Prey for the Wicked

. . . . . .

Temptation...
It never lets me down...

. . . . . .

Chapter 16

Nafsu

. . . . . .

Jake watches the man he once believed would be his future father-in-law pace the small confines of his cluttered office. It's a feat, given the very small amount of floor space Charlie has at his disposal.

His internal clock tells him it's getting late, and his watch agrees. Time just keeps slipping on by, regardless of how much Jake wishes he could stop it or at least turn it back. The cravings for a cigarette and a stiff drink beat at him. Most of all, he wants what Charlie wants—Bella home where she goddamn well belongs.

Charlie's office is windowless. Nevertheless, Jake knows it's raining. He hears the soft patter of it against the walls and roof, and he smells it in the air that creeps under the door every time someone enters the station through the main entrance. The strange drought and sun-filled heat, so rare for this part of the state, is finally breaking.

His mind is a chaotic mess, his skin prickling with heat and energy. He's trying not to think about his earlier conversation with his dad—fucking Billy Black and his endless diatribes on Quileute responsibility. He's likewise trying very hard not to think about Leah and the way she stood watching the entire, mostly one-sided conversation. Jake knows she's invested in tribal bullshit but he didn't think she was invested to the same extent as Billy; then again, maybe he just doesn't know her that well. Their friends-with-benefits arrangement has been pretty light on the friend side and heavy on the benefits.

Regardless, it got to him, and Billy was in fine form, ranting and raving about how Jake has a responsibility to be better, to be a part of the tribe, a protector of his people. He lit into Jake in a way he hasn't in years, leaning hard with the demands and heaping on the guilt, talking how his health was bad and he wasn't getting any younger. How it was up to a Jake to lead the way for the next generation, not letting all their traditions and beliefs fade away and be forgotten.

A fucking protector! A leader? Him? Christ!

Jake shifts his shoulders restlessly, half envying Charlie the little room he has to move around. Stuck in this chair, he can only jerk his right leg up and down and tap his fingers against the metal armrests. It's a piss-poor way to relieve tension, not that he thinks pacing would help either.

The phone rings, a harsh bleating in the otherwise quiet room. Charlie snatches it up, knocking an empty Styrofoam coffee cup over in his hasty grab. It rolls to the floor and vanishes under the desk.

"Chief Swan here." The barking voice Charlie uses to greet the caller sounds rougher than normal, evidence of how tired he most likely is.

"Lieutenant Samuels, yes, thanks for returning my call." Charlie turns on speaker phone, allowing Jake to hear both sides of the conversation.

"Sure, Chief. Not a problem. What can I do for you?" Samuels sounds like one of those slick, suit-wearing, sit-behind-a-desk type of cops. He probably has a paunch and a stain from lunch on his cheap synthetic tie.

"I just have a few more questions for you regarding my daughter's police report." In contrast, Charlie sounds every bit the tough, hard-ass, not-afraid-to-get-his-hands-dirty type of cop he is.

"Well, I'm not sure how much more help I can be. I've already faxed you a full copy of the report, as per your daughter's request. You know what I know." Samuels is smooth and deflecting. Jake wishes they were face-to-face. It's hard to judge a man's worth or integrity over the phone.

Charlie sits down behind his desk, his battered ergonomic chair giving a slight squeak as his weight settles. He leans back, lacing his fingers behind his head. Ignoring the deflecting, he launches straight into interrogation.

"It says here on the report you took the call yourself. Is that right?"

Samuels clears his throat. "Correct."

"Forgive me, Lieutenant, but isn't responding to complaints about a stolen vehicle a little below your pay grade?"

Silence fills the line, then, "Well...I suppose, but I happened to be in the area when your daughter's call came in. Seemed a little unnecessary to send someone else when I was so close." Samuels sounds wary.

"Right, right," Charlie answers quick enough, though his brow is furrowed like he's not entirely convinced. "The report also says the driver of the vehicle, my daughter, showed no visible signs of being outwardly upset about the theft."

Again a moment of odd silence follows the question. When Samuels finally delivers an answer, he sounds a bit terse. "That is also correct."

Charlie leans forward, staring hard at the phone, like he wishes Samuels could be there in front of him the same as Jake, wanting a person to evaluate and not just a voice. "Forgive me, Lieutenant, but I know my daughter and that sounds...unlikely as hell."

