A/N for 2018-08-31: I kinda bit my nails and smiled nervously when the "oh good, Edward's here to find/rescue her!" comments rolled in.

Happy angsty reading. Don't forget to leave me your reaction at the end :-)

~ Erin

MINE

Fitting in was a chore he was well versed in. Engaging in the feigned drinking, and then the whoring some of these idiots wanted to entertain, was loathsome in principle. For men training to be doctors, it was simply disgusting.

Medical schools had never had much in the way of meritorious entrance criteria. He shouldn't be surprised, he told himself.

"Up there!" one of them pointed. "Sweet!"

Gathered like an assemblage of cattle, and just as effectively hobbled by their footwear, were a group of brightly coloured offerings, shivering against the failing, spring-like promises of an April night.

His associates were already contemplating the fulfilment of fantasies unthinkable to the women they considered friends, or girlfriends, or wives. Money could do that, he knew—loosen boundaries worth keeping. Undo things worth doing.

He swept the array of colours, gathering the spectrum of thoughts. Nothing surprising. Not that there ever was. One set was quivering particularly hard though, and he ran his mind back over the group, looking for it.

There.

Yes, she was new. Or new to this.

Or was it the other one?

She was nervous too. He focused harder, listening.

Nothing.

His eyebrows pinched together.

One of his classmates—Alex—had spotted the little brunette too, silently considering what he might do with such a specimen.

Edward's lips twisted in distaste. Why it should bother him, what Alex did with a woman who sold herself, he didn't bother exploring.

Then the wind shifted.

If he'd stood in the midst of a wildfire, it would've been nothing. Nothing. Nothing compared to the burn of her scent in his throat.

The small girl in the too tight clothes was simply a bag of blood, waiting to be pierced.

His humanity had sloughed off him, a skin worth shedding for what her scent promised.

Perfection.

He knew, without looking, the placement of every human within several hundred feet. Was calculating the probability of being spotted, snatching her in plain sight. They wouldn't see his movement, but her absence would be noticed, and then his. Too risky.

There were too many to kill quickly without her realizing, and then running. Her blood would then be tainted by the adrenaline.

He could kill her first, then the others, but the thought of her blood cooling, when it would be so sweet fresh and warm—no.

She was to be savoured.

His monstrous nature was its own voice, squalling and raging for her blood, and his conscience shivered like she did, terrified by what his other self was planning.

"Her," he heard himself say, pointing.

The others he'd come with, whose very ideas he'd openly rolled his eyes at, stared back at him, some with widened jaws, more with envious thoughts. These only increased when he produced the first round of bills. More when he flared out the second.

They would remember her taking him. He would need to be seen returning her. He would then. And then find her later. Alone.

She shivered visibly, mind still silent, as she approached. The overtones of another odour reached him, and his monster growled. She taken something. Or been given it.

His conscience soothed his thirst. Later, it said. Later. You can have her later. Just let her live for now. While I find a way to save her.

Save myself.

"What's your name?" he asked, seeing her shake.

"Birdy." It was an airy whisper, the bitter smell of the drug stronger on her breath.

Lorazepam, he thought, evaluating its subtle odour. Meant to keep her calm. Docile.

"And you?" she asked, daring to look at him as he hailed a cab.

"Edward Cullen."

She said no more, taking the seat offered, as he murmured his destination to the driver.

His pocket was buzzing. He knew who from, and he slid his hand in to silence the phone, and Alice.

As they got out of the cab, a wordless few minutes later, he looked at her clothes, murmuring "Do up your coat," before they walked into the small hotel's lobby. She blushed, and her scent warmed with the moving of the blood.

Just wait, he told his monster, just wait.

"Why don't you take a seat here?" he directed softly, motioning to one of the upholstered chairs. She did without question, sitting as if she'd been programmed to.

Her hands still trembled as he walked away.

The room arranged, he pocketed the key, and then smiled a little, walking back towards her, hearing a very human sound come from her.

"This way," he murmured, gesturing towards the main doors.

Her face almost looked quizzical, but she smoothed it over quickly, standing and following.

He didn't touch her. He was afraid he wouldn't be able to wait if he did.

"Where are we going?" she asked, voice tremulous again.

"To dinner."

"Oh." The sound coiled fear, and anxiety and apprehension all together.

He paused, "you must be hungry?"

She nodded, but tentatively, following as he began moving again.

He slowed his pace, hearing her struggle to keep up with him.

The small hotel they'd left was adjacent to several boutiques. The sort of things Alice liked to shop at.

His monster growled, at the thought of his family. No letting them interfere in this.

No.

