soif de sang - chapter 2
Fandom: Twilight
Characters: Edward/Bella
Rating: M, for blood, violence, etc.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything.
Author's Notes: This fic is AU with vamps and werewolves.
It's set over the time period that Edward left Carlisle and Esme to hunt people. It's dark, it's angsty, it's ~Edward Cullen~. ;) Some other things are different, and they'll become clearer with time.
Thank you for the reviews!! All the story alert notices kinda put a skip in my step. XD
He was beautiful.
Just like she knew vampires were: cold, hard and beautiful, like marble statues, crafted and smoothed, not a blemish or imperfection marring their visage.
He nearly killed her.
Bella swallowed down, past the dryness of her throat, the constant ache in her torso proof of her memories.
She watched, hypnotized, as he stared blankly at the book in his hands. He hadn't moved in hours, not even to turn the page, his ruby-red pupils glaring into the darkness.
Frighteningly beautiful.
Bella looked away, shaking her head of those thoughts, reminding herself why they were so beautiful. To lure, to trap. To devour with little fight.
She felt a sting of tears filling her eyes, fear bursting forth. He wanted to kill her, and she didn't see what was stopping him now, what had stopped him then. Jacob had told her stories – stories of vampires who were smart and not rabid, vampires who delighted in torture and mind-games.
Was Edward playing with her mind? Making her believe she was safe, albeit imprisoned, only to rip her throat out later?
He'd seemed rabid – crazy with bloodlust, his eyes hungry, and the smell of his last meal still reeking on his sweet breath.
But now he was calm, the sharp turns of his limbs and chest immobile, and only his strong jaw tense, cast in the shadow of a yellow lamp. She wanted to know; she needed to know what he was thinking, if he was going to hurt her, kill her.
Her chances were slim. So slim, nearly non-existent that she'd leave this room alive.
But he'd have to leave. He'd have to feed, if he wasn't going to gorge himself on her, like he promised. Could she escape then?
She turned back to him helplessly, as if by seeing him her questions would be answered, but instead she felt her heart jump into her throat at the sight of his piercing eyes staring straight at her.
Her breath caught; her heart sped. How long would he wait before going in for the kill?
"Bella," he said in a whisper, and she shivered at the melody of his voice, his fooling seductive tones. "Are you comfortable? Tell me if you are hungry."
Her brow creased, lips parting to twist up in incredulity. He had to be kidding, and he answered her disbelieving thought with a small crooked smirk.
"I told you I wasn't going to hurt you," he reminded her. "I think that would imply I wouldn't starve you, either."
"Why are you keeping me here?" she asked, unable to hold the questions back now that the silence had broken, even if his answer was a lie.
His expression didn't changed save a hardening around his eyes, and Bella was pinned by his frozen chilling smile. "You know too much, Bella. You have friends that would be all too interested in revenge for what I've done to you."
For a moment, she thought she was going to be sick. There was no way he could know – was there?
"What you're going to do to me?" Her voice wavered; her fingers clasped the bed sheets tighter.
"I'm not going to hurt you, you silly girl," he repeated, but there was an inflection of impatience in his voice this time, and his lips had fallen into a frown. "I don't know what I'm going to do with you."
"I have no idea what you mean by 'friends'," she added.
Edward simply smiled, stretching his lips and closing the book he hadn't read a word of, so far as she could tell. "Yes, Bella, you do." With that, he stood, making his way to her side.
Adrenaline rushed through her veins and she pushed herself up, letting out a small cry at the ache of pain turning sharp, like knives. Suddenly he was by her side, his cool honeyed breath against her cheek and strong, lean fingers pulling her gently and easily into a sitting position.
"Will you stop trying to hurt yourself," he growled, gripping her shoulder and keeping her still. He became very quiet, too quiet. She felt rather then heard his mouth open, and the hungry inhale he took.
She shuddered, hearing her own heart thud in her ears, gaze stricken on the nape of his neck, how his dark reddish-brown locks met his collar.
"Do you know how good you smell to me?" he murmured, so low she wasn't sure she heard it.
She gasped in fright and anticipation, shivered and choked on her exhales. Don't don't don't don't, her mind screamed, pleaded. She blinked and tears wet her cheeks.
"You're like a fountain in the desert." His voice rumbled on a soft snarl. Her chest heaved, her vision blurring; she felt the soft brush of cold lips on her pulse and tensed, hands shooting up to push him away on instinct. But there they were already, long fingers wrapping around her wrists, squeezing hard enough to elicit a whimper.
She recoiled, shoulders rolling in as his nose nudged the column of her neck with his mouth.
"I'll stop trying to hurt myself," she promised, desperate to distract him, straining and breaking just above a whisper.
