows and the parking lot and probably from any prying eyes. A small green space is situated directly to her right with a little tree and a bench holding a memorial plaque she can't read, worn as it is from weather and years. A few old planters hold flowers, wilting and suffering in the sun. She wants to water them, but she only has a cola.
Edward pushes the tray closer to her. "Isabella, eat. Your stomach will feel better once it has some food in it."
Despite the knee-jerk reaction that makes her want to defy him, she knows he's right and picks up her spoon, forcing herself to take a bite. It's methodical: dip, lift, open, swallow. She tastes nothing. She stares at the poor heat-stricken flowers, trying to make sense of what is happening. Everything feels so...surreal.
When the bowl is half empty, Bella drops the spoon and looks at him. "I'm done."
He doesn't argue or demand she eat more. He's been watching her the entire time she ate, and his eyes don't shift away even now.
He gestures to the remaining food. "Would you like to take the rest with you?"
"No, thank you." So ridiculously polite, both of them. She bites down on her tongue until it hurts, wondering so many things.
His amused grin says he agrees with her thoughts about ridiculous politeness.
"Do you need the restroom again?"
Bella bristles. "No! And just...stop!"
He arches an inquisitive brow, looking cool and unruffled and so insanely good looking in his dark jeans and simple gray t-shirt. The sun catches the copper highlights in his unruly hair. He belongs in another world he's so perfect.
"What is it exactly you want me to 'stop,' Isabella?" He asks her this with a casual air, like her abrupt, slightly screechy demand was as banal as her commenting on the weather.
She attempts to lower her voice and be calmer, and she fails completely. "Stop...acting like I have choices!" she spits out. "Stop being nice! You've made it clear I have no free will, and you came all this way to, what, prove it? Prove I can't get away from you? Okay, I get it, so just...stop." She's aware she is shrill and it embarrasses her, the way she feels so out of control.
In contrast to his cool composure, she runs palms damp with sweat over the frayed hole in her washed-out, well-worn jeans, tugging uselessly at her wrinkled blouse. A tiny coffee stain sits just under the third button. A portion of the hemline is unravelling, the loose thread tickling her stomach.
She strives to sound rational, even if she feels anything but. "Just...what happens now?"
Edward leans forward, resting strong forearms well dusted with dark hair on the table. He has copper highlights there, too. They catch and refract the sunlight, like there's little sparks firing against his skin. His gaze on her is intent and feels stripping, as though he sees past everything, right to the heart of her.
"Now we go home, where you belong."
She blinks. Of all the things she was expecting, this isn't one. "Home? Like, back to Forks, home?"
"Do you have another place of residence?" His tone is dry, but those sinful lips curve up almost playfully.
Bella tries to glare. "What makes you think I won't just run again?"
"Will you?"
Turning her head away from his stare, Bella watches the wilting flowers sway in the gritty feeling breeze that reeks of hot asphalt from the parking lot. She tries again to read the memorial plaque on the bench and fails. She wonders if anyone will put a plaque on a bench for her and doubts it.
He said he'd 'decided not to kill her.' That's what he told her that night in the Twilight Tavern when he took her back there and admitted what he was, and that he planned to keep her.
She looks back at him and something clenched tight loosens. He's never hurt her. Even now when she thinks that someone like him should be angry at her for running, he's been calm, nice even. Caring for her, seeing to her needs, sitting here with her, no threats or words of intent to harm; he's told her he is taking her home. The weird trust she has that he won't harm her, remains solid.
"I don't know," she answers truthfully. "Does it matter? You obviously have no trouble finding what you lose." It's a jibe veiled in a compliment, and he knows it.
His jaw clenches, and those strange eyes, dark orange-gold today, pierce her. She can't tell if her answer makes him angry or not, though there is a part of her that thinks he looks...tired. Like he expected her answer but was hoping for different.
What the hell does he truly want from her?
He stands, uncoiling from his seated position gracefully. A sense of lethal in the movement strips away any sense of feminine in the grace equation. It's all male, all dangerous. Rounding the table, he stands in front of her and extends his hand one more time.
"Come, my Isabella. It's time to go home."
. . . . . .
The lamb sleeps.
