A/N Hello, dear readers. This story has been on hiatus for a very long time. The following chapter is my way of trying to get back into the character's mindsets, and back into writing in general, so it's far from perfect and could be a bit redundant. Chapter 25 is nearly complete, and I do hope to update again soon.

I want to be clear though, so bear with me one minute more. Completing this story is a personal challenge, and I am determined to make it happen. That being said, I make no promises. I have in the past, and it's bitten me in the ass. I've learned that life can derail even the best of intentions. I'm here. I'm trying. Please take that into consideration before you read. For those who despair over unfinished stories, it's best to put this on alert and wait and see. Thank you all for understanding.

Huge thanks to JoVersify. This update would literally have never happened without her friendship and unwavering support. I cannot wait to return the favour. Write faster, you talented, beautiful soul.

Huge thanks as well to a goddess of story-telling and all things grammar, Saritadreaming, who stepped out of the shadows to red-pen this for me at the last minute. I have missed you, and having you be a part of this story again is the giant cherry on top of this cupcake.

. . . . . .

Prey for the Wicked

Chapter 24

Tundimi

. . . . . .

A swipe of her damp hand creates a clear streak through the fog of condensation on her bathroom mirror. Bella exhales slowly, barely noting her reflection, her thoughts in turmoil.

Her body isn't in turmoil. It knows Edward is in the next room. A few steps are all that stand between it and relief from her pain.

She tries to remember the first time she became aware of the hollow sensation. The thread of her memories leads nowhere specific. Maybe she was born with it? She only knows once she moved to Forks, the vague feeling opened up with a vengeance.

For a long while, Jake's presence in her life dulled the sensation, and when they broke up, it got worse. Before him, she had no frame of reference. She accepted it was a part of her, the way she accepted her bland brown hair and eyes.

After the accident in her high school parking lot nearly took her life, her doctors insisted on therapy. They worried her apathy about the experience was an unhealthy avoidance of trauma. The thing they never understood, was Tyler's van crashing into her on ice-slicked asphalt, had been an annoyance, not a trauma. Yet another thing to endure. She was good at enduring.

Still is.

There were meds, of course, but they washed her out, leaving her with constant brain fog. The therapist bored her to tears, telling her only obvious things. None of it helped. The pills went in the trash, and her real traumas were placed in a box at the back of her mind where they belonged.

She went back to accepting this is just who she is. Until him. Edward. She wonders what it says about her that the antidote to her mysterious pain is a vampire hell-bent on stripping away her independence.

She drags a brush through her damp hair, knowing she's stalling. She didn't need the shower she took, her third of the day. It was merely an excuse to gain space to try and wrap her mind around everything Edward shared.

Her fingers skim her throat. She can't feel or see the scar he says is there.

It occurs to her in a rush that makes her hands shake, she's felt more complex and intense emotions in the last week than she has in her entire adult life. Like a veil of numbness is lifting, slowly but surely, dragging her into the present.

She stares at the blush of colour on her cheeks and the odd brightness in her eyes. She's angry, but there's more here. The strangest thrill. A sense of expectation. It's been a long time since she felt curious about what could happen next in her life. The heat under her skin feels electric, tiny pulses of live wires connecting in a pattern that beats to the tempo of his voice. A call she feels even though he's silent on the other side of the door.

The question stuck in her throat is… why?

. . . . . .

Edward stares out the window. Shadows blend seamlessly beyond Isabella's bedroom, her neighbourhood quiet. He's vigilant, as always, to threat, yet ambivalent in a way he hasn't been for longer than he cares to remember. There seems no greater threat out there than the one he faces in here.

He smiles humorlessly. He's out of his element when it comes to the female mind. He's spent little time analyzing their thoughts, human or vampire. His century of family life amongst mated pairs might have prepared him better if he bothered to pay any attention to the machinations behind the endless lust and romantic nonsense he chose to block from his mind.

Isabella retreating to perform necessary and unnecessary human functions has given them both time to absorb the enormity of his transgression. He smells her anger and frustration seeping under the door, wrapped in the humidity of her shower.