"Good," he agreed through clenched teeth, hovering with indecision before pulling back, his eyes half-lidded and black—pitch-black, so deep and dark they were endless abysses—eyes that were trained on her. "I don't want to hurt you." The words were slow and careful, and she almost believed them—almost—and nodded anyway, hypnotized and deathly afraid.
He straightened, his grip loosening enough for blood to rush to her fingertips, but not enough to let her go.
I won't die here, she thought with finality, with a grim determination as she gazed up into his hungry troubled expression, the air charged and ripping through her mercilessly. I won't die.
Leaving that small stifling room, thick with her scent and her fragile little body did nothing to rid the sweet aroma of her blood from his tongue, did nothing to take away the feel of her thin breakable skin from his lips.
He was torturing himself.
He knew it as he stalked the night in gluttonous hunger, keeping that last inhale of her maddening perfume deep in his lungs.
Helpless. She was helpless and injured and trapped and so easy to take, to rip open and taste. Devour. She only had a small idea of what kind of danger she was in, how close he had been, sitting so still and so tempted in that room.
He was testing himself. Was there a difference?
He followed the thoughts of a rapist, a killer, a low-life nothing, a piece of scum that was thinking dirty vile thoughts of his most recent victim. Edward bared his teeth, unable to suppress the low growl that accompanied the man's raucous laughter; he turned off from his friends to stumble blindly home, sated and pleased with himself.
Every night he dealt justice like some fallen angel, some god-like creature when he was anything but. As he reached for the man, tearing his scalp back by the hair, silencing his shout by sinking his teeth into a bare jugular, crushing a flimsy windpipe into nothing but tangled tissue, Edward couldn't have felt more monstrous.
There was no difference between him and this filth.
Blood, hot and heavy, poured into his mouth, feeding his hunger but not sating his thirst. He drank in long draws, letting the spray of the man's dying blood fill his eyes with red. He drank until the body was drained, empty, and his grip crushed the bones beneath his hands into powder.
The corpse fell to the ground with a thud.
He felt sick, crippled inside.
In all his years, he'd never seen a reflection of himself in the trash he killed. He didn't know why not, he thought now, bitterly, staring down in repugnance, in self-horror at the monster at his feet.
Edward licked his lips, brought his hand up to wipe the remains of his meal from his stained chin.
He'd take her. He nearly did, pushing her against that wall, crazy with bloodlust and desire. It was no different than this dead vile creature, already decaying at his toes.
It hurt this time, crushing down on him like pain mixed with guilt and remorse and nausea.
Bella, his mind whispered to him, the remembrance of her scared brown eyes and soft skin enough to flood his mouth with venom.
He needed to feed again. Again and again, until he was sure.
Until he could handle her presence, until he could figure out what to do—so close to Carlisle, so close to his old family's new life, so close to those dogs Bella knew.
And he knew Carlisle was close—of course he did. Knowing that wretched heavenly scent, nearly tasting that elixir of innocent blood was slowly and carefully uncovering each thin transparent veil from his eyes.
He closed them and leaned against the alley wall, sucking in a breath of death and flesh and human stink, all mixed with the cold knives of winter air.
He knew when he came to Seattle, unquestionably veering closer to his surrogate father in hopes of what? Of returning—flirting with the idea, even though the only fate Edward deserved was one of loneliness and suffering—hell. Not the acceptance and love and patience that Carlisle would offer.
Not the salvation, however small.
Carlisle didn't deserve a monster for a son. He didn't deserve Edward to return with blood on his hands, to put him in a position that would surely get him killed.
His fists closed and he exhaled.
He needed to feed.
There was no way out.
Bella sunk to the floor, one hand gripping the iron bars of the window, nails scratching helplessly at thick glass. The cold of winter seeped into her fingertips.
She gasped on a sob, knees colliding with the floor. She was surrounded by forest, away from the city—she could see the lights of Seattle in the distance, and she was trapped inside.
Maniacally she began to laugh, the heaving pushing her ribs out painfully.
The door was bolted. The windows were barred. She was on the third floor and away from civilization, from any savior or saving grace.
Hot salty tears fell into the groves of her lips and she cried harder, wheezing as she clutched at her chest, folding in on herself. That flare of determination she felt earlier, that piece of hope, died.
Her soft cries burned her throat, stabbed at her eyes, panic setting in. She wanted to be home. She needed to be home, with her mother, with her dad, safe in her bed and unharmed, untouched. She wanted to be with Jacob.
She was stupid, so stupid. For going out to prove a point, for disobeying a rule to live some life she should have shied away from, trouble she should have avoided.
Weary, scared, broken, she fell forward, resting her head on the windowsill, gripping harder at her sides as if her embrace could ward off the stabbing pain.