"I'm not in the habit of dissecting someone's mood in the wake of a simple stolen vehicle incident, Chief Swan." Samuel's tone speaks volumes about his disdain for even being asked to. "The paperwork asked for a statement regarding the complainant's attitude and actions. I provided an appropriate answer. I'm sure she was upset—who wouldn't be—but there was no emotional outburst or sign of instability to warrant putting more than what I did on official forms. I'm a cop, not a social worker, as I'm sure you're aware. I deal with dry facts, not amateur psychology."

It's Charlie's turn to give a slow response, letting silence fill the line. He taps his fingers on his desk, then curls his hand in a fist and knocks it once on the desk, hard. "Let's cut to the chase, Samuels. My daughter is missing. We don't know where she is. You seem to be the last person we know of to speak with her. Anything you can tell me about her mood or her demeanour could be helpful."

Samuels clears his throat, again. Jake wonders if it's a nervous tic. Over the line, the sound of papers being roughly shuffled sounds a little like static.

"Not sure what more I can tell you. She reported her vehicle stolen. I took down the details..."

"Did you ask her if she had alternate means of transportation? Find out how she was planning to get home? Where she was going?"

"No, and honestly, I can't see why you think I would."

Charlie's voice hardens. "She's twenty-three years old, and she was miles from her home town, stranded in some rest stop in the middle of nowhere! It may not be in the job description, but it is a common courtesy."

"Look, Chief Swan, I can understand you being upset if your daughter hasn't been in touch. I've got kids, too. All I can tell you, though, is she didn't indicate she needed anything to me. I took the report, and she went inside. I assumed she'd call someone to get her. Seattle PD isn't a taxi service."

"Sounds like it's not a lot of things."

Samuels snorts derisively. "Listen, I've told you what I can. You want to file an official missing persons report in seventy-two hours, call me direct and I'll expedite things for you. Best I can do."

The line disconnects, leaving Charlie staring at the phone as the dial tone cuts in. He reaches out to hang up, settling back in his chair with a frown. "Something ain't right here, Jake."

Jake uncurls his six-and-a-half foot frame out of the cramped chair, grunts, and drags fingers roughly over his scalp. "Tell me about it. I've got calls out to everyone I can think of who might know this mystery "friend" Bella mentioned she's supposedly staying with in her text message, but no one has a clue. Her cell is still off, and her damn voicemail is full."

Charlie rises as well, scowling at the report on his desk. "I can't even remember the last time Bella went to Seattle. Has to be over two years ago."

"At least," Jake agrees.

"I've got eyes on the lookout for any transactions she might make. Hotel, ATM, credit card."

So does Jake, but he leaves that unmentioned. He's pretty sure Seth's back-door approach will catch any trail Bella might leave before Charlie's legal ones will. He also leaves out that he has Seth tracking Bella's phone records. If she makes a call, Seth will be able to tell approximately from where, something Charlie can't do without a court order.

Charlie runs a weary hand over his face, his complexion ruddier than normal. "Not much else I can do, at least tonight."

"Are you going to check out this Lieutenant Samuels?"

"Already done," Charlie replies. "His record's clean, and Seattle PD has no information on Newton either. I got Embry to run a search on all their recent arrests in the last week. No one matching his description has hit their books."

Jake grunts. Charlie is a decent cop. He's looking at the right things, but something nags at Jake. The way Newton has vanished off the face of the earth gives his guts a strange tug, telling him something isn't right. Seth is all over Newton's I.D., bank accounts, credit cards and all his known social media. He hasn't logged into Facebook, sent any emails, or even signed into his account. He hasn't tweeted a single fucking hashtag or updated the website he uses to attract new bands to the Twilight Tavern. Seth likewise has cyber feelers out checking everything from hospitals to morgues.

Somehow, Newton must have been tipped off that his sick photo shrine was found. He has to be holed up with someone he knows. It's the only explanation that makes sense.

Leaning down, Jake scoops up the cup Charlie knocked off his desk, tossing it in the trash. He pushes all his theories about Mike to the back of his mind so he can do a little digging into what Charlie might be hiding from him.

"So, Charlie. I need to ask you something, and I need you to give me an honest answer."

Charlie levels him with a steely look, a wry twist to his mouth. "You think I wouldn't answer honest?"

Jake shrugs, though he keeps meeting Charlie's gaze, searching. "Bella's your daughter, and her and me, we aren't together anymore. I'd understand if you were keeping things quiet. Things of a personal nature, having to do with her."