When she joins him again, will she have retreated farther into that unreadable mind of hers? Or will his honesty be reciprocated? The confession of the mark he left upon her skin has ignited her wrath, but will it do what he fervently hopes?

Will it ignite her curiosity as well?

. . . . . .

Jake stares through the precinct doors at the empty parking space where his car should be, cursing under his breath at the stupidity that made him leave his keys in the damn ignition. He yanks his phone out of his back pocket, dials Leah, and listens as it goes instantly to voicemail.

"Leah. I don't know why you took off, but call me back, right now, okay? Let's not do this shit. If you're pissed, fine. Call me and tell me you're pissed. Better yet, get back here and tell me to my face. Whatever this is, we can talk it out." He hangs up, doubting she'll call him back. He can't blame her.

"I'm an idiot," he mutters.

"Well, you might not be wrong, but you are very young, so I suppose that excuses it."

Jake turns on his heel to find Charlie's office administrator, Martha, standing behind him, clutching a large, overstuffed purse.

She smiles sympathetically, the soft creases around her eyes deepening. "She left not ten minutes after you two arrived. Surprised she made it ten minutes, to be honest with you."

Jake opens his mouth to ask why she didn't try to stop Leah from leaving, or at least let him know when it happened, then snaps it shut, realizing that train of thought pegs him as an entitled ass.

"Right," he says instead, raking his fingers through his hair, trying to figure out what to do now.

"I see she took your car." Her expression strives for matter of fact, fails, and settles on amused. "I'd offer you a ride, but I took the bus today."

Jake shifts his weight, restless and ready to get out of here. "That's okay, Martha. Thanks anyway."

She moves as though to step around him, then hesitates. "Can I give you some advice?" She phrases it like a question, but before he can figure out a way to politely decline, she's already off and running.

"The Chief's got a lot on his mind, so don't let it bother you if he was hot under the collar tonight. I'm sure now that Bella's back at home after her little trip, he'll get back to being himself in no time."

"What?"

"I know how worried you are about her. This situation with Mike Newton is quite the mess. That young man clearly isn't right in his head. Though you didn't hear that from me." She mimes turning a key in a lock over her lips.

"Well, anyway, now that Bella's safe and snug, and Chief Swan has Deputy Call doing regular drive-by checks on her tonight, you can both breathe easier. I think everyone just needs some time to decompress." She nods at her conclusion, as though she wants to give it emphasis.

Trying to absorb the fact that Bella is home and no one bothered to let him know, has Jake gritting his teeth hard enough he might crack a molar. Bitterness pulls acid into his esophagus.

"Let me guess. Leah heard Charlie telling Embry to check on Bella?"

Martha sighs. "Yes, I suppose she might have."

Jake curses.

Frowning, Martha straightens her shoulders. Jake isn't sure if it's the swear words or his obvious anger that creates a change in her body language. He's torn between a knee-jerk reaction to apologize, and a desire to smash back into Charlie's office and confront him. How the hell could he not tell him Bella is home?

His hesitation gives Martha more room to keep talking. What she says next spins Jake back so hard mentally, every option, including finding Leah, vanishes out of his thoughts.

"I hope you don't take this the wrong way, Jacob," she says quietly. "This is just my two cents, take it or leave it, but I feel like you and Bella could use some… space from one another. It's clear, with Bella seen all over town today with the newcomer, Edward Masen, and you, here tonight with Leah Clearwater, who is lovely and probably very good for you…"

She stammers to a stop when Jake takes a step towards her, choking on a growl at hearing Edward Masen's name. "Bella was in town today? With Edward Masen?"

Misreading the intensity as being directed at her, Martha's eyes widen. "Oh well, I guess I just stepped in it, didn't I? I am sorry. I'm talking out of turn. I just assumed you knew. It's all everyone has been talking about. Not that I condone gossip, but it's a small town, and Mr. Masen is very handsome and charismatic. He's got a lot of people curious about his plans for the old mansion, and…"

Jake tunes out Martha's nervous rambling, scrubbing his hands over his face, striving for control. Is this why Embry warned him he had more to worry about with Bella than Newton?