She didn't know how long she lied there after sinking down onto the floor, or how long she cried, cheek pressed against the cool floor. She didn't know, only let the tide of her tears wan, exhaustion pulling her under. She let dreams take her away.
Her hair was soft beneath his fingertips. The apple of her cheek was smooth, a warm cushion against his cool hard fingers.
Her breath came in little painful gasps, every thread of her eyelashes fluttering with dreams, crisscrossing and kissing her cheeks. Carefully, he moved closer, moving her chestnut hair from her small face, her bangs rebelliously falling back to her forehead.
The violence he had wrought, the mangled bodies he had left behind paled in comparison to the quiet desperation he had come home to. The quiet desperation of her struggling breaths, her ribs pressed against the floor, the scent of salty tears dried on her cheeks.
He wasn't a monster for only killing, for wanting to kill—he was a monster for this.
The corner of his lips turned up sadly and he bent ever closer, carefully sliding his arm beneath her resting body. Strands of her brown tickled his nose as he shifting her up into his arms, her precious blood beckoning his attention beneath the curtain of her hair. The smell of it itched the back of his throat, awakened the rabid monster inside of him, and he swallowed back a mouthful of venom.
She made a sound, a sleepy whimper, forehead lolling onto his shoulder, heavy arms moving to clutch at his shoulders.
He froze; something lodged in his throat, a new emotion choking him, a new emotion that tamed his thirst like a loving touch could sooth a wild animal.
She murmured something, breathing against his collarbone, the warmth enough to close his eyes in appreciation. "Silly girl." His voice wavered at her unknown, unintended affection, yet he didn't want her to wake up.
He cursed himself for prolonging the moment, reaching to scoop up her legs. He felt her eyes open against his skin, her hoarse low voice asking, "Jacob?"
He gritted his teeth as the image of the dog touched his mind through hers. "Shh, Bella," he whispered, and she tensed, her quiet thoughts jolting to a pitching scream.
She wretched away from him, head colliding hard with the window. He let her go, afraid of his strength if he were to keep her. Her eyes, frantic and wide, searched his face, the room, unmindful of the unexplainable agony that was ripping through him.
"Stay away from me!" she shouted, eyes flicking once again over his shoulder.
The door, was all she thought, but it was enough for Edward to know what she was about to do.
She scrambled up and he hissed, arm already wrapping around her waist as he stood with her.
She folded against his embrace, a loud whoosh of air escaping her as his arm knocked the wind out of her. Yet that did not stop her—she merely choked and fought, nails scratching futilely at his arms, tears falling, limbs flailing.
"No!" she screeched finally, when she could breathe. "No! No! Let me go!"
"Be still, Bella," he ordered. Her ineffectual attempts to escape him did not hurt him, but he could feel each struggle right down to his core, as if they were each squeezing his dead heart.
"No, please!" she reached for the ajar door helplessly, hopelessly, eyes straining to see the staircase beyond it. "I won't tell anyone, please. I won't say anything, please. God, please don't…" She let out a sound that dug shards into that black organ in his chest; she fell forward as the sobs took her over. "Don't keep me here," she cried out, defeat pouring into her voice before she succumbed.
"Shh," he soothed her, taking her shoulder and lifting her upright against him. Life entered her again and she tried to jerk away to no avail. "Bella," he said her name, over and over and over again until she quieted, until her tears dried and she was limp, leaning away from him.
"Why are you doing this to me?" she asked in a whisper, eyes unseeingly on the ground.
Edward couldn't speak. He couldn't breathe. Carefully, one arm securely around her, he shut the door and locked it, pocketing the key with inhuman speed.
"Bella," he repeated breathlessly, as if it was the only word he could remember. For the moment, it was—those easy syllables rolling off his tongue, sweet and simple.
Gently, he turned her around in his arms and she let him, little hands pushing him halfheartedly away, and her lifeless eyes glassy and stricken to his neck. The only thing she was thinking over and over was, I'm never going to get out.
"Bella…" He could hear the fright in her name, the confusion, and the desire for the life pumping through her veins.
Her pupils dilated, her chin rose. She met his ruby eyes and did not flinch.
Her lips were dry and she was swooning, her warm body swaying in his arms. That same emotion filled him, softened the jagged contours of his face.
He looks so sad, she thought serenely.
It made him feel sadder.
"Bella," he choked out. "I'm going to leave now. I'm going to get you food and water," he promised. "Please, stay here." It was ludicrous, the request. It was insulting.
She laughed, a humorless sardonic chuckle that turned into a cough, her fingers curling into his shirt.
"Yes," she agreed after it had passed, more tears leaking from her eyes, eyes that were looking over his shoulder. "I'll stay."
I'll give in.