Charlie sits back down in his chair, wincing like his backs giving him grief. "What things, Jake? Get to the point."

Jake puts his hands on the desk and leans forward a little. Not to intimidate, he knows that won't work with Charlie, but just to get closer, to watch the reactions and get Charlie's scent up his nose. People lie, they smell a little...off.

"There's some suspicion in my mind that Bella's been seeing someone else. Maybe someone not from around here. Maybe she's with him, and that's why she's ignoring us."

Charlie doesn't so much as blink. Not giving away his thoughts is something Charlie's damn good at. Still, Jake catches a reaction, small though it is—a little wrinkle at the corner of Charlie's eye twitches, the fingers on his left hand, still as sticks only a second ago, curl under. A peppery smell makes Jake's nostrils flare, something he thinks might be suspicion and evasion.

"You know something, Charlie?"

Charlie heaves out a breath laced with the faint traces of stale coffee, peppermint candy, and the subtler remnants of red meat—probably steak from the diner. The peppery smell fades quickly until all Jake gets up his sinus cavity is Charlie's normal scent: gun cleaner and leather from his boots, faint sweat and Irish Spring soap, the tang of a male slightly past his prime yet still virile.

"I don't know much, Jake, probably less than you do," he answers, leaning back heavily in his chair and rubbing his closed eyes, one-handed. "I know she was seen leaving the Twilight Tavern with a guy the night Newton went missing. They left together, walking, headed in the direction of your...her house."

"Do you know who?"

Charlie shakes his head, dropping his hand back to his desk with a thud, blinking eyes that are red-rimmed from lack of sleep. "I don't know. You're right about whoever it is being not from around here. No one recognized him. The witnesses I talked to saw Bella having words with Newton. Seems like Newton was being a little grabby, and Bella wasn't taking too kindly to it. The guy she left with intervened and sent Newton off, pissed apparently. Then, like I said, Bella left with him."

Grabbing a folder off his desk, Charlie flips it open. "I talked to Mitchell Cope, bartender, and Melody Banner, waitress at the Twilight Tavern. Cope doesn't remember the guy. Banner does. Her description is spotty though. She basically only remembers he was 'good looking as sin'—and that's a quote—and that he 'tipped her huge'—another quote." He tosses the folder back on his desk.

"As far as what you're asking me, Jake, Bella hasn't shared anything with me. If she's involved with someone, she's keeping it to herself." He fixes Jake with his own inquisitive look. "What do you know about it?"

"Nothing more than you do, unfortunately. I heard she left with someone that night, too, but she's never said a word and none of her friends know who the guy is or if she's seen him again after that." Jake leaves out the hickey and Jessica Stanley's belief that it was a mark he himself left on Bella's skin.

Charlie nods. "Could be nothing then." He looks over Jake's head, eyes unfocussed. "Bella's not the type to...hook up randomly." He clears his throat, plainly uncomfortable with that line of thinking.

Jake silently agrees she's not the type. Doesn't mean it didn't happen. When she wasn't lost in her head, fighting whatever made her walk around like her guts and chest hurt, Bella was a healthy red-blooded woman who enjoyed sex and affection. She wouldn't be the first female in the world to get lonely and fall prey to...some guy looking to eat up something pretty and sweet. Jake's skin prickles, more heat churning up inside of him—the dry kind of heat that makes his skin hot and his temper hotter.

His mind feels hyper alert, his senses all on point. The too few hours he slept last night in Leah's bed should have him exhausted. Instead he feels revved up and ready to go. He wants action, now not later. He's too amped to just stay still.

"I do know something else you might find interesting, Charlie. I have a source who told me Newton was doing a little dope selling on the side. Prescription narcotics mainly from the sounds of it, though I'm not a hundred percent on that."

It's Jake's turn to do a little pacing. He was right; it doesn't help at all. He stops in front of a picture of Bella Charlie has on a bookshelf. Resisting the urge to pick it up, he continues, "I was told his supplier was a man, name of James. No last name, sorry. He runs with a woman, Victoria, and another man, Laurent. They might be a lead to finding Newton. He could be holed up with them somewhere."

Charlie's head bobs, his expression not surprised.

"You knew?" Jake asks. Charlie is more on top of this than he realized.

"Not the names, only that Newton was doing some selling. I've known for a while, just didn't have anything concrete to bust him with."

"Well, now you've got first names for his suppliers. It's not a lot to go on, but it's something anyway."