Edward watches her. She's curled into the passenger seat, her head turned toward him. Looking at her like this evokes an utterly alien feeling of tenderness, and he reaches out to gently sweep away the tendrils of hair that have fallen against her cheek.
She doesn't stir. Her little adventure has exhausted her. He smiles, thinking of how hard she tries to convince herself she does not want him. His stubborn, beautiful, fragile Isabella-lamb. That she sleeps in the presence of a monster is proof that her anxieties have no real depth. She is drawn to him, and he senses she needs him.
His proprietary protective desires war with his solitary nature. She is his mate, but he has no true idea what that means for him or for her.
Isabella sighs at his lingering touch, the gentle exhale ending in soft iteration of his name as his fingertips trail over the impossibly soft skin along her jaw to her shell-like ear.
"Edward...Edward..."
He turns back to face the highway, weaving in and out of traffic with barely attentive ease. Engaging Bluetooth and speaker phone, Edward places a call, setting the volume so low that Bella will not hear a word spoken by the person he contacts. He pitches his voice low as well, keeping it to the cadence of the music playing quietly.
"Mr. Masen."
Edward doesn't bother with trite greetings. "Is it done?"
Jenks is well trained. He answers swiftly, deleting any extraneous information. He was given instruction by Edward only an hour ago, yet he's accomplished what was asked of him. Jenks is nothing if not efficient.
"Yes, Mr. Masen. A police report for a stolen 1953 Chevrolet truck, titled to one Isabella Swan, purchased by one Jacob Black, has been established as of 11:08 a.m. today. You were correct in assuming Lieutenant Samuels of the Seattle police department would be helpful."
Of course he was. Weak men with dark inclinations often are helpful. Edward has a slew of such men under his thumb. In the case of Lieutenant Samuels, a debt owed from a decade past when Edward saved him from having both his kneecaps shattered at the hands of less-than-happy loan sharks, ensured several favors. This is the first he's called upon. Edward is glad to see he left enough of an impact to secure such...loyalty. Fear and gratitude are great motivators. It helps that Edward continues to line the aging lieutenants pockets whenever asked, or begged as the case so often is.
Jenks continues. "As per your request, a copy of that report has been faxed to one Charlie Swan, Police Chief of Forks, Washington, and texts from the cell phone number you provided have been sent to one Jacob Black, one Charlie Swan, and one Jessica Stanley. Content as you requested: 'Hey—inserted here were the individual names of the recipients—everything is fine. I'm going to stay with a friend in Seattle for a few days. I'm sorry I left so quickly. I just really need the time away. I'll call you soon. Bella."
Edward replies without praise or comment on what Jenks has accomplished. "Did you insure the copy of the police report faxed to Chief Swan contained Samuels contact information and a personal note indicating Isabella Swan asked the copy be sent to her father specifically?"
"Yes. I followed your instructions to the letter, Mr. Masen."
"And have you implemented a trace so you can track all incoming reports of a 1963 Chevrolet Truck found burning at a rest stop sixteen kilometers northwest of Seattle?"
"Yes. Currently only one report has come in fitting your description. The vehicle was found burning at the rest stop you indicated, but it was stripped of license plates and hasn't yet been identified by make or model. It most likely will not. Apparently the fire was...quite intense and witnesses are only describing it as an 'old red truck.' The damage is being described as 'extensive.'" Jenks is careful to keep his tone non-questioning. He prefers to know as little as possible, especially where Edward is concerned. Jenks' father and grandfather were likewise inclined and likewise as useful in their time.
"Is there any mention of Miss Swan or anyone fitting her description in the witness reports?"
"No. All those questioned at the time reported they were unaware of seeing anyone connected with the vehicle."
Edward isn't surprised. Most humans are remarkably unobservant. "Keep me informed of any changes, and I want to know the second Chief Swan contacts Lieutenant Samuels."
"Of course, Mr. Masen."
Edward hangs up and places Isabella's cell phone—something he took from the truck before burning it, as well as several other personal items—into his glove box. He'll need to persuade her to call her family and friends tomorrow. The steps he's taken to cover Isabella's tracks and prevent Chief Swan from being able to launch any kind of police search for his errant daughter have bought him time, but only a limited amount.