But his better self thought of the girl, and the unconscious tug she'd given at her shirt, trying to make it stretch to cover her exposed flesh. Of what his classmates had thought of the women they'd gaped at.

If he was going to kill her, he could at least let her enjoy a meal without being openly condescended to.

"Perhaps a quick stop on the way, though," he said softly, pointing to a shop window.

She halted again, with an obedience he'd expect in a dog.

Inside, he scanned the deliberately sparse offerings, pointing to a simple black cocktail dress. "That please—size, Birdy?"

"What?" she asked.

"Your dress size."

"Um, six," she said. "I think."

"And some more...sensible shoes."

"Certainly," the woman said, wide-eyed, taking in his appearance, and then Bella's. She almost tripped, moving to the rack. "Perhaps you'd like it tried on?"

Edward nodded at Bella, and the woman waved her hand towards the back. When she emerged in the dress, her stiff arms spoke of uncertainty at showing him. She wasn't sure she was supposed to.

"Perfect. Keep it on."

The sales associate arrived with a pair of shoes, which Bella slipped on.

Edward watched her take a tentative step, clearly more comfortable in these than the others.

Her own, flimsy shirt, shoes, and skirt were clutched in her hand. Edward pointed to a spacious purse that would hold them all. "And that, please."

From the clerk's thoughts, Edward knew he'd made her commission for the month, and her excited financial plans easily eclipsed her memories of him.

Good, the monster thought. No one would think to look for a whore in couture clothing.

But they might if she was wearing a cheap coat.

So he bought a new one of those too, carrying her old one out on his arm, slipping it into the trash, she not even noticing.

"Thank you," she said, the quaver in her voice greater.

Mindful of his own diet, he wondered at hers. "Do you have any dietary requirements?"

She looked startled by the question.

"No. None."

"Good. Here looks good."

It was a small restaurant, little tables lit by little candles. There were booths in the back, and inviting corridors beyond that, suggesting even more private places.

A well placed slip of cash ensured they were seen to one of these.

When the waiter asked what they wanted to drink, Edward hid a small smirk, and waved a no for himself, gesturing that Bella should have something.

"A cola, please."

He raised an eyebrow. Not alcohol. He hadn't expected that.

"You wouldn't like a glass of wine?"

"No, thank you."

"Don't drink?" he asked, genuinely curious.

She shook her head, swallowing, heart rate still much too high.

"You're nervous," he observed, wondering if the drug was silencing her mind. Silencing her. She'd barely said more than three words to him together.

She said nothing.

Then he realized, she had no idea of what his plans were. If she was new, as the other girl she'd stood by was, she'd be expecting a particular use, and one that made his conscience wince. He had no interest in such an interaction.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly, "I had no intention tonight than sparing you the…" he searched for the right word, "attention of one of my classmates."

She watched him intently, hands still on her lap.

"He'd discussed his...preferences. You fell into that category."

Alex hadn't done anything like it, but his thoughts had been clear. It was close enough to the truth.

He kept his own motives silent, the monster salivating and waiting.

The more modest dress still exposed the length of her elegant neck. The garment's gathered silk had the enviable task of then slithering down her midsection, over her hips, and onto to the dimples just above her knees. Her fine shoulders, bonier than they should be, were revealed by delicately scalloped edging. He wondered what it would be like to touch that skin.

And if there would be more blood if she was a healthier weight.

Could he wait so long? He'd already waited. Perhaps a few more days? A few more meals?

But someone else might take her.

Not for your purposes, the monster purred.

Yet the thought of another man possessing her, even in ways she surely must have been had before, rankled.

She was still looking tense. Nervous.

"What do you want to do with me, then?"

What had people done with her?

"Spend the evening with you. Enjoy a meal." His lips curved up slightly at this, the monster fully in possession of him.

"And, what else?" she asked.

"What do you expect?" he asked.

Her hand jerked, and the fork it had been by clattered to the floor.

"Sorry," she said, her voice almost choked, reaching to get it.

His conscience reared up, slamming back his nature. How dare he toy with her! She was a person. He'd thought to buy her some small dignity, and then to dangle her over what must be terrifying possibilities—he almost mastered the beast enough to stand and leave.

Almost.

"It's alright," he said, putting his hand over hers. "You don't want to eat with something that's been on the floor."

She jerked back from the contact, breathing rapid again. Her eyes were large again too, either from the chill of his flesh, or the surprise of being touched. His bet was on the former.

"Sorry," she said, and then bit her lip, clearly flustered at having to continually apologize.

"I don't plan on doing anything you don't want to. And if you'd like to go, or do something, you simply need to say something, and you can."