"Right, thanks. I'll look into it. Don't suppose you want to reveal your 'source?'"

"I'm going to head out," Jake says in reply, a small smile and the change in topic all the answer he plans to give. "It's been a long day. I'll keep my cell phone on. Call if you hear anything from Bella."

"I will. And you do the same, Jake." Charlie's says, tight and clipped. He's still pissed that Jake let Bella leave this morning.

Giving a brief nod in agreement, feeling the sting of Charlie's unspoken mistrust, Jake spins on his heel. He exits with a quick goodnight and closes Charlie's door. He doesn't leave though. Cocking his head, he tunes out the sound of voices from the main area to listen intently. Even with a solid door between them, Jake doesn't have any problem hearing Charlie pick up his phone, or the conversation that ensues. His hearing has always been razor sharp, and in the last few days, it's been sharper than ever.

"Embry, you get that information yet from that lawyer about the old Cullen house?"

Jake can't pick up the other side of things, so he's forced to endure silence for a minute.

"What the hell do you mean you can't get into their records without a warrant?"

More silence while Embry answers.

"Sealed? Why would rental records be sealed? I'm not asking for confidential information. I just want the basics! A phone number for Christ's sake."

More silence, but Jake's heard enough. Someone apparently is holed up on the old Cullen property, which is news to him, but might explain the whole riot act from Billy earlier.

Jake eases away from Charlie's door and heads for the nearest exit. He can find out who Charlie's trying to dig info up on his own, though not as easily as he'd like.

His mind spins. What are the odds that the one place he can't go is the same place Charlie is checking out? Jake might scoff over Quileute legends, but a so-called 'treaty' from his great-great Grandfather's days that ban Quileute from the land the Cullen house sits on is a different story entirely. The no-trespassing agreement still being enforced after all this time isn't one that ever made sense to Jake. Still, he's not about to step over a line as hard-drawn as that one. Not without damn good reason anyway. Fairytales about 'cold ones' is one thing; an iron clad agreement that will bring the entire population of the reservation down on his head if he breaks it is another.

Making his way to the parking lot, Jake calls Seth, getting the kid's voice mail.

"I got more work for you, kid. I'll be there in an hour."

He hangs up and gets in his car, wiping rain off his face. First he'll find out who exactly Charlie is checking on. Then he'll see what the connections are and whether or not it's worth stirring up a hornet's nest of issues with the tribal council to pay a visit to the new resident of the house that sits on 'no-man's-land.' Bottom line, his priorities haven't changed, no matter how much Billy and Leah wish they would. Bella and finding her, making sure she's safe, is all that matters. It was him that let her leave, after all.

One mistake.

He won't make another, treaty and legends and bullshit be damned.

. . . . . .

Thunder rumbles in the distance. To Bella it feels like the rain and sporadic flashes of lightning are toying with them. Edward turns off the path leading out of the meadow, his pace increasing beyond any realm of normal.

The speed isn't shocking. Of course he can run like the wind. Of course he's faster than any animal or vehicle.

Of course he is.

The air movement lashes at her, hitting exposed skin. The volatile weather this last week seems personal somehow. Like it's directly related to the volatile situation she finds herself in.

She tucks her head into the space between Edward's neck and shoulder, burrowing her hands in the hair at his nape. His arms tighten around her in response, curling her body closer, tighter. It feels good and oddly as though he's sheltering her, wrapping around her protectively. Despite the fact he doesn't seem to exude any real body heat, Bella feels warmer.

A moment later she feels even warmer, and she realizes they've stopped. She opens her eyes tentatively to look around. Edward begins walking at a normal pace, not putting her down, still holding her in that way that seems too gentle and caring to be real—as if she is something infinitely precious to him. She tries to tell her mind to get with the program. She's an object to him, an amusing plaything, nothing more. It doesn't stop her from resting her head against his impossibly solid shoulder or relishing his strength that bears her weight as if it's nothing.

When a house comes into view, Bella's somehow not surprised by what she sees. It's large and old, classically regal in a stately way. The weight of years of neglect is evident in the sagging shutters and faded paint. Weeds choke the large bordering flower beds, and the few windows not boarded over are dirty, fogged with condensation that gives away their age and inefficiency. A myriad of cracks crisscross the glass in some places, and the wraparound porch sags at its corners, half rotted railings scarred and pitted. It's more mansion than house, conjuring up images in her mind of ladies in flowing dresses and men in suits with elegant, long-tailed jackets.

