soif de sang - chapter 6
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.
So, this was getting long, and I'm not a fan of long chapters. It's mostly overdue relationship development. I KNOW I KNOW. I promised action, or at least I promised myself action and more plot development and reveals, but it'll just have to be in chapter seven. Sorry for dragging this out so much. To be quite honest where I was taking/the details of this fic hadn't really crystallized in my mind until uhm, last chapterish. When I realized I had actual readers I put in some more effort. All for you guys.
You see I cannot see – your lifetime –
I must guess –
How many times it ache for me – today – Confess –
How many times for my far sake
The brave eyes film –
But I guess guessing hurts –
Mine – get so dim!
Too vague – the face –
My own – so patient – covers –
Too far – the strength –
My timidness enfolds –
Haunting the Heart –
Like her translated faces –
Teasing the want –
It – only – can suffice!
Emily Dickinson
-
He listened to her dreams.
The sun was setting. The drapes were drawn apart to allow in some light, to touch the pale slopes of her face.
She was beautiful—imperfect and human, her scent sweetening his lungs. He could see the wrinkles of her lips and light freckles dotted over her nose, the beauty of life stirring her heart to beat.
He leaned against the doorframe, hovering, afraid to enter—afraid to disturb what was not his, afraid to enter a world that he didn't belong to. He stayed in the shadows, where he should be—his rightful dwelling.
Yet the darkness didn't seem so deep with her world so near—with her dreams whispering into his ear, even if they were swift and confusing, near unintelligible through the mist of her unconscious.
He sighed, resting his head to the side, taking in air on purpose, taking in her, conditioning himself further every moment.
"Edward," she breathed—her mind touched his with the same sweeping syllables—he heard them, superimposed with both senses.
The dead heart in his chest jump-started; her voice sent warmth to every inch of his body as if he was living again and she was the key. He watched as her eyes moved under the thin curtain of lids, her lashes kissing her cheeks.
His lips parted, he listened closer, intently—intently.
She turned her face towards him with a sigh; he traced the curve of her mouth with his eyes to memorize the soft lines, the hue of pink flesh. Her torso lifted slightly and fell like liquid splashing back onto the sheets.
The last rays of the sun were bathing her face, retreating slowly, and he stepped behind the line of the light, cautiously finding the shadows. Not there, he caught the strain of thought and then nothing.
She was moving again, heavy limbs restless. Her breathing had changed; she was close to waking. He tasted the air when her neck arched back, venom bursting at the sight on her pulse, but he saw the delicate slope and curved shape too, the dips and valleys beckoning his study.
You can't, she dreamt. Edward.
"Edward," she murmured.
"Bella, wake up," he whispered, and he touched the line of her jaw lightly, leaning over as her struggles calmed. She shivered when he cupped her neck, her blood rushing against his palm, warming his skin. "You're dreaming."
Her head moved back and forth, lolling, the chestnut brown of her irises uncovering, sleep still half-holding her. "I was dreaming," she croaked out through a dry raspy throat.
"You said my name," he said, in awe, in curiosity, but her thoughts were quiet.
"I don't remember," she replied, and she didn't, the soft fuzzy images of her dream floating away, but the feelings lingering—a restlessness, a confusion.
She gazed up at him between narrow lids; a hum left her mouth—he heard the calmness only sleep could bring in her mind, the looseness of her thoughts. "Your hand is cold," she muttered. It feels nice.
He smiled, an indefinable joy bursting inside of him, one he held in with a simple unsure turn of his mouth. She was awake, her thoughts were getting clearer, and there was softness in her eyes, unburdened by distrust and hatred and only tainted by uncertainty.
"Edward," she said his name like a warning, like a question, and even though her intentions were not clearly spelled out in her mind, he knew them as if they were his own.
"Yes?" He was nervous, wrecked with it as her hand lifted and his breath stopped entirely, eyes flashing towards her in fear.
She pressed those lips together and reached for him, a caution that comforted him in her eyes, a knowing of his weakness. The tips of her fingers grazed, moved the fold of his collar, and she spread her warm palm over the absent beat of his heart.
She gasped and he would have too, if he thought he could handle the rush of her scent combined with the feel of her touching him. He was on edge, two different kinds, both he was deathly afraid of falling off—both that would surely lead to the same end if she kept looking at him like that, if her thoughts kept turning to him with such curiosity and confusion.
Her shallow breath pulled him closer; his jaw tensed when he felt the wave of her exhales on his lips—hot and moist with anxiousness, with fear he tried to assuage by keeping his eyes locked with hers. They darted, paced in hers as if those wide brown orbs caged him, and he knew they did.
Fingertips feathered up, tracing the suddenly bobbing apple in his throat; her touch pulled him even closer, like a magnet. He clamped his teeth together, but moved an arm over her, clutching the sheets with a vicious telling of his slim control.
