Prey for the Wicked
"We exist in a world where the fear of illusion is real..."
. . . . . .
Chapter 18
Kuszenie
. . . . . .
Jake dozes on the ratty sofa. The quiet sound of Seth typing frantically lulls him just as much as the familiar smells of motor oil and general garage dirt.
His mind slips, thoughts darting down mental alleys he generally avoids. He hears Bella's laughter like it's happening right then, but he's aware enough to know this is just a half-asleep dream. One of the hundreds of memories his brain has catalogued. He sees her in his mind, curled up in a corner of this very sofa, a book in her lap. An old Journey tune plays on the radio, and every now and then she hums along for a line or two.
Jake sees himself as well, up to his elbows in a torn apart motorcycle engine.
"Hey, you. I thought you were going to help me. This is your bike, right?"
"I am helping. I'm staying out of your way."
Jake wipes his hands and strides over to her, yanks the book out of her hands and tosses it on the crates stacked up to make a coffee table. His hands catch her around the waist and tug her down till she lies beside him. She squeals laughter as he growls.
"Down, wolf-man."
"Christ, Bells, don't call me that. I hear enough of that from my family and the other yahoos on this res."
"Okay, fine. How about, were-boy? Or..."
He kisses her hard, silencing her with a slow hot drag of his tongue. Her fingers tug at his t-shirt, a little sigh falling from her mouth as she tips her head back so he can kiss her neck. He nips her skin playfully, and she gasps, little shivers making her tremble in his hold. She always likes this. Little bites up and down her neck. His little freak.
"Maybe I'm a vampire and not a werewolf," he teases, sucking lightly on her throat. He doesn't get why she likes that so much, but she makes a nice, encouraging sound in the back of her throat as he pushes her sweater up to get at bare skin.
She makes one last attempt to cool him down, though her hands are rising up under his clothes as well. "You're way too hot to be a vampire, or did you forget they call them 'cold ones.'"
"Thanks, you're pretty hot yourself."
She laughs, breathless. "Jake! Stop. You're all dirty."
"I am. And I'm about to get a lot dirtier..."
"Jake..."
"Don't you think we should move this...somewhere more private?" This garage fades away and Jake's own garage takes shape. Bella and her laughter fade away as well, but still there is a warm body pressed tight against him, welcome curves under his hands, breath on his neck.
Leah.
Jake still knows he's dreaming, or something close to it. He doesn't fight the change in memories.
"Let's go upstairs, Jake. You have a couch in your office."
"No one's coming in here this late." He lifts Leah and lays her out on the top of the car that needs a break job...
"Jake," she moans, legs wrapping around his waist as he grinds down against where she's so soft...
"Jake."
"Jake!"
"Man, wake the hell up!"
Blinking, Jake focuses on his present surroundings and sits up, rubbing his eyes. "I'm awake, I'm awake."
Seth scowls at him. "Do me a favour, dude. If you're going to fall asleep in my space, don't start dreaming about doing my sister." Without waiting for an answer, which is good because Jake doesn't have one, Seth spins back to the computers. He waves a hand at the row of monitors.
"We got a problem."
Getting up to get a closer look at what Seth is gesturing at, Jake frowns. The stuff on the screen makes little sense to him.
"Are those...property records?"
"Yep."
"Okay, good, you're in. So what's the problem?"
"Problem is I can access any records of any piece of property in this town, except one."
Jake heaves out a slightly frustrated breath. He's not surprised. Charlie was having problems as well. "Let me guess," he says dryly. "The Cullen house."
Seth grunts an agreement, fingers once again flying over the keyboard.
"So there are no records?"
"Oh, there is, it's just the most basic crap though. The rest, the actual stuff you want to know, is under serious lock and key." Seth points at the screen and a few more forms flash into existence. "As you can see—property survey forms, acreage, taxes,—it's all here. No leans, no outstanding mortgage or debt, entire place is free and clear, bought and paid for. Can't tell who owns everything, though, cause that's all hidden behind a ton of confidentiality legal mumbo jumbo. I did find out the property is being managed entirely by a law firm in...Vancouver, Canada. Has been for a really long time from the looks of it. At least since the early 1920's."
"So that must mean whoever does own it can't be a Cullen?"
"Nah, not really. Property is left to hairs all the time..."
"Heirs," Jake corrects automatically.
"Yeah, that's what I said, dude." Seth rolls his eyes, and Jake lets it go. "Anyway, sometimes property gets passed down through generations, but in wealthy families it just ends up being some asset on a piece of paper no one cares about or knows what to do with. It's possible whoever owns it now can't be bothered to deal with some run-down piece of shit in the middle of nowhere, or they're too old or too young, blah blah, so it gets left in the hands of lawyers."