"... It's good for you and Bella to be moving on with your lives is all I'm saying. Not my place to give you advice, but I watched you both grow up, and I guess I feel… Well, I'd like to see you both happy."

Martha reaches out and pats his forearm, looking like she wishes she never stopped to speak to him. "Well, goodness, look at the time. I best go or I'll miss my bus." She gives him a last wary look then rushes out the door faster than he'd expect from someone her age.

Not that he's paying attention.

His feet are already carrying him toward the rear exit. One snarling glance at Charlie's closed office door as he discards the idea of confronting him, and he's out the door and into the stifling night air. The sound of his boots hitting the pavement is loud until he hits the softer underground of the forest bordering the back end of the precinct property.

He thinks about detouring to the shop to get another vehicle then discards the idea. He's faster on foot, taking the shortcut through the woods. If he was paying attention, he might be alarmed at how fast he actually is. Likewise, if he was paying attention, he might also be alarmed at the low, constant growl slipping out of his mouth.

None of it registers. Instinct pulls him in the direction of Bella's house, better judgement sliding away with each powerful stride. He wants answers. And he wants them now. Anxiety sinks its fangs in… And yeah, fuck that analogy, he thinks. Just… fuck.

He moves faster, not even breaking a sweat, every bit of stay-calm, stay-rational advice he gives himself at war with one paranoid thought he can't keep at bay. He might be about to crash into a reality he's never prepared for.

. . . . . .

Bella dresses quickly, dragging on the same shorts she wore earlier and pairing them with a pale gray V-neck t-shirt worn and washed so many times the material is silky soft and thin. It's too late to get fully dressed, too early to get ready for bed. A craving for armour of some kind refuses to let her leave the bathroom in her towel.

She messily whisks her slightly damp hair off her neck and into a clip, not caring about her appearance, but as she reaches for the door, her reflection in the mirror grabs her attention again.

She's struck by the blush dusting her normally pale cheeks. The way her mouth seems fuller, softer. The vibration of excitement under her skin seems to translate to a highlighted shimmer in the usual bland brown of her eyes. The hair escaping her clip curls around her jaw and the sides of her neck, giving rise to sweet sensations she's never noticed before. It's as if her nerve endings have gotten a jolt of caffeine, heightening her sensitivity.

Her thoughts flash back to the kitchen earlier tonight when Edward held her, touched her, made her body sing, easing the relentless need, but not quenching it. If anything, it's made her needier. The tiny bite he delivered to her bottom lip should sting, yet doesn't. Her tongue touches it tentatively, noting the sensitivity. The tingling resonates through her body.

She wonders if she should put on a different shirt when she realizes the material clings like a second skin, curving and skimming over curves she rarely thinks about. Her nipples feel tight and sensitive. She's never considered herself sensual. Feeling the fabric move against her, stirring up a carnal undertone of desire, is unnerving. Vivid memories of Edward over her, inside of her, mouth on her skin, teeth in her flesh, make her shiver. She draws in a breath, feeling the way warmth swells in hidden places.

Anticipation skips down her spine. She feels the pull of him and lets it happen, slipping back into the bedroom on bare feet that have a mind of their own.

. . . . . .

The practiced grace he's noticed in Isabella's movements isn't apparent tonight, Edward notes. She's effortlessly graceful, as if some guard has been let down. As she enters the bedroom, her soft reflection in the glass of the window could be a spectre. She can be very quiet and controlled for a human.

"You're angry." He doesn't turn and face her, continuing his study of the landscape, boring and unremarkable save for the woods across the street. Something stirs in the night air that sifts through her curtains. It unsettles him though all is quiet, and nothing draws alarm. There's a current of electricity that reminds him of impending storms, yet the sky remains clear, a weak smattering of stars and a pale moon on the rise.

Dim lighting from her bedside lamp does little to keep the shadows outside from finding their way in.

"Yes."