He wants endless amounts.
Soon, he cautions himself. He's begun step one of separating her from those who would try, uselessly, to keep her from him, and that is enough for now.
Step two—implement himself into her life and become an in-their-face presence for the two males that would contest his possession of Isabella.
Step three—keep what is his forever, by any means necessary.
Edward puts his foot down harder on the gas, eager to get his sleeping lamb home.
. . . . . .
Scenery passing by in a blur is a testament to the crazy-fast speed Edward drives. For the first little while after she woke, Bella white-knuckled the sides of her seat, until she realized how well he handles the car, like it's an extension of himself.
She knows now how he was able to catch up with her so fast, even if she isn't certain how he knew which way she ran.
The sun is starting to set, and the horizon is glorious. A wide swath of brilliant pink, orange, and dusky purple paints the canvas of sky, natures beautiful, un-garish version of a neon sign.
Air conditioning vents emit a soft, steady stream of cool air, and the car stereo system plays a steady stream of music quiet enough to be in the background of her thoughts. A throaty-voiced woman croons something in Spanish...something sad and melancholy, Bella thinks, despite only understanding a few words. Four years of high school Spanish, wasted.
Like so many other things in her life.
She shifts, uncomfortable despite the plush leather seat that hugs her body. Riding in this car is like riding on a cloud in comparison to riding in the truck.
The truck. How will she explain the truck to Jake? To Charlie? God, Charlie is going to kill her.
Edward has been quiet. Other than asking her if she slept well and if she needed anything after she first woke up, he's left her to her brooding thoughts. She looks over at him now, watching him drive. His hands on the wheel look strong yet elegant, his fingers long. She can't help but think about the way it feels when he touches her—so much right born from so much wrong.
She turns to look out the passenger side window, away from those eyes that see too much and understand too well all the secret things about her she's spent her life hiding and denying.
The scenery passes by in a faster blur than before as Edward presses his foot down on the gas when traffic becomes sparser.
Bella lowers her window, letting the warm air rush in and over her. She thinks about everything that's happened since Edward entered her life. Her experiences are like this car racing, like when she was a kid and she used to slide on large patches of ice in smooth-soled shoes. She can't stop, and the thrill of the wind in her face and danger of not knowing where she'll end up tastes like freedom.
But there is always an end. She just isn't certain whether she'll glide to a safe stop or crash and break into pieces.
. . . . . .
Edward turns the car onto a road Bella isn't familiar with. It's not paved, just gravel and dirt. Stones spit up and hit the undercarriage. He doesn't seem concerned with the damage those stone can cause to a car like this. One hits the passenger side window with a loud whack, making her grateful she closed it during the last hour of the drive. A tiny spider web crack appears in the glass.
Fitting, she thinks.
"Where are we going? I thought you said you were taking me home?"
"I am taking you home, Isabella." Says the spider to the fly. He seems amused as he glances at her. Another game where she doesn't know the rules.
The road becomes narrower, sporadic clumping of trees thickening noticeably until they are surrounded on all sides by dense forest. Around the next curve, the road ends abruptly.
Destination nowhere, she thinks. A little clutch of hysteria clamps around her throat.
"This isn't home," she tells him inanely.
He leaves the car and is around at her side instantly. It's too fast. She never saw him move. The door opens, and Edward extends his hand in what is fast becoming a habit. She refuses to take it this time, turning her head instead to study the solid expanse of Olympic Peninsula forest. The smell of Red Cedar and Douglas Fir is strong in the heat that quickly leaches away the cooler air from the inside of the car.
"This isn't home," she repeats.
"I did say I was taking you home, Isabella. But you seem to be under the misconception I meant your home."
Bella drags her gaze from the dark copse of woodland and focuses on him, a new fission of unease creeping up her spine. This idea that he isn't taking her to her actual house, but somewhere else entirely, is a new, more realistic fear than any fear she's had that he might hurt her.
"Where are you taking me if not my home?" She's surprised her voice doesn't quiver.
"I'm taking you to mine." He delivers this statement with another of those dark amused smiles. He enjoys playing with her, keeping her on edge.
"Here?" she asks incredulously.
"This is the...scenic route," he replies. "But yes, essentially, I live here."