"Okay. And?"
Seth settles back, fingers scratching at a pimple on his chin. "And nothing. I'm only making guesses here. I can't find out what the real deal is without some serious digging and illegal backdoor searches. Shit like this," he says, waving at the screens again" is a matter of public record. Anything else to do with the house, including who might be occupying it now, isn't."
"Is that normal?"
Seth makes a face. "How the hell would I know?"
Jake mutters a low oath, despite the fact it makes him a hypocrite for giving Seth hell for doing the same, and rubs a knuckle across his heavy eyelids. He's so damn tired it's hard to think straight. Seth shrugs at him in apology.
"Sorry. If I was taking a guess, I'd say the bloodsucker living there now likes his privacy."
Jake blinks at that. "Bloodsucker?"
Seth grins, making Jake wonder if the kid is trying to yank his chain.
"Sure. Cold one, vampire, the undead, bloodsucker, leech..." Seth's grin gets bigger.
Jake playfully swats him on the side of the head. "Ass."
Seth laughs, rubbing where Jake smacked him. Something in the kid's eyes though makes Jake pause and not join in. A flash of emotion, darting and quick, comes with the smell of nervous sweat.
"Quileute legends and so-called history aside, answer me a question, Seth, and be honest. Do you really believe in all that stuff?"
"Nah. I mean, not really." He's evasive with eye contact.
"Not really?"
Seth shrugs, picking at a loose thread on his ratty jeans.
"I don't believe it. But I don't not believe it either."
"I don't even know what that means, kid." Jake's not surprised to hear how tired he sounds. Seth's comment just makes him more tired.
Rocking his chair and making it squeak in little rapid-fire shrieks, Seth gives him a bit of a glare.
"It means there's more to this life than just what you think you know. I've been all over the internet. There are tons of stories around the world from every culture, and they're all the same. Supernatural stuff exists."
Jake tries to grin and lighten the moment. "Things like werewolves, Seth? Cause according to all the Quileute beliefs, I should be howling at the moon by now, sprouting fur and claws, hunting down all those bad-ass vamps."
His attempt at humor backfires when Seth suddenly stops rocking the chair and leans forward, staring hard at him. "Maybe or maybe not. I mean, maybe stuff skips a generation or two. Or maybe you just didn't have a reason to change. You know, they say that can only happen when you're like, going through puberty and shit."
"And clearly I'm not going through puberty anymore." Jake snorts, trying not to let the clawing itching feeling in his gut ignite his already frayed temper.
Seth goes back to squeaking the chair, but he's still watching Jake like a little smart-mouthed hawk.
"No, so that means it's too late for you. According to the legend, you're way too old to change now. I mean, all those stories about Ephraim nail that fact down hard..." He trails off and grins. "Doesn't mean you aren't still a bit of freak, though, or do you never think about that, Jake?"
"And just how am I a freak, Seth? Enlighten me, please, oh-wise-one."
Seth ignores the sarcasm and disbelief. "Ever since I've known you, you've been different. Bigger, stronger...hell, look at you, dude."
"I ate my vegetables like a big boy and never smoked pot. Shit stunts your growth, you know."
Seth's complexion gets a little darker, though he ignores the jab about his habit and his short size and stature.
"You've looked like you were twenty-five since you were fifteen. You're faster than anyone I know, way stronger, and you've got freaky senses. Damn, man. I Febreezed the shit out of this place a half hour before you showed up, and I haven't smoked since this morning, and still you come roaring in here barking at me about how it stinks."
"Again, vegetables. They're good for you. And pot stinks. Air freshener isn't going to get rid of that smell."
"My mom was here twenty minutes before you. You think if she smelled pot I'd be sitting here right now talking to you?" Seth laughs. "Yeah, right."
"Whatever, kid. You've been reading too much crap on the Internet, and listening to too much of the shit people around here like to peddle. Your mom is just blinded by the fact she thinks you're her little innocent baby. Better tread careful or you're going to break her heart."
Seth has the grace to look guilty for a minute, and Jake uses the distraction to get the conversation off his 'freakiness' and back on the topic of why he's here in the first place. "Can we quit with the fairytales and get back on track?"
Seth slumps in his chair, looking slightly sullen. "I'm not saying I believe everything. I'm just saying there's stuff that can't be explained away as easy as you want it to."
"Fair enough," Jake answers. He's heard all of this same shit from his dad too many times to get overly upset about it. It would figure the kid's been around Billy lately—which makes sense, since Sue's taken a place on the tribal council.
Heaving a sigh, Seth spins his chair around, scooting his way back to his computers in a crab-like shuffle, wheels grinding in protest.