"You feel…" she muttered, like cold stone.
He wouldn't know. "No one's ever," he gasped. She flooded his lungs like salvation and he swallowed back venom, making a soft groan when her hand traveled to explore his clenching jaw, the thin blue of the veins in her wrist so delicate and close. "Ever touched me like this before."
"Like what?" she whispered, but she knew the answer, moving to feel the smoothness of his lips carefully, slowly, as if he was the one in danger, and maybe he was.
You're so… beautiful. She breathed in sharply, aware of her untamed thoughts, her wandering mind.
His knuckles whitened as her eyes slipped closed, her neck arched, tipping her parted mouth towards him, the pulsing vein in her throat.
He couldn't do anything but watch the flutter of her eyelids and inch his lips below her chin, her fingers between them. He kissed them, softly, and she inhaled, pushing up. The demon inside of him was imagining blood, thick and wet and hot running down his throat, but he could only imagine that gentle sound again and again. He saw her tongue fold against her lips and then retreat and he closed his eyes against the tempting image.
"Do you want me to?" he choked out, brushing her trembling skin. Her fingerprints pressed, marked into his lips.
He reached for her cheek and he felt his control teetering when she leaned into the brave touch, when her mind whispered, afraid but willing, I want you to.
He strained closer, watched through lidded eyes as her brows furrowed and he left her fingers to scrape and clutch at his neck, his collar. He tipped her chin down, the simple inch bringing the corner of her mouth under his. "Are you sure?" he asked, and she nodded slightly, and he eagerly stilled her, pressing his lips to hers.
Her hand shook as it wove into the hair at the nape of his neck, her ineffectual strength endeavoring to draw him closer.
This is what I dreamt about. Her mouth opened for him, her realization hit him hard, and he was gone—mind, body, soul.
She breathed into him, trapped his bottom lip between hers, struggling to sit up against his rigid body—his eyes opened; he grabbed the bedpost, cracking the wood, pushing it back against the wall.
Kiss me.
His head bowed further, his lashes brushed against her cheek, and he did, unsure, careful and shaking with thirst—once, twice, faint with her insistent retaliations. Her tongue slid along the apex of his lips daringly and he shot back with a snarl, crashing against the doorframe.
She was sitting now, eyes wide, her heavy breath filling the room.
"Too much," he ground out.
His tongue flicked out to taste her on his lips, because nothing could satiate his thirst, because he wanted to be tortured and he wanted to revel in the memory of her scorching, trying kiss.
"Was that okay?" she choked a little on the words, looking to him in fear, in worry—so innocent and confused, so ripe for his taking. Like a sacrificial lamb looking helplessly into the eyes of her predator.
Her mind was spinning; she wanted to kiss him again. She wanted to know what her heart and body were whispering to her, wanted to understand why she felt so torn and how she could want a monster when there was a man out there, somewhere, loving her and wanting to get back to her.
And she knew it wasn't okay.
He gulped in air; he gulped in her, letting his eyes fall from her pleading orbs, turning away from the thoughts and desires that plagued her. Hatred rose up in him for his selfishness, his weakness. He wanted to lie, to cross the space between them and claim her. More than anything he wanted to feel her, taste her, find some comfort in her warmth, and keep her for his own.
He was crazy with it, drowned by it.
"Edward?" She had shifted, and he watched through hazy narrowed eyes as her small feet touched the cool floor.
He wanted to reach for her, give into her silent questions. Hungry, he met her gaze, heard the gentle resolution in her mind. Her slow movements mesmerized him, each step bringing her closer.
Her hand hovered between them; his nostrils flared as her scent assaulted him and he turned away in pain, in restraint.
"It's not okay," he said, his voice shredded on a snarl.
Her arm dropped, her fingers curling into a tight fist. "Then why-?" She was angry; her jaw set. She thought maybe she was wrong, that this was all just a game to him after all, that her feelings, her past, her thoughts were only playthings to him, and nothing more.
That he was just a monster, and she was a fool for thinking otherwise—even fleetingly, even for a moment. And she was betrayed—her thin trust was torn—she was more hurt than she dared to convey.
He saw them, shining pieces of liquid glass gathering in her eyes, threatening to spill over. "I hate you," she forced out, the words both soft with loathing and jagged with fury. "I hate you so much."
He was silent; his voice was captured by the paralyzing ache that had taken up residence in the emptiness of his chest. "Bella, no…" he whispered.
"No," she snapped.
"It's not okay," he repeated, subdued by the tears that rolled down her face with each involuntarily blink, the harsh swiping of her fingers smearing the wet beads. "Because you belong to someone else." He reached for her, unable to stand stoic in her resentful, agonized stare, gripping her harder as she instantly struggled, nails clawing desperately at his face. She fell against him, shutting her eyes tight as he pressed his lips to her cheek, her fingers viciously grabbing locks of his hair.