It's beautiful.

Scaffolding has been erected up the right side. Bella suspects it runs up the back of the house as well.

She wonders how far outside of town they are. A vague story from childhood about an old haunted house deep in the woods, tickles the edges of her memory. Charlie used to chase teenagers away when they tried to make the place a hangout for partying. Between that and the fact the place was severely isolated and reportedly creepy, it hadn't taken much to discourage them.

Edward carries her through the large front door. It closes behind him with a deep thud that attests to construction more solid than it seems. It's darker inside, but he takes her into a large living room area with ease. She suspects he can see perfectly, like a cat—or a lion.

The interior of the house is cooler. Closed up, it hasn't absorbed the outside heat. She smells fresh paint and new wood. Underneath lurks a musty odor that reminds her of old books and damp, half-rotted fabrics.

Edward sets her on her feet by a musty Victorian style sofa. He wraps a thick blanket over her shoulders, one that smells like old mothballs and feels like wool, slightly scratchy, heavy, and blissfully warm. Despite that comfort, she instantly misses the feeling of his arms around her.

He moves away, deeper into the growing shadows as she wraps the blanket around her body. Lightning flashes, creating flickers of white light that briefly illuminate the room. It's mostly empty, she determines. The only other furnishings are a Victorian style chair with a small table at its side and a large ornate fireplace—no lamps, pictures, knickknacks, or artwork. The floor creaks as she shuffles her feet. A match flares and she looks up to see Edward kneeling in front of the fireplace, lighting a fire. He's efficient and quick. The logs flame, crackling in an instant, mocking the many attempts she's witnessed by mortal men trying to start fires.

He rises in that fluid way of his to light several candles on the mantle. A flash, a slight breeze, and more candlelight appears around the room as if lit by themselves. The glow is warm, oddly soothing.

Edward is gone, leaving her alone in the room without a word.

Making her way to the fire, Bella stands in front, allowing the warmth to touch her, though she isn't cold any longer. Her wet clothes are uncomfortable, but only secondary to her exhaustion.

Music begins to play, the strains of a piano filling the house. She drifts toward the sound, drawn to it, moving through a doorway with ornate woodwork. She passes a staircase equally as ornate and beautiful. It winds upward, looking like something out of an old movie.

The music is beautiful, haunting. She isn't surprised to find Edward playing. It seems...fitting. He brought a candle here, and it rests on the piano. The meager light barely stretches beyond his silhouette. Heavy drapes frame a window, the space between them emitting only a little light from the sporadic lightning. She watches him, mesmerized by the way his fingers dance over the keys, his expression calm, his eyes closed as he plays. Gooseflesh breaks out on her skin. They were right, she thinks. This place is haunted.

The music wraps around her. She doesn't know classical music well, but she recognizes the composer as Rachmaninoff. Renee would sometimes listen to music like this when Bella was a child. She called it music for the soul.

As the strains of the melody rise and crest around Bella now, she understands for the first time what Renee meant, for this music seems to come from Edward's soul. Another nuance, another side of him to puzzle over.

She leaves him to his playing, wondering how much freedom he'll allow her as she moves back to the room she came from. She can see the front door from here. The music continues, unbroken, sad and melancholy in feeling, even as it carries a subtler note of something sinister. It weaves into her mood, haunting her as she ignores the door and the futility of escape. She's too tired to even try anyway. Once was enough. The solution to the crazy mess she finds herself in isn't going to be solved with anything so easy as running.

To the right, she finds a study or office. Bookshelves line the walls. As she flicks the light switch, dull light from a dust-covered chandelier illuminates a desk and chair that have such a commanding presence they startle her. Stepping deeper into the room, she runs her hand over the empty shelves, imagining books lined two deep, all with leather bound covers. She swears she smells them lingering in the air. Were there books here recently?

Running her fingers next over the desk makes her shiver. She doesn't understand what she feels in this room. Not fear, but something lingers here—a presence, a strong one. She imagines someone at this desk and wonders if many years ago Edward sat here. Is this house truly his?

Leaving the room, Bella heads down a hall and finds more empty spaces. A modern, recently renovated half bath at the end gives her a chance to look in a mirror. Her skin is pale, her lips red. A faded pink mark on her neck reminds her of events that took place only a short time ago. She runs shaking fingers over the area, remembering Edward's bite, his touch, the way she came so hard, so repetitively.