Jake drags a hand over his face trying to clear his head before making his way over to the old harvest-yellow fridge in the corner. He pulls it open, hoping to find some water bottles, or better yet a can of soda. His mouth is dry, and he needs something to do while he decides if it's worth it to dig in Seth's head and search for brain matter. He knows the kid's smart, but then again, brains and common sense don't always go together. Regardless, it's clear Seth's been brainwashed. Shame that. Jake always thought this generation of Quileute kids were smarter than others. That they just might kick the habit of buying into legends and save what's left of a dying race of people.
Cold air wafts out at Jake as he inspects the contents of a surprisingly packed fridge. He eyeballs cases of water, tons of soda, snacks and—jackpot—beer. Jake snags one, noticing it's the kind Quil drinks. Cracking it open, he takes a long drink and an even longer look around the room. He wonders if Seth is involved in Quil's little marijuana business. Staring at all of Seth's hardware, Jake suddenly realizes how naive it is for him to 'wonder' anything. The proof is all over this room. A huge new flat-screen TV, the half dozen computers, the fancy headphones and gear, the well-stocked fridge—it all spells money, and money is something Seth wouldn't have access to without having his hands in someone's pockets.
Jake curses mentally, rubbing under his eye where a small nerve twitches annoyingly. He's spent the last year reeling over his break-up with Bella and putting all his time and energy into his shop, but that's no excuse. He should've been looking out for Seth more. The kid has too much heart and not enough good influences in his life. As much as Jake loves Quil—they've been friends since childhood, even before Jake's mom took him and his sisters and left the reservation—he's not blind to the guy's faults. Like so many others in this community, poverty and a lack of jobs and education means a dead-end life. Quil's doing what he thinks he has to do to get ahead, and damned if Jake will condemn him for it. But this? Bringing Seth in? It doesn't sit well with him at all.
It also reminds him that Quil is dodging his calls and his inquiries into the guy named James Jake learned about from Jess Stanley. Newton was apparently running some drugs, too, and this James was supplying him. What does Quil know that he's hoping to avoid telling?
Shit. How deep is Quil in, and how far has he dragged Seth?
Jake tips his head back and sighs. He can't do this now. He's got other more pressing things to deal with. Like finding Bella and getting her home where she belongs.
"Anything?" he asks Seth, going back to watch the kid scroll through things that appear and disappear too fast for him to understand.
"Nope."
"Dig harder."
Seth sighs. "Jake, I don't know...I mean..."
"Dig. Harder."
Heaving a beleaguered sigh, Seth turns on some more monitors. "Fine, but you owe me, big. This crap is highly illegal. Not to mention hacking a Canadian law firm's records is tricky shit."
Patting Seth on the shoulder, Jake grins a little, wanting to ease the tension still lingering between them. "Even for you?"
Despite himself, Seth grins. Jake can see the sudden gleam in the kid's eyes reflected off the once again blank screens.
"Yeah, maybe not so much for me."
. . . . . .
Dawn breaks with a renewing of the persistent sunlight so foreign to these parts. All traces of the storm from the night before evaporate under the increasing heat. Edward watches a sunbeam strong enough to penetrate the dirty window spotlight dust motes in the air.
He sits on the ratty Victorian chair, one leg crossed over the other, his thoughts scattered in a million different directions. His vampire mind races in analytical paths faster and more efficient than even the laptop balanced on his knee. He's taken care of a dozen things this morning already: financial matters pertaining to all his current investments and holdings, procuring breakfast for Isabella, fetching the car from where he left it, inspecting his property and all its borders, ensuring no one has ventured where they're not welcome.
Leaving Bella alone and defenceless, even for the few minutes it took to accomplish those outside tasks, wasn't easy for him. The uncomfortable feeling it created lingers, making him restless despite the fact she sleeps only steps away safe and secure. His attachment to her continues to grow.
He swallows the last dregs of his bagged blood breakfast, Carlisle's forced 'generosity' even less palatable for its cold and stale state. Staring at the sticky residue in the cup he poured it in does nothing to make it more appealing.
The remainder of the bags in their Styrofoam coolers have been moved to the cold cellar, a relic of a room that once housed similar blood a century ago, though then they'd kept it in jars.
The sustenance does little to curb his thirst under the presence of Isabella's perfuming and pervasive scent.
He needs to hunt soon. The idea of animal blood appeals even less than the congealing donor blood he consumed, but the idea of a hunt has nothing to do with feeding. It's only to curb the inner beast that demands the thrill of chase and capture, the animal instinct in him that needs to tear into flesh and drink from a living creature. If not for Isabella, he'd hunt a more desirable meal. Even in a place this small, evil exists.