She turns back to the woods, impenetrable and forbidding in the slow leaching away of daylight. She thinks, yes, he would live someplace like this. Curiously, she finds herself unlatching her seatbelt and getting out of the car. She wants to know where he lives, but she still ignores his hand.
He frowns at that, yet makes no comment or move to force her. Again she's thrown by the look in his eyes, as though her refusal to let him hold her hand wounds him somehow.
She has to be wrong about that.
Edward gestures to a path she can now see clearly outside of the limited vision the car windshield provided. "Shall we?" he asks, those odd, polite, out of date manners showing.
How old is he? she wonders.
Stepping onto the dirt path, she's surprised it's as clear as it is, though it will still be easy enough for her uncoordinated self to trip and fall. Maybe refusing to take his hand wasn't the wisest move...
"How far is it?"
"Not far. There's a meadow ahead. It's quite lovely. I thought you might like to see it."
Staring at him yields no answer to such a bizarre statement. He keeps leaving her scrambling, not understanding him at all. Her mind screams why, but she only pushes her feet forward.
It's cooler in the canopy of trees, and there is still enough light she can see the safety hazards, helping her avoid the overgrown tree roots that thrust up from the ground, mingling with the pieces of deadfall that litter the way. He stays behind her, but she's no less aware of his presence for the lack of being able to see him.
A few feet more are taken in silence, then suddenly she steps into an unexpected clearing and stops in her tracks.
'A meadow,' he said, though it's nothing so simple or common. It's small, but it's as though she's stepped into a fairytale or alternate universe. Lush and green and alive, the little clearing is coated in the dwindling sunlight. Where the light falls at the edges through tree branches, it looks like golden translucent rainfall. Low-growing wildflowers carpet the ground, and everywhere she looks is...storybook.
"It's beautiful here," she says, and that's an understatement. This is the forever home of the Velveteen Rabbit and the place Pinocchio came to play as a 'real boy.' This is the Garden of Eden before the apple and the loss of innocence. This is something magical and light, and into it steps a creature who belongs somewhere else entirely.
"It is, isn't it?" He sounds so casual, like he brought her someplace ordinary. And yet when she watches him, he's watching her, too, and he looks...hungry for her approval?
He studies her so closely it's as though he's trying to interpret every subtle nuance of her facial expressions to know her mind. It's disconcerting and weirdly flattering. More dichotomy, both hers and his. Their angles never quite seem to fit together...well, not totally true. She can think of ways their angles do fit together quite easily.
Before she can blush or enjoy the way her skin feels at that thought, Edward interrupts. "I found this place...decades ago. It's exactly the same, though it changes with the seasons, of course. It's lovely here, even in the winter."
Her mind struggles to keep up, to absorb. 'Decades ago?' And why the hesitation? Did he live here once before?
Again she finds herself wondering how old he is. More than that, she wonders if she'll ever know his secrets.
Does she want to know them?
She glances back out at the meadow. The sun disappears behind a cloud. One that's dark and ominously swelled with oncoming rain. The sky is turning gray, and the scene seems to change with the fading light—more the Garden of Eden after the apple.
Rain is coming. Bella can smell it and feel it in the moisture laden air. It's almost a relief. Rain she knows. She's lived under near constant cloud-cover and endless drizzle for years.
Edward steps deeper into the meadow. With his back to her, she notices tension in the rigidity of his spine, though he's no less graceful as he walks nearly to the center.
"It's twilight," he points out quietly, though whether it's to her or himself she can't tell. He turns abruptly. "My favorite time of day." He looks darker in this light, his eyes less copper and more...red. A reflection of his mood?
She looks away but feels his stare continue. It's like a touch, stroking her and breaking her down as she feigns interest in the trees and grass and a flying insect that drones by.
"Is there a point to bringing me here?" she asks, unable to maintain the silence and the weight of his eyes on her.
"Do I need a reason, Isabella?"
She shrugs. "You usually have one, don't you?"
He laughs. "Careful, little lamb. You are perilously closer and closer to asking 'why.'"
"I just want to go home." She ignores the way he's stalking closer. From the corner of her eye, the way he moves is predatory. He's definitely playing with her—cat and mouse, lamb and lion.
