I just want to thank all of you for the many follows and favorites and reviews. This whole experience has been so encouraging. I'm humbled by it all. Thank you so much.
This chapter was edited by Frannie Walsh and BeLynda Smith. Thank you, ladies.
I'm kind of in love with these characters, but they're not mine. Thank you to Stephanie Meyer who allows us all to play pretend with her beautiful creation.
James Torrin's body was not yet cold, his lifeless form was still lying in a puddle of blood that was slowly leaking into the floorboards when Mr. Cullen clasped the pendant around my neck. The feel of his warm gentle fingers ghosting against my skin sent a shiver down my spine. His face was far too close, as were his arms as he reached around me.
And I was afraid to move.
I was afraid to breathe.
I was afraid to live.
I was afraid to die.
An eerie quiet surrounded us as he let go of the chain and the pendant fell heavily against my chest, over my heart, hanging like a shackle. I was bound to them now, no longer my own person.
He gave me no new instructions or direction, simply staring up at me with a look of sadness that I didn't understand. I was the one who was being forced into a life I didn't want. For the first time since I'd met him, I regretted the day that he'd found me in the street.
"Please, call me Edward."
He quietly stood, helping me walk around the body. The smell of blood hung heavily in the air, and I held my breath and clenched my teeth, trying not to vomit. As soon as he removed his hands from my shoulders, I moved to the far end of the room, as far away from all of them as possible, and watched like a frightened caged animal while they talked in hushed whispers.
The scales had tipped, and I was more fearful of the man than I had ever been before.
Jasper was instructed to take me home. He followed me to my apartment building, then up to the fourth-floor walk up, and I barely heard his softly spoken words as I numbly whispered half-hearted thanks and closed the door. As soon as the deadbolt clicked into place, it all hit me like a ton of bricks. I fell into a heap on the floor, where I mourned for my life, for my father, for the family of the dead man (lowlife that he was), for my future. I cried until I had no tears left.
Until I felt empty.
Dead.
Dead as James Torrin.
That night, once I'd finally fallen to sleep with every light blazing, my usual nightmares were riddled with images of blue-eyed men with bloody chests.
"Bella, would you come in with Mr. McCarthy, please?"
I waited longer than was necessary to answer the page, taking a moment to first calm the quaking in my knees.
I had gotten good at pretending that everything was normal. My hands only shook slightly when I walked into his office to take notes, and I was able to walk over the hardwood floor without a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I was slowly becoming acclimated to the idea that I worked in an office building where someone had been shot to death.
God help my soul.
"Right away, Mr. Cullen."
Taking a deep breath, I gathered my courage and my pen and walked into his office.
"Call me Edward," he'd said. It was a request that I had a very difficult time obeying. The thought of being in any way familiar with the man made my face flame red and my heart race.
I walked meekly into his office and crossed my legs over my seat as I usually did. Mr. McCarthy followed me in, his countenance just as agitated as James Torrin's, though he did a better job of hiding it.
My knowledge of what they were all capable of was the only thing that seemed to have changed in my job description, which made me wonder why they had given me the information to begin with. Each new client that walked through the door sent a fresh wave of panic over me, and I wondered, as I wrote down meticulous notes of the meeting, how many men I would have to watch die.
I breathed a sigh of relief as the two men settled their differences amicably and Emmett escorted Mr. McCarthy to the door. No deaths today. Thank the good Lord. I envied Mr. McCarthy his escape.
"Bella, are you free this evening?"
"I'm sorry?" My pen fumbled and fell to the floor. I tried not to notice the one small, dark stain still visible if you knew where to look.
Mr. Cullen glanced down at his ledger, his deep green eyes hooded by thick lashes. I tried not to notice them.
"I was wondering if you would have dinner with me this evening," he said, his eyebrows furrowed and fingers clasped. His eyes met mine, and I looked away. "It's purely professional, I promise."
"Why me?"
"I need a companion for the evening."