He realized just how new to this she was, because she actually breathed out in visible relief.

She believed him.

She trusted him.

The monster considered how useful that might be.

After a moment, she put her hands back on her lap. They'd been balled in fists by her sides. "OK," she said.

"Perhaps you'd like to order something?" he asked, seeing that she hadn't picked up the menu.

She lifted it now, eyes scanning the items listed.

When the waitress returned, Edward indicated that she take Bella's order first.

"And for you, sir?" the waitress asked.

"Nothing," he said, watching for his companion's reaction. Predictably, her gaze met his. "Severe dietary restrictions," he shrugged, pretending to sip at the water in front of him.

"You're a student," Bella said.

"Yes."

"What're you studying?"

"Medicine. And you, are you a student?" He'd seen enough of the world to know women practised the world's oldest profession for a myriad of reasons.

"Not now, no."

"In the future?"

"I hope to."

"And what will you study?" he asked.

"Literature," she answered, without hesitation, and some spark in her eyes returned, flaring, and then faltering with remembrance.

"What do you like to read?" he asked, intrigued. He hadn't expected intelligence. His monster had obscured all that.

"Austen, the Brontë sisters, Rosetti, Frost—"

"Romantics and poets."

"Yes," she smiled, a real thing that stretched wide across her face, coloured with pert roses in her cheeks, and something like happiness in her eyes. "My mom used to say—"

Then she stopped.

"What did your mom used to say?" he asked, not accustomed to be denied the finishing of a sentence, or a thought.

She shook her head. "She died, a few months ago."

"I'm sorry. Your other family?"

Her hair was like a curtain, swinging, leaving promises of what lay beneath it, when she signalled a no.

The food arrived, presented with a flourish meant to gather his, rather than Bella's attention.

"What are you reading now?" This seemed safer to ask.

"Nothing at the moment. No books," she shrugged.

Criminal, he thought, to be deprived of such a joy. He wondered why, and where she lived, that she couldn't have such a basic thing.

Past tense, the monster hissed, where she had lived.

"Why not?" he pressed on.

"I had an...unplanned move," she mumbled, taking a bite of food, no doubt giving herself time to think of a better answer.

It was ridiculous, but he wanted her to have a book.

"What would you be reading?" he asked, "if you had your favourites around?"

"Oh," she smiled again, "Austen. Easily."

"Mm," he said appreciatively.

This slow, meandering conversation unwound her interests to him, and very few of his to her.

When Bella excused herself to use the washroom, he summoned the waitress, slipping a note, and cash into her hands. Her thoughts fluttered with admiration and then fantasy, but she complied speedily with his request.

"Oh, I don't think I have room," Bella said, when he held out the dessert menu.

"There's no rush. Perhaps in a while?"

She nodded, not quite risking a smile, unsure again.

He asked her about other authors he thought might be of interest to her, stringing out their conversation, waiting. He was rewarded for his patience, his items arriving, he could see, in the waitresses' thoughts.

When he asked her about dessert again, she still shook her head, and he considered if perhaps her minders controlled this part of her life too. Keeping her thin.

His resentment for their control of her grew, layer by layer, with his suspicious, and then possessive thoughts.

The monster hissed out a "mine!" so that when they stood, his hand went to her back, just brushing the fabric of her dress. It was a ghost of a touch that he knew she didn't feel.

He let his greediness have its way, in holding her coat, feeling her wrists brush by as they slipped through the sleeves.

Her shiver was delicious.

Just like her scent.

"Here sir," the waitress said, handing him a small, handled paper bag.

"Thank you," he said, shaking his head at the change she proffered.

She would remember him too.

He needed to be more careful next time.

His mind almost choked on those words. She could be safe, he could leave, she could be—

MINE! The monster insisted, but it wasn't as deafening as before. It was buried under something. What, he just didn't know.

When they arrived at the hotel, her nerves flared up in a fine flush of perspiration on her neck.

How best to allay her worries?

"Would you like to go home?" he asked, knowing he was offering her one fire over another. She would be offered to other men there.

She bit her lip, and shook her head.

The lobby wasn't busy, but it was busy enough, conversations bubbling in the corners, with few quiet places to sit. He took one of them, patting the spot beside him, which she accepted, again perfunctorily.

"This is for you." He placed the bag on her lap, and watching her hesitate, said, "please, open it."

Inside, wrapped in delicate waxed paper against any stray moisture of a Seattle spring, were two books, one a compendium of Jane Austen's complete works, and the other, a copy of Wuthering Heights.

"They didn't have the Bronte sisters' complete works, unfortunately."

"You bought these, for me?" she asked, looking at him, sideways.