He no longer seems as amenable as he once was. His gaze bores into her as he circles.
"Perhaps you won't ask me why, but I have no such compunction." He moves in front of her and stops. Despite herself she's drawn to look, and yes, his pupils are redder, darker, dangerous. "Why did you run from me, Isabella?"
Her heart stutters, the memories from this morning, a time that feels a lifetime away instead of hours, flashes through her thoughts.
She shakes her head, looking away from those mesmerizing eyes. The money, she thinks, but does not say, because that's not the whole of why she ran. She wonders for a brief second now if she didn't overreact, then her spine finds its substance. No, she didn't. He had no right. He has no right. She keeps forgetting that in his presence. He keeps making her forget...everything, except what it feels like to be around him.
His nostrils flare, and he exhales with a long breath that brushes her skin. She has to fight to hold onto her anger, her knowledge that she is right and he is wrong, before he runs her over, before she succumbs to everything he wants. Because, oh, it would be so easy to do exactly that...
He waits. She gives him only silence, surprised to realize it's a weapon of sorts. She can see he's reacting, getting angry at her refusal to respond. Her silence gives her some power—or at least the illusion of it.
She won't give in. She doesn't have to explain. He has to know why she ran. He has to understand how wrong all this is, doesn't he?
Edward exhales again, and his breath washes over her appealingly. She wants to turn into the source of that air so she can breathe it deeper. He's such a craving, such a clawing, aching, wanting need.
"Shall we play a game of guess, Isabella?" he asks with feigned politeness. "Let me see if I can read your mind without actually reading your mind, shall we, my silent, secretive beauty?"
He steps closer, invading her space. The first few drops of rain begin to fall.
"Why don't we start with twenty questions?" He doesn't give her a chance to answer. For the first time since he found her today, she senses true danger in his mood. He's toying with her, but she feels certain there is a core of something more than plain frustration at her refusal to answer beneath the game he plays.
The rain falls a little faster in soft, fat drops that hit her skin and clothes in tiny splotches.
The questions begin, rapid fire and deliberately wounding.
"When you woke up this morning, what did you wake up to, Isabella? An empty house in need of repair? An empty life with no spark or excitement? An empty bed? Did you ache for me? Miss me after the night we shared? Were you hurt that I wasn't there with you? That I didn't wake you with soft kisses and touches? That I didn't fuck you until you screamed your pleasure into the start of a new day? Did you worry I didn't respect you after getting what I wanted?"
Cool fingers are suddenly on her pulse which ratchets up with the contact that feels too good for the intent behind it. Edward's fact-finding mission continues, and her traitorous heart beats out the truth in arterial Morse code.
Desire, want, and yes, yes, yes, she woke to all of that and more!
"Did you take your morning shower and think of my touch, Isabella?" he continues, voice low and velvet, cajoling and mocking in turns. "I think you did. Actually, I know you did." His lips twist in a smirk. "But humor me, Isabella. What did you think of specifically? Me, stroking your body? Taking you? My hands all over every delectable inch of your skin? My mouth between your sweet-skinned thighs? My cock so deep inside you, you could hardly bear it? Did you attempt to ease yourself, little beauty? Did you make yourself come?"
He takes the exact hand she used to do the act he accuses her of and lifts it, running his nose over her fingers with a low growl that makes the baby fine hair on her nape rise, a little fear and a whole lot of desire. Every word out of his mouth ignites embarrassment and heated yearning.
"Mmm... Yes, you did. I can smell your lingering sweetness," he confirms, taking secrets and airing them when he has no right. "You won't do that again, Isabella. Your body belongs solely to me. When you come from now on, it will be with me and only me."
He laughs at her glower and stuttering attempt to deny him that has no words, only starts and stops of sound formed by shock at his nerve. Always he wants to take more than she can give, and how wrong is it that she wishes, yearns to be able to bend to his will?
"Don't fret, sweetling," he mocks. "Your pleasure is mine. I will never deny you or leave you wanting. I find I enjoy pleasing you, very much. I think you know this.
And yet," he muses out loud, "you ran from me. Why?" He bites off the word, clipped and hard, angry sounding, almost bitter.