It took me far too long to answer him as a thousand questions raced through my mind. But one that was most important: What would happen to me if I ever said no?
"Yes?" I said, my voice sounded small.
He moved his hands in front of his mouth, attempting to cover his slight smirk. "Are you sure?"
I'd never meant to say the words out loud, but my mouth betrayed my brain: "Do I have a choice?"
He watched me for a long moment and said, "Bella, you always have a choice."
I thought to say 'no' right then and there, but something in his sad green eyes changed my mind. Probably some sort of sick curiosity that wondered why a man like him would want to spend any sort of time with me, even on a professional level, coupled with the loneliness I'd felt for far too long. I imagined that I saw the same unhappiness in his face. Surely, he wouldn't kill me at dinner, with so many witnesses around to watch?
So I said, "Yes."
Out of the frying pan and into the fire.
That evening, after work, I changed my mind fifty some odd times.
He was dangerous.
He was my boss.
He was the Devil.
He was everything my father had always warned me about.
Yet, he'd never been anything to me but professional. He'd never shown me anything but kindness. He'd never so much as touched me before the day he put the necklace around my neck, and even then, he'd moved away from me quickly.
He'd told me I had a choice.
Maybe one day I could escape this life, be free. Damn him, but he'd given me a glimmer of something that had been missing for so long.
Hope.
If I were able to leave, though, what would I do? Was not starving to death worth the price of being fettered to this family?
I stepped into the company car exactly at 8 pm, surprised to see Mr. Cullen in the backseat waiting for me. I got in, and the car began to speed away before I had even closed my door.
"You're wearing the same dress you wore to the office, "he said in greeting.
"Yes," My face was warm. I had considered changing, but there was no point: every one of my dresses, skirts, and button-up shirts were the same ones that I wore to the office on a daily basis. They were the nicest - and the only - clothes that I owned.
"Can you take the next right instead, please?" he said to the driver, whose blond locks were recognizable, even in the dim light of passing street lamps.
The car pulled into the shopping district.
"Really, Mi...Edward. It's fine. I can just wear this."
He ignored my protests.
We pulled up in front of a boutique, and the tall, slender girl working in the shop looked me up and down before reluctantly agreeing to assist me. She rushed me down the aisles, throwing a dress, shoes, and gloves into my arms as she pushed me through a flimsy dressing curtain to change.
She'd chosen a thin, silky gold sheath that reached to my ankles but showed every curve, dip, and imperfection. I walked from behind the dressing curtain feeling insecure and naked. I had only a brief moment to balk over my appearance before Jasper walked through the door. He looked me over twice and winked.
"We need to get going. Don't want to be late."
After I was rushed back into the car, I glanced at Mr. Cullen's watch on his wrist. The entire ordeal has taken all of twenty minutes.
He barely glanced at me.
"What are we going to be late for, are we meeting someone?" I certainly hoped not. I didn't know what kind of business he planned to conduct this evening, and though I was fairly certain he wouldn't kill me in a crowded restaurant, I couldn't speak for anyone else. Especially if that poor idiot had done something to hurt his family, as Torrin had done.
"No, we're not meeting anyone. We just need to be there before they get there."
"Who are they?" He glanced at me then, and my heart stuttered.
"Some old associates. They won't be joining us, however. Don't worry."
I fidgeted with my gloves and dress, and tried my best to not worry.
We pulled up to one of the finest Italian restaurants in Chicago, a place called 'Bella Italia,' and I realized why my plain dress would never have worked. Every person that walked through the doors was dressed to the nines in fancy suits and shiny dresses. I'd heard of the establishment in passing, but it was much different experiencing it firsthand. Golden light from backlit chandeliers touched every surface, making the space look almost magical. Velvet draperies hung from the large floor-to-ceiling windows and behind the vacant main stage in front of the room. The floor was covered in thick, plush carpeting, which was a gold color, complimenting the drapes and the bright red tablecloths. Gilded candles glistened and covered the entire place with a beautiful golden light. It was decadent and opulent, and a throwback to everything that had been considered desirable before the bottom dropped.