She uses the facilities and washes her hands, avoiding her reflection this time. The music plays on as she leaves the bathroom.

More empty rooms, a few in a state that show recent work. Paint cans and tools and drop cloths reveal Edward is taking time to repair things. It tells her he's staying, or at least implies it.

She finds a kitchen, the light there more modern, brighter. She blinks in the harsher glare, staring at the custom cabinetry that screams a high price tag. New, gleaming stainless steel appliances, all high end and elaborate with all the bells and whistles make her feel as though she's stepped into a different house, as though she's fast forwarded from the past to the present.

She touches the glossy cold surface of gorgeous black granite countertops, swirled with delicate lines of grays and whites. A large island is caved in, the heavy granite there cracked in half, the weight toppling in on itself. The destruction is so out of place it takes center stage. She notices damage to a wall as well, the imprint cracking the drywall appearing to be in the shape of a person—but that's...impossible.

Lightning flashes anew, illuminating a wall of glass on the far side of the room. Doors leading out to a garden where bags of soil and pots of plants glisten with rainwater draws her like a beckoning finger. She stands close to the glass, but the lightning stops, and all she can see is herself. A small brown-haired girl, drowned like a rat, and huddled in a shapeless blanket, face too pale, eyes too wide, lips too red.

The music plays on, and Bella feels it in her bones, stirring her blood. Is he sad, angry? Is that why he plays this song? Such passion; she feels that, too. It stirs her blood in a different way. He's incredibly talented. She wonders when he learned to play and how he learned to inject such emotion. So often he seems controlled and cold. There's nothing cold about the way he plays though.

Moving from the windows and doors, she opens the refrigerator. Her throat is dry, her thirst extreme. The fridge is empty, save for a few Styrofoam cartons taped tightly shut.

The music stops, and the second it does she feels Edward behind her. His fingers touch the back of her neck, a gentle caress that makes her shiver, though not from cold or fear. It's longing and it hurts.

She spins to face him, watching as his eyes study her, his fingers moving to her cheek then her jaw.

"What were you playing," she asks, surprised by how normal she sounds when what she feels is so...abnormal. "Rachmaninoff?"

Frowning slightly, like he didn't expect the question, Edward's hand falls away. "Yes. Prelude in C Sharp Minor. It's been...a very long time since I played." For a second his expression seems distant, troubled, but it's wiped clean before she can interpret it. "You're familiar with classical composers?"

"Not really. My mother listened from time to time when I was a kid. I guess some of it stuck, though I only know my favorites. Rachmaninoff is pretty distinctive." She shrugs self-deprecatingly, and he smiles, like she's revealed something he finds pleasing.

"Come," he says, holding out his hand. "You need to eat." She lets him draw her away from the refrigerator, and he opens a drawer beside the stove.

"I'm not hungry, just thirsty."

He ignores her, lifting several takeout food pamphlets out of the drawer. Reaching above her head, he secures a glass—crystal by the look of it—ornate and expensive. He fills it with water from the built-in dispenser in the fridge, handing it to her before tapping the menus and fanning them out.

"Choose," he orders as she drinks.

Bella finishes the glass and helps herself to more. "I'm not hungry," she repeats.

"Then I'll choose for you."

She watches him pull out a menu and pick up a cordless phone she didn't notice before from a concealed corner. Uninterested in anything except the fact there is a working phone in the house, Bella drifts back to the living room and the fire. She watches the flames lick and devour the wood, smelling the subtle bit of smoke that drifts into the room.

She feels oddly detached and numb as she listens to Edward order her Chinese food. She wonders if it's coincidence he chose the one menu she was actually tempted by, not that she thinks she'll be able to consume a bite.

Finishing her second glass of water, she feels more than hears his return. He plucks the empty glass from her hand and sets it on the mantle. The candlelight hitting it creates the prettiest prisms. Laying her hand under the refractions, she watches the colours dance on her skin.

She hears Edward move away and then sit. From her periphery, she catches the way he crosses his legs, the way the dark, wet denim of his jeans hugs the defined muscles in his thighs. The delicate almost feminine lines of the sofa only make him appear more masculine, more powerful. He's too enticing, and she refocuses on the fire.

"Will they even deliver this far out in this weather?" she asks, though she hardly cares. She meant it when she told him she's not hungry.

He doesn't answer, a slight humming laugh her only reply.