Twenty questions.
She answers all of them with more silence, her heart in her throat, throbbing with blood and life and cracking, crumbling denial.
"Tell me, Isabella."
She can't answer. She won't. She can barely breathe. He's so close he's almost touching her. She aches for him to touch her, wants it as badly as her straining lungs want the air she can't seem to find enough of. She wants to beg him to end her pain however he wants to end it.
Take me, make me yours...
Touch me, love me, want me enough to keep me...
Her needful body is a traitor to her head that overfills with warnings and useless, frustrated, self-preserving anger. She tries to turn away and move to garner some space between them. With that uncanny speed, Edward catches her wrist. The jolt of this touch after so much repressed longing makes her lose her footing on the now slippery undergrowth she stands on. He lets her go, but she's prone on her knees before him, more vulnerable than ever.
"You frighten me," she cries up at him, half accusation, half plea for understanding. Her hands clench in the longer grass and dig into damp earth, the words forced out between her panting breaths. It's the only truth she can bring herself to admit—for, oh, he does frighten her. Knowing he won't harm her can't stop this fear because she knows there's a hell of a lot more at stake than her physical well being. It's so much more complex. That she's just as terrified of herself and this wicked-raw need to have him, keep him, be consumed by him, goes unsaid but not unnoticed.
The skies open up and rain pours down. They're both drenched in an instant. It feels good, even where it hits her exposed skin, stinging like the bite of hundreds of tiny needles, grounding her to the present where she senses she needs to stay focused.
Edward gives her that sardonic smile, nostrils flaring as he bends down to her, skimming his nose over her neck and rain drenched collarbones. He lifts his head, eyes black as night and rimmed in red sin, mordant grin growing.
"Oh, deceitful, little beauty. Pretty little bewitching lamb, uttering such sweetly vulgar half truths." He crouches in front of her, then places his arms around the sides of her body, still not touching but looming now, forcing her to lean back farther until rain water latches to her eye lashes and blink-blink-blinking he's all she can see, feel, smell, taste.
More of his breath in her face, more of his unbearable strip-her-bare truths falling from his mouth. "I hear your heart racing and smell the needing you can't control. I think you fear how much you want me to consume you more than you fear me and what I am, Isabella." His accusation is everything she's fighting.
He keeps staring at her, watching as he rips down all her walls, exposing her vulnerable, tender secrets like entrails.
"Shall I tell you why you ran? Shall I tell you the tale you're holding inside that beguiling, sexy little mind, on the tip of that sweetly pink liar's tongue?"
Bella pants, struggling for air as her lungs feel tight. He's too close, too far, too much, and yet everything she's ever ached for. She wants him silenced. She wants to hear every silky word that comes out of his mouth.
It doesn't matter what she wants, not to him, and even that is a kind of freedom.
"I think you stepped away from your shower and the emptiness of your self-induced pleasure to break your fast alone in your crumbling little house. I think you thought about your crumbling little life while you attempted to pay bills that amount to a sum you don't have in your paltry little bank account. I think you found my gift.
Am I right, Isabella? Is that why you ran? Is silly human pride worth my wrath, little lamb?"
His anger is fully unleashed now. Under all his cool-toned mocking she senses his rage, and beneath that rage she also senses its source—pain and loneliness, darker mimics of the fuel that has fed every empty part of her the entirety of her life. Her anger rushes out to meet his, even as the sane part of her mind cries caution: danger, danger, danger.
She pushes her elbows into the dirt and lurches upwards, wet sneakers grinding, sliding into wet grass as she seeks purchase to stand and get out from under him. She's had enough, but still she's surprised when he moves back. She half expects to crash into his immovable body, to have him force her back into her submissive position.
She slides and slips, her ankle taking the brunt of a sharp, twisting loss of balance. The pain sinks with vicious teeth. Surprisingly, it settles her and makes her want to fight back.
"Don't!" she yells straight into his face. "Don't act like you know me! You don't know me. Do you think I'll fall on my knees for you and stay there? Do you think you can take over my life and I'll thank you for it?" She swipes rain soaked hair from her face with a mud-dirty hand, fingers shaking with a sweet surge of adrenaline. He could kill her, she thinks, so easily, and yet...