Shaking off thoughts not conducive to the morning ahead of him, or the lamb upstairs just now rising from her slumber, Edward awaits the human who has changed his path so drastically. It will be interesting to see which Isabella will confront him this morn. A continuation of the warm, willing creature who seemed on the cusp of accepting her fate last night or a new awakening of the stubborn, willful one who so boldly attempted to defy him, both by running away and by challenging his every attempt to possess her.
He thinks of the passion they shared mere hours ago as he listens to her rummage through the bag he left by the bedside. She'll be confused by its presence, probably believing the items she packed in her foiled attempt at escape to have burned along with the atrocious truck she used as her getaway vehicle. He smiles darkly at that memory, regretting nothing, despite the extra complications his actions begot.
The shower starts, and Edward returns to his tasks, moving money from an offshore account into one more easily accessible. A confirmation email arrives, and he appraises it quickly. He's taken steps to charter a small plane. Finances to ensure its readiness and storage at a private hangar just outside of Forks have been verified and accepted as payment due.
Edward is nothing if not pragmatic. His escape routes are all in place, the small, lightweight Lear Jet just one of many contingency plans, although by far the most luxurious.
He skims more emails, noting little of further importance as Isabella makes her way down the stairs. The scents of shampoo and soap mingle nicely with her natural fragrance, sharpening his thirst and hardening his cock as he remembers just how good she tastes and feels under his hands and mouth.
She steps into the room, pale, wary, and indefinably beautiful, damp hair spilling down her back and over shoulders bared by a summer top with only the thinnest of straps. White knee-length shorts adorn her lower half. Her feet are bare, her skin free of make-up, and still, without a doubt, she is the most beautiful thing he has ever seen. She nibbles a lower lip, still red and plump from the ardor and kisses they shared, and Edward surveys the places he bit that are unclothed, pleased to see that she heals well under his care to seal every wound he's made.
"Good morning, Isabella." Despite the lingering sleep still in her system, her gaze takes him in with care.
"I thought maybe you'd be gone," she says quietly. "Mornings seem to be your kryptonite. I wake up and poof, you vanish."
Edward links his fingers, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair, regarding her with a wry smile. She expressed a similar fear last night. It would seem her attachment to him is growing as well. "Be careful, lamb. If I didn't know better, I'd think such a sarcastic comment implied displeasure at my absences."
"Hardly. I'm just commenting on trends." Her reply is acerbic as her gaze skips over him and the laptop, then around the room. Her posture has lost its flight or fight stance, but she's hyper-vigilant and on guard.
"Hmm. Well, I ask forgiveness for my past behaviours. I will endeavour to be more...present in the future." He teases her lightly, watching every nuance of body language, not missing the way she fidgets despite the slight bravado and attitude in her tone.
"I ordered you some breakfast," he tells her, indicating a tray on the small table beside the chair. "I wasn't sure what you'd like so I ordered a few selections from the menu." He points at the omelet made with spinach. "Perhaps start with the eggs. You need the iron."
"I'm not hungry."
Edward ignores her denial. "There's orange juice and organic decaffeinated tea. Drink them both. You need the fluids."
"I said..."
"I heard what you said, Isabella. Eat and drink anyway. You consumed little at dinner yesterday. A human body needs frequent fuel."
"My body needs time to wake up, and coffee," she retorts, emphasis on 'my.' Her nose wrinkles as she picks up one of the cups holding the tea.
Edward notices the stubborn tilt to her chin. It would seem a return of the willful, prideful Isabella is before him, though something more confident and less unsure seems in place as well. Her demeanour is rife with caution, but she isn't running. Progress at least.
Setting the cup back down, she scans the other contents of the tray to discover a small metal carafe filled with the beverage she seeks. Her expression betrays her delight. Despite the fact he has no idea how such a foul sludge can hold any appeal, Edward is glad he thought to include it.
"French pressed," he informs her, having no idea why that should make her eyes light up. One form of foulness over another is still...foul, regardless of how it's prepared.
"Where did you get French pressed coffee?"
She fills the small mug he provided and adds several heaping spoons of sugar, along with two rich creams in their common little cups. She tastes with trepidation then adds still more sugar.
"The Forks Diner was most obliging in my requests. Apparently the owner prefers this type of coffee, and she suggested it as an addition to my order." He watches her stir in another spoonful of sugar, the sweetly noxious scent overpowering and cloying. "Is it the coffee you like, Isabella, or the abundance of sugar?" he asks, truly perplexed.
She looks at him sharply, as though defensive—perhaps she's been asked before—and he arches a brow at her curiously.
"Both," she finally answers; ostensibly biting back whatever reply she meant to give. She takes a drink and hums a sweet sound of pleasure, her eyes closed, savoring. When she opens them again, the directness of her gaze is almost challenging. Or it is until her stomach growls loudly. Edward laughs lowly as her cheeks turn pink.