I clearly did not belong in such a setting.
Mr. Cullen touched my gloved elbow to show me to our table, and I sat woodenly across from him. The fabric of my dress bunched around me as I slid into my seat and I was forced to adjust it, afraid of how easily it could rip, wishing I could have my sturdy, linen, buttoned up dress instead.
Nervously, I picked up my menu and then realized that Mr. Cullen was not looking at his. His green eyes shifted across the room, noticing every face and new person who walked in the door. After a few moments, I saw them narrow and his gaze flicked over to me for a brief moment as he pushed down my menu.
"You don't want any of this. It's all just soggy pasta in sauce. No point in reading that.
"We're not eating here?"
"God, no," he said, slipping suddenly into a thick Irish brogue, which made his voice slightly deeper and his eyes twinkle, "What kind of an Irishman would I be if I allowed you to eat this sopping mess they call food?"
I blinked, and it took me a few moments to regather my thoughts.
"So, you're not Italian?"
"No," he said, smiling, in his normal voice, the one that I was used to hearing day in and day out. He folded his hands over the tablecloth. "I'm not."
Irish, then.
The Irish Mafia.
I'd heard of it, of course. Even in our remote corner of the world, Charlie had mentioned it once or twice when talking to some of his friends. But I was a child then: too young to understand the world and the dangers it held… of green-eyed men with beautiful accents who killed people.
My back stiffened.
"If we're not here to eat, why are we here then?"
"To send a message," he said, his eyes carried the weight of the same sadness the day that he'd welcomed me into his world. They drifted lower, to the necklace that lay over the ruffles of my dress.
"Have you taken it off?"
"No," I answered quickly. His eyes met mine again, and I blushed.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. Why?"
He shrugged and looked away, again scanning the room. Finally, he'd found what he was looking for. I began to turn around, but his shoe nudged mine beneath the table. "Don't turn around. Just keep looking at me."
He must have noticed my fear, because he said, "You are not in any danger, Bella. I won't let anything happen to you. Just do as I say, and everything will be fine.
I nodded.
"Besides," he said, his hand reaching over to mine, pulling the long gloves from my fingers, startling me, "No one would ever consider harming you in that dress."
I suddenly wished I could hide behind the nearest set of curtains.
"Do me a favor. Lean forward slightly and laugh as if I've just said the funniest thing you've ever heard."
I cringed and did as he asked, and terribly.
He smiled reassuringly at me, cocking his head to the side as if trying to study my face from a different angle.
"You are really a terrible actress."
"Yes," I mumbled angrily, trying to hide my flaming face. I felt exposed and uncomfortable, and I wanted to leave. I wanted to crawl under the table.
"Do you always wear your hair like that?"
My hand immediately flew to my braids that were neatly pinned and tucked against the base of my head, near my neck. It was a style I'd worn for so long that I never really thought about it. My hair was unruly and wild at times, and it had always made sense to keep it up.
"I thought about hacking it off, getting one of those short hairstyles. I just never had the courage to go through with it. I grew up with an old-fashioned great aunt who believed all girls should have long hair."
"I hope you never decide to cut it. Though…" He pursed his lips and let the sentence hang. I didn't try to pry the rest from him.
"Where is your family?" he asked, the question abrupt.
The inquiry struck me off guard, and I grimaced and paused for far too long before I answered him.
"Nowhere? I don't know where my mother is; she left me a long time ago. My father… was killed when I was young. My great aunt, who I was sent to live with here in Chicago, died about five years ago. That's it."
"Hmm…" he said, his eyes still hovering over my face. I wished he'd look away. "Your mother left you? Why would she do that?"
I shrugged, "I don't know. It was a long time ago. It used to bother me more than it does now. Leaving me was probably the best thing she ever did for me. 'Cuz then I had Charlie. My dad." Because of my nerves, I was rambling, giving away more than was necessary.