"My life may be shit, but it is my life. Mine! I choose. I decide who's in it, and what I will and will not do and how I'll do it. Maybe it's nothing to you," she shouts, swallowing sweet rain with all her bitter regrets and too few life successes, jabbing a wet, dripping finger into his equally wet shirt-covered chest. "Maybe it's a flash in the pan and nothing at all to someone or something like you, but it...is...mine!"
She steps back when a violent slash of lightning highlights his now black eyes and white skin, everything about him unnatural in that harsh flickering light. Unnatural and so terrifyingly beautiful. Her heart pounds as the dusk settles back around them. It won't be long till night comes in earnest. She shivers, cold now as her anger fades. She licks water from her lips and shakes her head. He watches her, head cocked slightly to the left, expressionless and too still.
"I don't need or want your money," she says, quieter now. So quiet in fact, the downpour nailing the trees, leaves, and ground drowns her out. She continues anyway. He doesn't move or react, but she knows he hears her. She wants to tell him she doesn't need or want him either, but the lies trip up her tongue. Instead, she states, "You can force me to go with you, you can keep me like a pet and not let me go. You can even kill me, but you can't own me, Edward. I won't be owned."
He's quiet, watching her, his face a mask. And then he blinks. Just once, but it's enough for her to see the small flash of vulnerability the action conveys. He has the most intense stare, his unblinking gaze stripping away every barrier she tries to erect. For him to falter in that...
He abruptly steps closer, movements too fast making her reactionary step back seem comically delayed.
"Such defiance," he replies, his tone almost snide. She wonders if she's pushed him too far. She wonders if he's beyond reason or understanding with the things he does.
"I have a life," she repeats, wondering if it's all futile.
"You have a past," he corrects, cutting her off. "It has no bearing on your future."
"My future?" She laughs, her turn to be snide. "What future? You're going to use me up and discard the leftovers. If there's even anything left over when you're done."
"You're wrong," he snaps. "I keep what is mine. I take care of what is mine. Discarding you isn't an option. It never was."
He catches her off-guard. Like his so often confusing actions, these words allude to more complex desires than simply that of a predator playing with his prey.
"I won't be owned," she repeats, stupidly. He says things like that and she can't form her arguments clearly or intelligently. Her mind gets so scrambled in his presence it trips her up, making her as clumsy in conveying her thoughts as she is in everyday actions.
His lips curl wryly, like he knows. He must, the way he constantly takes advantage.
"Too late, little beauty." He leans closer, fogging her thoughts even more with his closer proximity and the delicious sweetness of his breath. "You are forever mine, don't doubt it." He runs the back of one finger down along her jaw then pulls away, backing up slightly.
Despite the space he's given her, Bella still feels the lingering effects of his touch. Worse, she feels its loss like a craving ache prickling under her flesh. He's in her blood and bones, way down deep in her marrow. She's fighting on principle now.
He seems to know it.
"Why fight me, Isabella?" He's back in her space, one hand cupping her jaw, forcing her gaze up to meet his. The rain makes her blink, and he moves closer, like he's sheltering her. Those dark eyes seem to soften, but that must be a trick of the fading light. He's so close. Just one more tiny inch and his mouth would be on hers. She can taste his breath. "You already know the pleasures I can give you. Imagine a lifetime of them. Imagine the strife-free existence, the freedom being mine can give you."
"I won't be your pampered house pet." She wants to sound strong. Instead she sounds breathless. She means it with every part of her, though. She will not be owned by him. She will not give up and give in, no matter how much a weaker part of her craves it. There's so much more at stake than just her flesh and blood and future. Her soul won't survive this deal with this devil; she knows it. If she offers up her independence, the one part of her that no one has ever managed to take from her, what will she have?
And still, he's backing her up, making her move. She can't help notice how effortless it feels to step with him. It requires no conscious thought. He moves, she moves. It's like breathing.
Ten steps. Twenty, thirty. At the edge of the meadow, her back meets a tree. The thick sheltering limbs create a canopy that protects them from the worst of the rain.
"I crave every part of you, Isabella. I won't be denied. You try my patience, you defy me, you fight and fight but it won't change what you are," he growls. His mouth is so close to hers she feels the way his lips shape the words. "Mine, you are mine. I know you feel it."