"It would appear your body is overruling your stubborn mind, lamb. Eat your breakfast."
She places the mug of coffee down with a soft sigh then grudgingly picks up a fork and attacks the omelet. He watches her for a moment, pleased, enjoying the tiny respite from argument.
He's forced to turn his attention back to the computer when a new email alert pings softly. He opens it, frowning slightly at the message displayed.
Jenks, ever diligent, notifies him that Seth Clearwater is currently trying to hack into the records concerning the very house Edward sits in—has, in fact, been at it for a few hours already. Leaning back in his chair, Edward ponders Jenks' question.
Action requested?
Even with the limited system Edward has at his current disposal, he could cut young Mr. Clearwater off at the knees, shut him down and keep him down for a long time to come. It's tempting. A few mouse clicks and the little Quileute hackers system would come to a crashing halt, leaving an internal mess that would render his hard drives useless. He doubts the boy has the financial means to replace his equipment.
Put Jenks on the task and the boy would suffer more than a hard drive crash; he'd find himself the subject of a federal investigation facing several cyber crime charges.
Tempting also.
Unfortunately, Edward wishes to stay low-key. Drawing attention from any source doesn't fit with his plans.
Not now; not yet.
Sighing, Edward sends a return message, simple and succinct.
Block and evade.
During his brief one-time meeting with Chief Swan a few days ago, Edward admitted to renting this house. For now, the only information either the Chief or the boy will discover will support this lie. His identity as Edward Masen is rock solid. Regardless, an elaborate system of evasion techniques that follow the letter of the law concerning privacy issues won't make the information easy to obtain for either of them, buying Edward more time to make his final decisions.
He wonders how long it will take, and who will be the first to show up at this door. The Chief or the dog? Given the terms of the treaty, providing such a thing is still respected...
Isabella interrupts his musings.
"So, what now?"
Closing the laptop, Edward leans back in his chair, turning his attention back to his prize.
She lays her fork down and places her hands on her lap. Her docile pose is countered by the confrontational question. When he doesn't instantly answer, she fidgets then rises to stack the dishes on her tray.
"My dad and...um...others will be looking for me." Edward doesn't miss the way she stumbles. His mouth quirks in amused irritation as he realizes she's still purposely avoiding mentioning Jacob Black.
"Yes, your father, and...others, are quite diligently looking for you, as a matter of fact." She narrowly avoids dropping the plate she holds, fumbling as it slips from her grasp. He doubts she misses the way he pronounces 'others.' Duplicity requires intelligence, after all.
Placing the dish back down carefully, she turns to him. Her eyes are wide, pupils slightly dilated. They appear very dark against the backdrop of her pale complexion.
"They are?" She swallows, her nervousness scenting the air. "How do you know?" Suspicion narrows those wide eyes.
"Isabella, I've made it my business to know everything about you. Do you think I'd be careless about keeping tabs on those closest to you?"
She sits back down, heavily. "You're watching them? How?" She stares at the computer in his lap, and he nearly smiles at the changing expressions on her face: dismay, confusion, suspicion, and finally, anger.
"I've been...monitoring their activities, yes." He leaves her question of how unanswered. She notices.
"You're not going to tell me how, are you?"
"If you insist, I will," he offers. "However, I think you're intelligent enough to know the details of how matter little. Suffice it to say I've lived a very long time, and in that time I've learned to use any and all resources. Modern technology has made things infinitely easier in that regard."
He waits as she assimilates this information.
"If you know my dad is looking for me, you have to know it's only a matter of time before he'll start doing things. Ridiculous over-the-top things, like forming search parties and putting out APBs. He has to be getting worried. Charlie is...protective, and he'll get help. He has a lot of connections." She stares at him intently, as though to judge the effect of her words. Edward simply looks back.
"I left without any explanation about where I was going."
He inclines his head, letting her know he's listening.
"With his connections, he'll be able to make a missing persons report before the seventy-two hours required."
"Of that I have no doubt," Edward answers lightly. "I have bought us time, however, by sending text messages to both your father and others, considerately letting them know you're with a friend in Seattle."
She frowns. "They won't trust a text that comes from someone they don't know."
"I'm hardly that foolish, Isabella. The texts were sent from your cellular number." He reaches into his pocket and produces her phone. She stares at the object in consternation.
"I thought that was...lost."
"Like your bag that held the clothing you wear now?" He smiles, challenging.
She frowns, avoiding. "So you used my phone? Pretended to be me?"
"It was slightly more complicated than that," he corrects "but essentially, yes."
"I don't know anyone in Seattle."
"On the contrary. You know me, and we were together in Seattle."
Again Isabella's lower lip vanishes beneath her teeth. He can see her mind working. Intelligent little lamb ignores his flippancy and moves on quickly.