"You loved him very much, didn't you?"
I could feel tiny pinpricks behind my eyes and swallowed thickly, shoving my emotions back. This was not the time or place to rehash my past, especially not with an evil man. I wondered why he cared and why I was sharing such intimate details of my life with him. I simply nodded and closed my lips, refusing to speak further on the topic. He took my hint, but his next question shocked me.
"How many lovers have you had?"
He grinned at my sudden, wide-eyed expression.
"Come now, we're adults here. I won't judge you. Seven? Two?"
I wadded my napkin up in my lap, angry at my face that was showing everything. My cheeks felt as though they burned brighter than the candle that was lit between us on our table. I bit my lips hard. I was a terrible actress, indeed.
"So you're a good girl, then," he deduced, " How is that even possible that not one man has snagged you? You're smart and so beautiful."
"I'm really not, and I don't think that's any of your business, Mr. Cullen. Are we finished here?"
"Not quite," he said as he glanced behind me once more.
"Why am I here?"
"I told you," he said absent-mindedly, thankfully paying attention to something else. "We're sending a message. Just as Carlisle asked."
I only knew of Carlisle through brief, overheard conversations in the office. They respected him, obeyed him.
"Why on earth would Carlisle, or anyone else for that matter, care that I'm having dinner with you?"
"Dance with me," he said, as his eyes slipped back to my face and his hand covered mine. I flinched and jerked away, realizing immediately that I'd made a mistake. His expression never changed, never showed anger. If I wasn't careful, I was going to get myself killed. I didn't want to upset him, to give him reason to decide I was no longer useful, so I gathered my courage, stood and grabbed his hand instead.
He smiled at me and quickly pulled me into the middle of the room, where the dance floor was set. There was no piano, no orchestra, only the murmurs of many people in the midst of conversations, the tinkling sounds of the crystal chandeliers that swayed slightly beneath the breeze of the fans overhead, and the clink of forks and knives and glasses.
"There's no music, " I said, looking around self-consciously. He placed a hand on my face, the warmth startling and oddly calming all at once.
"There's always music." He grabbed my hand, and placed the other on my shoulder blade, his fingertips grazing the skin of my back where it wasn't covered by silk, and we began to move. Many conversations ended, and I felt my face flush, but I kept my eyes on him. I was clumsy and slow. He didn't seem to mind.
A piano began to play a waltz, and I wondered how it must feel to have so much power over everything around you. I shook my head slightly.
"What is it?"
"You get everything you want, don't you?" I regretted the words as soon as they'd left my lips.
"Not everything," he said, a smile alight on his lips that didn't reach his eyes. I had to look away. As he turned me then, I noticed them: the men he'd been seeking out. They were the type of men who demanded attention, exuded power. There were four of them, all broad-shouldered with black hair and eyes. They sat at a table very close to the far back wall, their eyes on us, on me. With black, pinstriped suits and ties, each looked exactly as I'd pictured men who were members of organized crime families. One of them, the tallest, began to fiddle with a hat that he held in his hand on top of the table. It was gray and older looking, like something that had been made in the last decade. One I felt I had seen before.
When I was much younger.
Looking through a crack in a closet door.
Watching as a man killed my father.
I gasped and gripped Edward's shoulder tightly. He moved his hands from my shoulder to the small of my back, pressing me against him, forcing me to focus on him, and I was lost in my fear and anger and emerald green.
"Breathe, Bella. You're fine. No one is going to hurt you."
I nodded, but couldn't force my panic down quickly enough. The rational part of my brain told me that it was impossible. I was never really sure what I'd seen that night, I was just a child.
I wanted to run.
I wanted to slap him for the intimate way that he was touching me, looking at me, never missing a step while all I wanted was to crumble to the floor.
"Breathe, Bella," he said, his cheek caressing mine as he leaned forward and whispered in my ear. "In just a moment, we're going to walk out as though we're in a mad hurry to be alone." His voice was oddly reassuring. The voice of a murderer. He spun me around, making a few more turns in the dance and then he stopped. His fingers on my back twitched slightly.