He turns at her admission, taking in the full vision of her in denim and faded cotton. She is so alluring. His patience stretches thin, his hunger for her grown voracious under a day of subjecting himself to her denials.

He wants to cross the distance and touch her. Anchor himself in her body. He senses her physical need for him. On an intellectual level, he understands the desire to sate those needs, to tend to her yearning, is ingrained in vampire males. A craving to explore all they could be lends a dangerous edge to his mood. He's weary of her obstinance, still, he remains where he is. There's something about her stance that makes him unsure. Fragility in the tilt of her chin conflicts with the steely set of her spine.

Fight or flight? he wonders.

"About?" he asks, though he knows the answer.

Her chin tips up further, eyes narrowing. When she speaks, her words are carefully articulated, controlling her anger.

"The bite. The scar. Marking me. The fact you gave me no choice in it. The ugly steel door on the front of my house. The air conditioning. The money in my bank account. Gilding the damn cage you're keeping me in. Because that's what this is, right? I'm a prisoner."

True anger is an emotion he's rarely felt in the last century. Nevertheless, he recognizes it easily enough, rising to meet hers. A clash of wills heavy with their mutual stockpile of frustrations built up over a day of revelation and failure to find common ground. It colours his tone and likely his eyes.

"The door you dislike is there to keep you safe. The air conditioning to see to your comfort. The money is meant to ease the financial strain my actions against the reprobate Michael Newton created in your life by costing you your employment."

Edward moves across the room, unable to allow her distance, though her posture demands it. Unaccustomed as he is to anger, her wellbeing continues to take precedence, allowing him to place a finger beneath her chin, physically urging her head to tilt so he can establish the eye contact he craves and she continuously works to deny him. Since her silent mind gives him nothing, he must read her this way.

"As for the bite, I will not apologize for the scar that is a testament to the lifeblood still pumping in your veins or for the fact it marks you as mine. Because you are mine, Isabella."

She tries to slap his hand away, but he catches her wrist and tugs her closer.

"Of course. You just keep saying that! That's always what it boils down to, right? I'm yours. Whether I want to be or not." Her breath comes in pants. There is no flight in her now, only fight.

Edward growls an oath. "Are we back to this? You repeat empty words, Isabella, so I will ask you again. Tell me you don't want this and mean it."

Her mouth falls open then snaps shut.

"Nothing has changed. You can't, can you?"

"I don't know what this is so how can I say yes or no? How do I make sense of something this crazy?" she snaps, yanking back and forcing him to let her go before she harms herself. "I don't even feel like myself anymore. How do I know you're not controlling me… somehow?"

"Is that what you think? That I'm exerting a magical vampire dominance over you?" He can't keep condescension from leaking into his words.

"Are you?" The tremor on her luscious lips denotes fear, and he finds he does not like it. Insecurities he thought long-buried rise to the surface. Of course, she thinks this. How foolish of him not to see it happening. He is an unnatural creature, born of death, made to reap more of the same, nothing any human woman would sanely want.

"Think, Isabella," he demands, anger masking the hurt he feels. "If I could control you, this conversation would never be happening."

"Meaning I'd be what? A willing slave? Happy to be your prisoner?"

His laugh is bitter, forced. "Exactly. And willing is something you most definitely are not."

"Happy isn't what I am either. Does that even matter to you?"

"Happiness is a fallacy. Your comfort, your pleasure, and your wellbeing matter to me."

"Happiness is a fallacy?"

"Yes!" Her blatant refusal to see past the rosy lies humans concoct to give meaning to their short existence is understandable, yet utterly infuriating. Can she not see the practicality of what he offers her? An end to strife, sexual bliss, every material luxury, the possibility of immortality? Does none of it resonate in any way?

Bella stares at him. "Oh, my God! You're… such a cynical... Are all vampires like you?" She raises her hand in a stop motion, palm forward.

"You know what? Never mind. I don't need to know that right now. This is spiralling off track." She sighs.