"He'll find out about the truck."
"He already has."
She starts slightly at this, clearly not expecting it. Edward isn't surprised given the heat of the fire she witnessed burning that heap as they left it behind.
"Oh, my god. He must be...freaking out!"
"Well, in a fashion," he amends.
"What does that mean?" Her tone is exasperated.
Edward stifles amusement. Her temper is showing in the way she fists her hands in her lap.
"He's concerned, but not 'freaking out,' as you put it. I took steps to ensure that should your truck be identified, its destruction won't be linked to you in any way."
She appears confused. "How could it possibly not be linked to me?"
He ponders how much to tell her. It goes against his very nature to be as forthcoming as he grudgingly realizes he must be with her. A long moment passes in silence. Isabella simply stares. Stalemate.
Delight in her once again mixes with frustration. He offers her a simplified explanation.
"A stolen vehicle report was filed in your name, Isabella. Of course it's fake in reality, but on paper it's real enough. The time listed on that report states the claim was made hours before the truck was actually attended to by the Seattle fire department. Your father is aware only of the theft. No connection has been made. Should that change, the assumption will be that the fire was set by the thief."
For a moment Isabella's mouth gape opens. She shuts it hard with an audible snap and rubs her temples. "So let me get this straight. You somehow made a fake police report in my name?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"I have people in my employ with varied positions and skills. It was a surprisingly simple task."
She drops her hands, shocked. "People?"
"Yes, Isabella," he replies dryly."People. Regular humans with useful attributes willing to do my bidding for large sums of money." He preempts any thoughts she might have that he has terrified slaves locked in a dungeon beneath their feet. He also leaves out the fact that with the exception of Jenks, fear of the unknown is an even greater motivator than the money.
She says nothing, though he notices her shoulders relax somewhat.
"Are you not going to ask why I went to the trouble of establishing a fake report?" He can't keep the humour from his tone. Her insistence on not uttering that interrogative remains steadfast, even now. How odd. It must be something deeply ingrained. Such a puzzle she is. A veritable feast for all his senses.
Her relaxed shoulders move upwards in a brief shrug, though it's clear she does want to know.
After a short minute of silence, she makes an attempt to discover the answer. "I guess you were covering your tracks?"
He makes a derisive sound. "Hardly, Isabella. I was covering yours."
"Mine?" Her smooth brow furrows in greater confusion.
"Yes, yours. I would not have you implicated in the destruction."
"No," she replies with a sigh. "Just witness to it, right?" The dryness to her tone leaves no doubt as to her feelings.
It's Edward's turn to shrug, feigning apathy when what he feels, what he reveals, is the polar opposite of indifference. "You call on emotions I haven't felt in a very long time, lamb. Affection, interest, frustration, jealousy." He lets the last hang in the air, full of intent to break new ground if she chooses.
She doesn't.
He can sense her mind racing, even if he cannot track the thoughts. Rising to her feet, she crosses to the window beside him and stares out at the expanse of forest surrounding them. "Edward, whatever this is between us, you can't..." She trails off.
"I can't what, Isabella?"
She blinks rapidly, fighting her emotions. Brave little lamb. She levels him with a look that pierces through the layers of years spent suppressing anything remotely good about himself.
"You can't hurt the people I care about to keep me."
Moving the laptop from his knee, Edward places it on the floor by his side before leaning back once more. The fingers of his right hand tap a dull rhythm against the arms of the too-delicate chair, the fingers of his left scrape his jaw thoughtfully.
"You can't," she repeats, taking a small step closer to him, interpreting his silence as a will to do exactly what she attempts to beseech against. Fear colours her tone. "I'll do what you want, whatever, just...don't..."
"Isabella, be still!"
She instantly quiets and freezes at his sharp tone. With a sigh he rises, surprised at just how displeased he is with her begging and offering anything to him based solely on the barter of others' lives. If she understood how inept her father and that mutt truly are perhaps she would change her mind. Edward has had her for nearly a day and they are so utterly stupid they haven't found her yet. Were he in their position, he would have already moved heaven and hell and anything in between to get her back. They are a waste of space in his opinion, can she not see that? But, no, of course she can't. Not her. She is too good, too caring. Traits he oddly likes in her, despite the lack of having them himself.
He closes the small distance between them and cups her quivering chin in his hand. His hold is firm, though his thumb automatically strokes the softness of her cheek, seeking to soothe her.
She tries to pull away. Beneath her fear and concern she's a kitten with extended claws wanting to lash out.
He tightens his hold, the pressure tempered with utmost care not to mark or cause pain, just enough to let her know who is in control. "So. You would bargain with me? Offer your complacent agreement to all my demands in return for the promise of the safety of your father and Jacob Black?"