"It seemed unthinkable, that you not have books to read."

The breath that hitched in her throat told him it meant more to her than he'd expected.

"Thank you." The words were slips of air.

"There's a nice sitting room, if you'd like to go read them somewhere quiet." He didn't mention that it was attached to the room he'd let for the night.

When they arrived though, her realization came in the sound of a dry throat, swallowing, and a deep breath trying to retreat through a constricted throat.

The penthouse was well appointed, though small for what it was. The hotel's chief advantage was its bordering on a substantial grove of trees, their bases thick with shrubbery, soil rich and thick. Easy to dig through. Or bury something in.

The smell of the drug lingered still. Just a hint of it now. In an hour it would be gone.

There were claws in his midsection, scraping at a thirst that burned in his throat. MINE!

She gasped, opening a book, sitting down on one of the couches. "I'd heard about this one, but I'd never read it!"

"Which one is that?" he made himself ask.

"Lady Susan." She was open at the page, eyes hungry for words, slipping over them. Then she looked up, realizing she was ignoring him. "Sorry—"

"No, no," he chuckled. "Far be it from me to keep a woman from a book."

That smile again, blossomed, the pinks on her face mirrored in the magnolia trees he knew were outside. His monster's voice receded, dulled by this joy he witnessed in her.

He wanted her to finish her book.

And he wanted her to not. Because he wanted to have something to wish for her, to keep his baser self at bay.

He got the better part of his wish.

Her eyes, widened with fear, exhausted by apprehension, were sliding closed, and she, wanting to absorb every word on the page, was fighting the treachery of her eyelids.

When the book slid from her fingers, he caught it, marking the page with the bookmark the store had provided.

And then, because he wanted her to read his words, too, he wrote in the front cover: I hope you enjoy these. A mind like yours deserves such richness. - Edward Cullen

It was foolish, he knew, but it linked them in a way that offered her safety. If anything happened to her, he would be suspect. It was a layer of safety against his baser self.

Now he looked at her, small form curled into the airchair, the dress having slid up her thigh. Another monster stirred, this one different from the last, and it too wanted in ways he'd never known.

He dismissed it, much more easily than the other.

She wouldn't sleep well on a chair, he told himself. She should be in bed.

But that might frighten her, or leave her thinking he'd broken his promise.

He moved her to the couch, settling a blanket over her.

By the end of her sleep, some several hours later, he'd regretted his choice. Sort of. He'd had to rescue her from falling twice, her second almost risking her life. Again.

Touching her was...indescribable. Like something electric passed through him, but in a way that made him want more of it.

It'd been that moment that had loosed his nature, stomped back again when her sleepy breath hushed out, "Edward."

If he'd been human, he would've dropped her. This shock only made him put her back on the couch, and lightly tuck the blanket down again.

Then wonder what other thoughts were threaded to his name in her dreams. Clearly, she dreamed. Of what, he wished he knew.

The drug was gone. She was simply a silent mind. A mystery he longed to unfold in her spoken words.

She didn't sleep long enough. What woman did, when so employed? She woke with a start, hands reaching for her body, ensuring herself of its presence? Its integrity, more like, he mused.

"Morning," he said, rubbing his artfully wetted hair. He'd run the shower, to make it look like he'd been busy in some human routine.

"Morning," she said, lifting the blanket a little, checking, he could tell, moving her legs. He pretended not to notice.

"Would you like some breakfast?" Before I return you to your keepers, he thought bitterly.

"Thank you, no, I should go." She looked around for a clock. Spotting one, she gasped, "I'm lat—Oh no—"

"Late for what?"

"Curfew," she swallowed, clearly distressed.

"Is there a number you can call?"

"Yes, but—"

"But what?"

"They'll want you to pay for more time." She looked ashamed by this. "It's fine, I'll just go."

"I'll see you...home. Don't worry. It's my fault for keeping you. I'll explain."

At the club, Mac, as she identified him, hustled her inside, and then asked Edward, "happy with your purchase?"

"Very," Edward replied levelly, listening to the man's the thoughts. "But I understand I've kept her late. I wouldn't want that to reflect poorly on her." He held out a set of bills.

"No problem," Mac said, wondering if he should sample what she offered, seeing the business she'd already drummed up.

"And I'd like her again tonight. In pristine condition." And then, hearing more of Mac's plans, "in what she's wearing now."

"Sure man. There's a reservation fee, though."

"Of course there is," Edward said, handing over more cash. "Untouched," he clarified, and walked away, soothing his monster with what he wanted to be empty promises.

DISCLAIMER: S. Meyer owns Twilight. No copyright infringement is intended.