Of course they'll deliver. He told them to. She gets the impression no isn't something he hears very often. Is that why he finds her so appealing? Because she's a challenge?

The silence between them grows. Bella watches the fire and Edward watches her. The wood crackles and blackens as the fire devours it, and the storm outside drifts away.

"Whose house is this?" Bella asks finally, once the quiet between them has gone on so long she feels like she might fall asleep on her feet. The dark rich wood on the mantle feels like polished ivory under her fingertips as she runs them over an ornate swirl.

"Mine," he answers simply, then adds, "Or rather, my former...family's."

Interest piqued, she risks a glance at him. He's watching her still, missing nothing of her reaction to his statement. His lips quirk up at her interest.

"Ask, my little lamb. I have no secrets from you." He's mocking again. The opportunity to learn more isn't one she's about to pass up, though.

"Your...former family?"

"Is that the best you can do, Isabella? Ask the obvious questions?"

She doesn't respond, and he sighs. "There are others like me, lamb," he tells her, his tone all stating-the-obvious and condescending.

She knew this in theory. Of course there would be others. Her body wants to shiver; instead, she tightens her muscles and limbs, striving for composure.

"I suppose family is not the accurate word," he continues. "A more appropriate term would be...coven."

Bella breathes in through her nose, aware that the smell of him is on her and around her, stronger than the smells of the house and the fire now that she's paying attention. "Did you live here with them?"

He inclines his head in a short nod. "For a time."

"When?" It had to be long before her or...

"Nineteen hundred and three was my last year here."

1903! Her mind scrambles in on itself. That would make him one hundred and eight years old. At least!

He smirks again. "We lived here for several years before that, too, of course. We stayed for nearly five years—an unusual amount of time for our kind to linger in one place."

She chooses not to comment or ask for clarification on that, instead asking the more obvious. "How old are you?" Her voice is lost, her tone no more than a whisper, but he hears her fine. His eyes flash, and he leans toward her.

"Ah, finally, little beauty. An appropriate, inquisitive question about me personally. I'm flattered."

She glares, and he laughs. "I am over two centuries old. We'll leave it at that."

Bella blinks rapidly. Her insides clench and stay clenched.

. . . . . .

Edward watches as his age sinks into her psyche and bites deep. She's known what he is, but he knows this new information cements his immortality and power. He watches for fear and finds it widening the dark center of her pupils, rushing the breath in and out of her lungs. Her pale fingers grip tighter around the blanket.

He loathes the blanket. The smell of dampened wool irritates his nose and masks some of her scent. His concern for her comfort and temperature stops him from stripping it and her wet clothing from her body. What he truly wants is to have her naked, kneeling at his feet.

His lamb fights her fear, gathers it close and buries it deep. She's had practice at this, he realizes. A human learns the ability to be brave, to face demons; they are not born with it. He wonders at whose hand she learned, disliking the idea of trauma in her life, yet knowing the scars are an integral part of who she is.

"Perhaps in time I'll tell you my undead story," he says, giving her patience and a soft tone so she can continue to work at guarding herself. "Not tonight, however." He can easily see how overwhelmed she is. He half expects her questions to end. As usual she surprises him, pleases him.

"What do you want with me?" She sounds so desperate, biting off the words, letting the crescendo of them rise at the end, all sweet plea and useless fight for understanding things possibly beyond her realm of comprehending.

Oh, yes, she has bravery in spades, his lamb with the heart of a lion. He cocks his head and wonders if she truly wants the answer, if she's truly ready to hear it. He notes her trembling and the paleness of her skin.

A sudden chiming of a doorbell, followed by several rapid knocks saves them both. Edward smiles.

"Saved by the bell," he quips dryly, rising to his feet. "That will be your dinner, Isabella. Perhaps we should save the questions for after you've had time to regain your strength."

He watches her sink to the floor, curling her lovely legs underneath her. It's not quite the kneeling he was imagining only moments ago, but her submissive posture pleases him nonetheless. He moves to her and touches her hair, slides his hand down to her jaw, tipping up her chin with a light pressure. His thumb skates across her pretty bow lips. "Use the reprieve to ask yourself if you already know the answer to that question, Isabella. And if your response is no, then you should ask yourself if my answer is one you're ready to hear."

He leaves her to get the door. He notices she does not move.

. . . . . .

He doesn't answer her question, and she wants to scream.

He touches her, and she wants to crawl inside of him.