Isabella's eyes widen, her heart quickening its beat.
"Oh, yes, I know all about Jacob Black and the role he's played in your life, little lamb," he informs her. "Just as I know that at this very minute he has a child named Seth Clearwater attempting to divine exactly who is living in this house."
He drops his hand, and she licks her lips, fingers twining together before her, wringing and worrying.
"Seth is...trying to figure out who you are?"
"Industrious boy," Edward adds grudgingly. "He won't find anything beyond what I want him to find, but that's hardly the point. Between your father and your ex-lover, I've been kept equal parts amused and irritated by their bumbling attempts to put two and two together."
Isabella blanches at the term 'ex-lover.' "I don't understand. Why would they be looking into you? I never told anyone about you."
"You didn't need to, lamb. Your attempts to deny me have made your behaviour erratic. Coupled with the investigation your father launched into Newton and his...disappearance, as well as the fact we were seen in public together the night we first met, and the arrows point here, to this house which hasn't been occupied in over a century, and me, the only newcomer in town."
Taking a tiny, hesitant step back from him, she crosses her arms over her chest as though to protect her most vulnerable parts. Edward dislikes the stance. Have they not yet passed this interminable point of mistrust?
"You haven't answered me," he reminds her, tired of explanations and circles of useless conjecture. "Are you offering yourself up to me in return for my promise of their safety?"
She swallows tightly and nods warily. "Isn't that what you want?"
A low growl builds in his throat, and she takes another, less hesitant step backwards. Stifling his anger, Edward allows her space and turns to the window she was just gazing out.
"I think once I would have wanted exactly that, Isabella."
His cryptic statement hangs in the air between them for a moment.
"And...now?" she asks after the silence stretches out to the point of tension.
Edward sits back down, studying her closely. "Now, after the time we shared together last night, perhaps I'd hoped we were moving beyond the need for threats." The naked truth in such a statement surprises him, and judging by the way she stares back at him without blinking, her as well.
She hugs herself tighter, dropping her gaze to her feet. Their bareness against his wood floors highlights her incredible vulnerability, and that special something tender he only feels for her flares to renewed life within him. He wishes she wanted to stay with him. He wishes she felt...affection for him. He wishes for her...love.
The realization makes his lip curl, the growl he suppressed rippling free, low and angry.
Love? What a useless emotion, crippling and pathetic, and even if it was not it's something he's ridiculously unworthy of. He's never sought it, never wanted it, and now?
She could be his ruin, his one and only weakness, and still he cannot bring himself to let her go.
He shoves aside the ridiculous notion of love and swallows back the growl. She watches him like a wary cat. His fingers resume tapping on the arms of the chair.
"I don't know what you want me to say," she tells him quietly. There is no heat in her words, only true lack of understanding.
"I'm not going to harm your father, Isabella." He chooses not to answer her question, having no desire to provide her with a script, though it would make things easier.
She relaxes a bit at his confession, though not entirely. "And Jake?"
"Jake," he sneers, allowing disdain to leak into his voice. "Do you know what he is?" he demands suddenly.
Isabella drops her arms, frowning. "What he is?"
Edward's sudden laugh is loud and abrasive, echoing around the nearly empty room. "No, of course you don't. I'm beginning to wonder if he even knows. What other explanation is there for his dismal failures? If he was remotely attuned to his nature, he would have found you already."
Shaking her head, Isabella holds up her hands. "Wait. Just what are you saying?"
Weighing options, Edward opts to pry. "Have you never noticed anything different about him, lamb? Never heard legends from his people?" He watches her expression carefully and doesn't miss the surprised flicker of realization dawning.
"Ah, you have," he muses, narrowing his gaze at her. "Legends about werewolves and cold ones perhaps?"
"Stories," she utters, her tone choked by a sudden dryness of mouth and throat. "Just stories."
"And yet here I am, something more than just a story, don't you agree? Though I prefer vampire to cold one. It's so much more...accurate."
"Are you trying to tell me Jake is a werewolf?"
His derisive bark of laughter makes her jump. "Not quite. He's a halfling, Isabella. Had I, or another of my kind, come to town a decade ago, his change would've been inevitable, but clearly that never happened. So he carries the gene, but he cannot change shape or become a wolf."
Placing her back to the wall, Isabella slides down until she sits on the floor. Her head drops to her knees.
"Are you really that surprised?"
It's her turn to laugh derisively, though it lacks volume. "I don't know what I am. Certifiable maybe."
Edward sighs. "You are many things, little lamb. Mentally deranged is not one of them. We covered this, remember? Let's not backslide."
She gets up as fast as she sat and begins to pace.