Witnessing her struggle to retain her emotional equilibrium fascinates and confuses him in equal measure. "Then tell me, Isabella, what do you need to know right now?" His patience is waning. He's gone too long without feeding properly. He needs to hunt. To clear his mind. She is impossible.

"I need to know what this is," she yells, red flushing the highest arches of her cheekbones as her temper ignites despite the exhaustion he senses resides beneath her foul mood. "Because this," she gestures wildly between them, "it isn't normal! How you make me feel. It's like you've somehow created a new gravity, dragging me to you no matter how hard I fight to pull away."

Her breathing is rapid, and Edward finds himself captivated and furious in equal measures. No one, not even the family of vampires he left behind, has ever challenged him the way she does. Not even Alice would dare speak to him in anger. He's used to those around him treading lightly, and, for a second, he wonders what the need for others to be so cautious might say about him.

"If this isn't something to do with you being a vampire then what the hell is it, Edward?"

Edward exhales slowly. He doesn't need the air he holds in his lungs. It's a testimony to how out of his element and vitally, humanly male she makes him feel that the action feels necessary. He steps back from her, not because he fears he'll hurt her, but her words lash, opening wounds he rarely acknowledges.

"You are asking me to answer a question you need to ask yourself, Isabella. I can tell you I am doing nothing to cause this gravitational pull you abhor. There is no evil magic at work. That you choose to suffer in order to deny both yourself and me the pleasures we could find in one another is yours to define."

He could tell her they are mated, but what does that mean? And what difference would it make to her human, uncomprehending mind? He fears it will only cement her disobedience. His own understanding is weak, the vexation he endures unfounded. Finding a human mate is unheard of. Irrational.

She shakes her head, hands fisted at her sides. "I won't be your prisoner. I won't be anyone's prisoner."

He watches her for a moment. The proud tilt of her chin, the quiver in her muscles, courageous in her foolish pride. What is independence but a slow, lonely death? He should know. Better than anyone, he should know. Yet the words won't come.

Through gritted teeth, he says, "You surrounded yourself in a prison long before I entered your life, Isabella. I am not your jailer. I have never claimed to be one."

"A pet then. A belonging. Ownership. It's all the same to me. You're just using different words. Can't you see that?"

"So hung up on labels, Isabella…"

"Labels you give me!"

"Endearments!"

She blinks, and he sees her mind spinning. "That's…"

"You are so busy fearing your precious independence is being stolen you refuse to see that I have no want of it. Be independent. Have I denied you anything? Have I not made concession upon concession?"

"I don't want your damn concessions! I want the right to choose my life and who is in it. I want the right to choose to be with you or not!"

Edward is silent. He watches her eyes fill with frustrated tears, and he hates it. He wants to tear down the walls, snatch her to him and run. He will be the jailer she accuses him of being, without remorse. And therein lies their dilemma. He cannot trust that if given the choice she would choose him, and he will not lose her. He cannot lose her.

. . . . . .

His anger is something to be feared. Bella senses it–a dangerous presence inside the room, wrapped in attractive skin. She doesn't know how far she can push. She struggles to give a shit one way or the other. She knows he won't physically hurt her, but there's so much more he can do that could be worse.

Her resolve only gets stronger. Her whole life has been filled with choices, endlessly pushing her to follow other people's paths. Renee, Charlie, Jake. Endless dead-end circumstances led her here, facing her denials and her responsibility for always choosing others above herself. It would be so easy to bend, but she can't. Not this time. Not this way.

She watches him, and it dawns on her slowly. He isn't as sure of himself as he wants her to believe. His expression can't settle. The changes startle her, they happen so fast. The anger she gets, but there's more. Uncertainty, fear maybe, and something deeper she recognizes before he can hide it. Regret. But for what?

And then she knows. Before he says a word, as he moves closer and puts a hand to her cheek, cupping her face gently, thumb tenderly stroking her jaw, she knows.

"You can deny me your body. Your blood, likewise, is your own. But there is no turning back. Too much has happened. So, no, Isabella, the choice of a life apart does not exist any longer. Not for you. Not for either of us."