She listens as he accepts the takeout food and pays the delivery person. From her position on the floor she can see the open door and the threshold beyond where the delivery man stands. He's young, his expression wary, as though Edward makes him nervous, though she can tell even from here Edward is doing nothing to intimidate. He hands over cash, and the man's expression turns from wary to dismay.

"This it too much money, man. The order is only $19.50...I don't have change for this."

"It's fine. Keep it."

Bella can't see the money that changes hands, but she does see the shocked face Edward closes the door on. She doesn't recognize the young man. She doesn't think he saw her at all.

Edward returns and places the food on the small table, which he moves from its place by the chair, putting it in front of the sofa where he resumes his seat, this time leaving enough room for her to join him. "Come, Isabella."

"I told you, I'm not hungry."

"You need to eat. I took little from you in the meadow, but you still need to replenish your strength. It's been a stressful day, and the loss of blood only compounds the effect on your body."

Bella feels herself bristle. Peeling open containers, Edward holds out a set of paper wrapped chopsticks, which she ignores. Getting to her feet, she approaches the small table and stares at the food. It should look and smell appetizing. It doesn't.

"What do you want with me?" She repeats the question, softer this time. Despite the warning he gave her, she wants her answer.

"Eat, Isabella." His eyes darken. She's beginning to realize how much of a mood indicator they are.

"No." She watches his eyes darken further in proof of her theory. He truly doesn't like not getting his way. Edward places the chopsticks down and leans back. Thin ground, her mind warns, but this isn't something she can ignore. He told her to ask herself if she already knows the answer; she doesn't, not really.

"I asked you the same thing the night you took me back to The Twilight Tavern," she reminds him.

He inclines his head in agreement, proof at least that he's listening, even though he's still as a stone, just sitting there watching her in his eerie way.

"You said you wanted...to have sex...and blood." She swallows, wanting to garner her courage to tell him he's gotten both, and therefore she has nothing else to give. She never gets the chance.

One second he's sitting, the next he's standing in front of her, moving her back, pinning her to the wall beside the fireplace, careful, so careful, yet with a force that restrains her completely, captures her wholly. He cages her in with his arms, immobilizes her with just his dark stare.

He strokes his thumb over her pulse. "What do I want?" he repeats, quiet and serious, the intensity of him, his presence, all around her. "Perhaps a better question would be, what don't I want."

She shakes her head at him. That isn't what she asked. He's told her what her worth is. Sex and blood. He's taken both. She's given him both...

"I want all of you, Isabella." He coils a finger around a thick bunch of her hair, twists it, twines it, drags it behind her shoulder between her fragile bones and the solid wall, tugs hard and forces her head to tip up—no escape from that gaze or the words that instantly begin to strip her bare, down to the darkest, neediest parts of her.

"Oh, little beauty, the things I want. Sex and blood, yes, but so much more." He breathes out, and she breathes in. "I want your skin and your bones, your flesh and every vein within it. I want every tendon, muscle, and sinew that binds you, every organ that sustains you. From the crown of your head to the hard little tips of your toenails and everything in between." He leans closer, pressing one hard thigh between hers. "I want your cream-skinned throat, your pink-tipped breasts, and your sweet, tight little cunt. All of it, all of you, every inch."

The wicked, dirty words lash over her, their tiny sting creating heat and need instead of the offense her logical mind tries to insist on.

No one has ever spoken to her like this.

No one has ever wanted her like this.

Edward presses in closer still, overwhelmingly powerful and arousing her every sense. She can see, feel, taste, and smell only him. His lips skim her cheek, brushing over her ear. The back of her head hits the wall, nowhere to go as he speaks so softly in a voice that conjures sex and sin.

"I want everything you are and everything you will be, my lamb," he says, mastery in his every inflection. "Hear me now, little beauty. I want the memories of your past, the moments of your present, the endless possibilities of your future. I want every thought in your quiet, elusive, frustrating, beguiling mind." Cool lips ghost across her pulse point. She hears him inhale then groan quietly. "I want the confession of your sins, and the right to covet and corrupt your innocence. Your darkest secrets and your most imaginative dreams, your unwavering loyalty and your unfailing fidelity." A cold hand grips her jaw, tight like a vise, just the sweet side of pain. His lips curl up from his teeth, a snarl finding its way into the words. "I want it all, Isabella. I want your fucking soul."

Her head spins and her knees give out. She doesn't panic. She suspects he'll catch her.

He does.

. . . . . .