"So let me get this straight." Finished crossing the room she spins on her delicate heel and returns on the same path. "The Quileute legends are actually...true. Jake's a real...werewolf."
"A halfling, and technically more in the variety of a shapeshifter," Edward corrects, slightly enthralled at her whirlwind movements and palpable frustrated energy. "Think of him as a stunted runt unable to reach his full potential. I do."
She waves a hand at him in a shushing motion, scowling. Stopping dead in her tracks, her shoulders slump, and she raises her hands to cover her face. "Wow, I really know how to pick 'em," she mutters.
He can't suppress a smile at that statement. She never seems to do what he expects. A normal human would be nearly catatonic with fear, perhaps well on their way to being the 'certifiable' individual she seems to fear she will become. She is merely perturbed, however.
She drops her hands to glare at him. "You think this is funny? You've turned my entire life upside down, and now you've just pointed out that I seem to have some perverted magnetic pull on supernatural...monsters!"
Moving back to the sofa, she sits heavily. A small cloud of dust exudes around her at the pressure, and she waves her hands at it, coughing slightly.
"How long has this couch been here?" She asks, distractedly.
"A while. The exact date..."
"Never mind." She scrubs slightly at her cheeks, groaning. When she lowers her hands, Edward has moved in front of her, wondering if this is the moment she will crack under the pressure. Instead, she tips her head up at him, clear eyes flashing displeasure and consternation.
Her stubbornness and strength are both the bane of his existence and a great source of pleasure.
"I need to go home."
Tentatively, unsure how she will react, Edward reaches out and runs his fingers lightly over her left cheek all the way to her jaw. He's done this so often she accepts the gesture easily. Pausing on the curve of her chin, he watches her, pleased at how she no longer flinches or tries to pull away. She is taming, whether she knows it or not. Her skin is warm and soft. Such a precious creature she is.
"I have a job. I need to work. I'm scheduled today for noon." She emphasizes every word, though her tone fails in reaching an authoritative octave, and he can feel the fine tremors of anxiety thrumming in her nerves. Her desire to challenge him is exceeded only by the caution ingrained in her kind when confronted with his.
Brave, brave little lamb, standing up to him. He cannot ever remember any human having her nerve, not even the sociopaths incapable of emotions whose lives were ended by his hand. They all caved to fear in the end. Not her. She is truly remarkable.
A strand of hair curls close to her jaw. Edward moves to grasp it, letting the silky, resilient little twist twine around his finger tip.
"I have bills to pay, a house I have to look after, laundry to do."
Her pulse jumps, the vein in her neck a throbbing little metronome that soothes him while he listens to her advocate for her freedom with a sundry list of chores. Drawn to it, he releases her hair and skims one finger across the sweet spot. A prickle of goose bumps breaks over her throat and across the skin that covers her collarbones. Her breathing changes at his caress.
"I have responsibilities and obligations, Edward." She swallows as his touch moves lower, exploring the tiny hollow at the base of her neck.
"I need to at least call people, let them know I'm okay before things get out of hand. Charlie and...Jake won't buy that I'm in Seattle for long, if they're buying it at all. You have to know this."
At the mention of the dog's name, Edward drops his hand, his displeasure rippling over his psyche in waves. His attention flits to the sight of the dust that left the sofa. It's settled around her like a chalk outline only his eyes can see. He's reminded again of how unsuitable this place is for her, how unready.
"You could...come with me."
Surprised at such an offer, his gaze snaps back upon her, inspecting her expression for motive. If only he could read her mind.
"Are you inviting me to your home, Isabella?" His mouth curls upward in pleasure, aware that her invite comes under duress but pleased nonetheless.
She nods. "I doubt you're going to let me go on my own." Her tone is slightly caustic.
Edward gives in and laughs. "Oh, lamb. Your tenacity and spirit are something else." Once again he strokes fingers over her neck, moulding his hand around the smooth, fragile stalk gently. "You're right though. I may concede that allowing you to return home at this point would be the proper thing to do, but nothing's changed between us."
He feels her swallow, feels the slight shudder that quakes through her and understands its divided cause. One half of her remains apprehensive, the other...? Well, the spike of her heart rate is not solely nerves, not with the lush scent of her physical response so apparent. Not when she makes no attempt to pull away.
"You're mine. You know this now, do you not?"
For a second he thinks she will argue. He cups her chin and tips her face upward so that she cannot hide. The answer is clear in her expressive eyes, but he wants to hear the words.
"Are you not," he repeats, not phrasing it this time as questioning. It's a demand, and she answers perfectly.
"Yes."
In time, the sadness he witnesses in her confession will become a thing of the past as she learns the joy he can bring her, the rewards being his will entail. For now, though, her yes is more than enough for him.
In fact, it's everything.
. . . . . .