Edward steps back. "I need to hunt." His brutal honesty causes her eyes to widen, her face to pale. "Wildlife," he snarls, unsure why he explains, why he feels the need to reassure her. "Their blood is weak, but it sustains me well enough and keeps the monster you hate sated so I can be civil."

Her shoulders sag, hands unclench, tension leaving in stuttered stages. "I never said I hate you," she whispers.

No, she hasn't. That she can't see he has two sides speaks volumes, however. And the devil is in the details.

He leaves her then. Out of necessity because the smell of her blood, running so hotly through her precious veins, has ignited his thirst beyond reason. He knows if he does not, the only place their mutual anger can take them at this point is to her bed, to sex and lust and their new mutual need for the connection taking her blood gives them. He will not risk losing control ever again, even if it means culling the forest of every animal residing within.

. . .

Bella moves to her bed and sinks to sit at the edge. The exterior door, heavy and absurd, thuds closed. The walls close in. The ache explodes. She doesn't curl around it. She doesn't lie down. She pulls her shoulders back and exhales to give it more room, letting it do its worst. She needs to know if she can stand it.

Staring at her bare feet, pale against the worn carpet, she focuses on breathing. The house feels hollow. She feels hollow.

She gets to her feet and makes her way to the living room, staring at the front door. It has no window. It's gray. Claustrophobia settles in, making her move, yanking it open, getting outside.

On her front porch, she looks around. The crickets are singing. The buzz of unknown insects and tree frogs are as familiar as the surroundings. It means Edward truly left.

She presses a hand to her chest and drags thick, warm air in. It's hot. She's outside yet still feels like she's suffocating. She makes her way to the stairs and down. Twenty feet to the sidewalk? Her yard is small. Across the road, the forest looms. She used to love that. How close it is. How fresh and green and soft it looked, and the privacy it provided. Now she searches the darkness, wondering how far he went. His expensive car is still in her driveway, looking out of place, highlighting the shabby bushes that need trimming and her dried, half-dead grass. Did he take the keys?

It's quiet. Her only neighbours' house is dark. No cars go by. She used to like how little traffic comes this way, and how secluded this little house is. She looks down at her feet, still pale, even against the stained cracked old pavement of her sad little walkway.

A mosquito buzzes by her ear, and she swats at it ineffectively.

It occurs to her she has no place to go.

She sits on the bottom step, hoping she won't get splinters.

At some point, it's clear, she stopped moving forward with life. When? Back in high school, during her senior year, she looked at colleges, applied to a few. Money was an issue. Renee and Charlie never did the whole planning for higher education thing. Charlie offered to remortgage the house, but there wasn't enough equity to justify it. Scholarships were out of her reach, thanks to mediocre grades and a lack of planning. Was that the beginning of her downfall? Or just the excuses she made?

Jake. Helping him get through school and start his business. Moving in together. Buying this house. It made sense at the time. Right? Her job at Newton Outfitters paid the bills. She used to think that made her independent. Wise. She felt more mature than her friends, most of whom took off for colleges, got degrees, only recently finding jobs in the last year or two.

She planned to do something once Jake got the garage up and running and turning some kind of profit. That was the plan, right? It all seems so vague now. She remembers tossing around several different variations of the future, the only appeal in one dull but practical dream about having her own catering business. It seemed plausible in a passionless kind of way.

And here she is, about to turn twenty-four. No job at all, never mind a catering one. No relationship. Few friends. Fewer prospects. Caught in some supernatural web she has no way to escape. She has to ask herself, what now?

So she does.

"What now?" She says it out loud. Full volume.

The crickets sing, and the tree frogs hum. The mosquito lands on her foot.

There's no answer. Of course.

She tips her head back and stares at the sky full of stars, a rare sight in Forks. It doesn't hold her attention the way it once would have.

Her gaze turns back to the border of trees, thick and impenetrable now that it's fully dark.

You're waiting for him, she thinks. You're waiting for him to come back to you.

And he will. She knows it. What she doesn't know is, where do they go from here?

. . . . .

. . . . .