Large, cool hands cup her burning face. She's boiling alive with her contradictory wants. "Look at me," he demands, voice rough. "Feel me, feel the way your body needs my touch, and tell me you can live without it now that you know what it's like!" His hands move down her neck to her shoulders. Just that touch ignites sparks that make her want more. More touch, more him, just more. Her nipples tighten to painful points, scraping against the weight of her wet bra and shirt, and it feels so good, but not as good as his touch.
As if he reads her mind, her blouse is suddenly open, her bra down under her breasts, lifting them up like an offering. Edward growls, the sound as needy as she feels.
"Say you don't want this and damn yourself as a liar, Isabella, for I can smell you, feel you."
His hips push into hers and his mouth presses over her panting lips. His tongue touches them and they part, opening in an eager gasp. He glides in and over and takes her sanity, leaving his rich taste as payment. Her hands reach up of their own volition and curl into the wet hair at the back of his head, her whole body arching against his, straining. The push and pull dance they've done all day can't be maintained. She has to get closer.
She has to.
He drags his mouth away from hers with another growl, pressing those sinful lips to her jaw then her throat, right where her pulse beats so frantically. The laving of his tongue right there nearly makes her come.
Edward lifts her and her legs go around his waist like instinct. More instinct makes her grind against him as his tongue laves and licks again and again.
She feels the way he holds her, careful despite the amount of strength he uses to effortlessly take all her weight. She feels the way his one arm braces around her waist, the hold so secure she knows she will not fall. She feels the way his other arm has moved behind her back, preventing her skin and spine from being scraped raw by the rough bark of the tree.
She feels protected.
And still...
"I won't be owned," she pants, her head falling back as he pushes his hips into hers, and she pushes back hard. He's hard all over, an unmovable force, and yet he bends and angles so that the place he is the hardest presses perfectly against where she is the softest and neediest. He's as desperate as she is.
She cries out at the little explosions of hot sensation he gives her with every push of his hips, every grind of hers. He growl-hisses at her words and her refusal to submit fully, his mouth opening over her hammering pulse. She feels the two sharp points of his teeth and God, yes, God help her, she wants him to bite her.
Edward scrapes them against her like a warning, and she cries out, past caution. She wants him in her—his teeth, his so-hard erection, all of it, all of him, in her, deep, deep in her.
Take it, she thinks. Take my blood; let me be in you, too.
As if he reads her mind, he utters one more low, lethal growl, then takes what she wants to give.
A sharp sting, a sweet tugging pull of his mouth, another thrust of his hips, perfectly angled so every press hits exactly where she needs it, and she comes, hard.
There is no breath to scream. She comes and comes, and through the incapacitating bliss that makes her shudder and shake, Bella feels him drink. It only makes it better, and it's so wrong and so right...
She feels his teeth pull away from her flesh at the endings of her final climax. His tongue licking the place he bit reignites her, tumbling her back into yet another release. Whimpering she clings to him, and he holds her close, mouth leaving her tingling throat, trailing kisses up to hers. The coppery sweetness on his breath should revolt her, but he growl-whispers "Yes, little beauty, keep coming for me," and it doesn't matter.
She's in him. The essence of her, the liquid that her very heart pumps through every inch of her and back to itself again and again, is in him.
The last of her climax leaves her limp, and her legs slip away from his hips. Edward holds her up when her knees tremble.
"You can't own me," she says, eyes closed, heart still pounding, still fighting, still resisting. He didn't drain her; he didn't even weaken her. As long as she has life in her body, she has a chance at not losing herself.
Edward laughs quietly, the sound amused and cynical once again.
Bella starts to tremble with cold and exhaustion.
She feels him lift her, cradle her close, and carry her out of the meadow and onto a path that matches the one that led them in. Tucking her head into his neck, she lets herself be carried away. As he begins to run, she keeps her eyes closed against the dizzying blur his speed creates of the scenery.
Close to her ear, she hears him whisper. "Maybe I don't own you now, but I will, little lamb, I will.
One way, or another."
She half fears he's right, and all she can think is, why me?
. . . . . .