"Now, I'm going to kiss you, " he said, "Just go with it."
There was no time to protest before his lips were on mine. I'd seen kisses in movies: they were chaste and quick and over before they'd begun. His kiss was nothing like that. He mouth moved over mine, warm and soft, demanding; claiming. He groaned slightly against my lips in a slight exhale, his warm breath fanning my sensitive skin before claiming my mouth once again.
And I lost all control.
My fingers were buried in his hair as I pulled him closer, everything inside me wanting more. Needing more. I was completely lost, everything forgotten but his hands on my back, his lips covering mine. A new sensation that was stronger than unrest or fear was blooming inside my body, and I wanted it like I wanted air in my lungs.
And then it was over, and he was pulling me quickly through the room, out into the humid night. He pulled me with him into the waiting car and closed the door behind us as I fought to catch my breath. I was thankful for the darkness and that he couldn't see my heated face or angry tears.
I spent the entire ride to my apartment convincing myself that I hadn't seen what I thought I had in the restaurant, and hadn't felt what I thought I'd felt when his lips were on mine.
I glanced over at him in the darkness and watched him as he stared out of his window, lost in his own thoughts. He said nothing else to me, but had his driver stop at a different restaurant to pick up food. I was surprised when he opened his door and went into the establishment himself, leaving a cold void.
Stupid, stupid girl.
Feeling eyes on me once more, I looked up in the rearview mirror and met Jasper's familiar blue gaze.
"You okay?"
"Yeah," I said softly. "Thanks."
He nodded, and Mr. Cullen was back again, handing me a box. The food smelled wonderful, but I wasn't hungry. My stomach clenched painfully. My heart did the same.
When we arrived at my apartment building, Jasper began to get out, but Mr. Cullen stopped him, telling him that he'd escort me to my place. We climbed the four flights in silence, and he said nothing as I fumbled with my keys.
My door was open, but moving away seemed like an impossible task.
Doubting my own sanity, I stood there for a long, awkward moment, staring at the keys in my hand. He was dangerous and evil, and yet I wanted to be nearer. I wanted to lose my fear and doubts and heartache in the warmth of his lips, in the heat of his skin.
"You're going to be safe, Bella," he said solemnly before quickly moving even farther from me. "I'll see you tomorrow morning in the office? Business, as usual tomorrow, don't worry."
I nodded stupidly before closing and locking my door. My forehead rested against the rough wood as angry tears leaked from my eyes, and I felt very much like I'd just been ripped through a tornado, set back on my feet, and then told that nothing had happened.
Nothing had happened.
I was simply overstressed: I'd witnessed a man die. It reminded me of my father's death, which made me think I'd seen something that I hadn't. A figment of my imagination. That was all.
I was just lonely. How long had it been since I'd experienced human interaction that involved a warm embrace or a kind touch? Several months, and then only because Mrs. Worthington, who was kicking me out of her boarding house at the time, had felt slightly guilty. She'd never tried to speak to me before, much less show fondness - not that I'd expected her to. It was only natural that I'd have such an extreme reaction to his mock affection.
It was only pretend.
That was all.
I changed for bed and hung the dress carefully in the closet among my normal clothes. It looked foreign and out of place amongst the normal stiff fabrics and the simple cotton that I typically wore. It looked wrong. I turned around to the couch where I'd thrown my bag and realized that the gloves were nowhere in sight. He'd never given them back to me.
Exhausted and heart-weary, I climbed into bed in just my bra and underwear. The lights by my bed were far too bright for sleep, but as always I left them on, struggling with the pins that held my hair in place before I flopped heavily under my thick blanket.
As my eyes closed, I said a quick thank you to whomever was listening, that I at least had this; my own safe shelter.
Yes, at least I had this.
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Thank you for reading. I hope to have a new update for you soon. 3 I would love to be able to update every week, but life is chaotic and hours are far too short.