His thirst reigned—she was sweet and warm—but his gut lurched at her pain.
"Bella," he murmured, and she calmed, attempting to jerk away from him once before leaning into his embrace.
She laid her turbulent mind upon his shoulder and he wove his fingers through her hair, arching his neck to kiss one tear-stained cheek.
"I wish I could keep you."
His lips made her shudder, lingering against her skin, and his confession warmed and terrified her. She was caged in his arms, but she felt some key twisting her heart too. An unbreakable box opening, the mechanisms unlocking with each second that passed.
She was a prisoner—no matter if the chains on her bruised wrists were real or imaginary—she was a prisoner.
From her first breath her father had limited the dwellings of her thoughts and poisoned them with religious rhetoric—had beaten her down before she could even fight. Jacob had been salvation, had been sunlight and beauty and all that mattered—he'd blinded her with love, tore her from the safe cocoon of submissive acceptance, given her a choice.
Gave her a freedom she tasted and gorged on readily, only to be rejected by his tribe, his pack—to be hunted by their enemies, and then, dust cleared and god willing, torn from her minute happiness and barred away upon discovery.
She'd been an instrument—a possession, bait—anything but a human with a will.
She felt sick and lost, out of her skin. Edward was solid against her; his arms crushing and his breath soothing, but she was somewhere else—in her memories, in Forks with Jacob, tied by his love, and with her father, stifled by his hate.
"I'm nobody's to keep," and the words summoned her back. "It's not your choice what's okay." The declarations were calm, measured, but she felt the honesty and decisiveness in them invigorating her.
He was still, quiet, and then his mouth was hovering by her ear, one hand cupping her jaw up, fingers trailing over the hollow of her throat. She gripped him harder, pulling at his scalp for leverage. Her balance teetered at his little touches and she felt him smile, heard the deep rumbling of his chuckle as he snaked an arm around her waist and tugged her flush against him.
"It's a little bit my choice, Bella."
"I think it's okay," she argued rebelliously, stubbornly, knowing it wasn't but wanting it anyway. She nestled closer, pressing her lips under his jaw, breath skipping at the way he leaned into the kiss, arresting her control. "You started it," she accused, shaking, arching deeper into him.
"I didn't start this, you silly girl," he scoffed on a choked laugh.
"You kissed me."
"You wanted me to."
"You kidnapped me."
"Now you're just being unfair," he growled, and she felt a little faint with the easy light that started to glow somewhere beneath her ribs, like a spark of comfort, a piece of contentment she hadn't felt since the heat of Jacob's kiss.
"I don't hate you," she breathed, moving her lips along his icy marble skin.
She didn't know what she expected—but it wasn't his sudden intake of air, his nose burying below her ear, his strength doubling and bruises forming over her delicate skin. She gasped and his mouth opened over her pulse, cool and damp with soft growls.
She flinched, but couldn't pull away even if she had wanted to, her hammering heart slowing when his teeth didn't even graze the line of her offered neck.
"Bella," he moaned her name.
Maybe this was a different sort of desire.
"Bella, I'm so sorry." He pulled back, cradling her head gingerly, as if she were glass.
There was something in his eyes, something more liquid than stone, something human. For the first time she allowed herself to study those red-rimmed pupils openly, to fall headfirst into their depths.
"For what?"
"For everything. For not being able to stay away from you. For ruining your life."
"My life was already ruined." She smiled ruefully, sadly.
"Then for complicating it."
That she could argue with, that she couldn't deny—yet the bitterness she had felt was dissipating slowly, replaced by something else. I'm not very sorry anymore. You're my only- She couldn't finish the thought; she didn't know what he was to her anymore.
Only what he could be, what he should never be, and she wondered how and when he'd found her heart and wrapped some small but inextricable hold on it—the organ she thought so perfectly entwined to another's.
His thumb brushed over the ridge of her cheek and his answering smile was tight and hard. His crimson eyes held a reflection of the defeat and desire she felt for him, and the helplessness of both.
"Come with me," she whispered—and his whole body went rigid; the man in his eyes battled the demon. She couldn't be afraid. She wouldn't. "Would you-?" she stammered. "Would you come with me?"
"It's suicide," he deadpanned, emotionless—and that scared her in a different way than his viciousness.
"I can't find him without—without help. If he's not in Forks-"
There was nothing between her and the door anymore; Edward was gone, his touch rescinded. Startled and bereft, she spun around.
His posture was tense; he was facing one of the long windows, clutching the frame as if the slabs of wood were his only anchors. She couldn't see his face, and she didn't need to. Her request was selfish, even cruel, and it burned her heart as she moved towards him.
"Do you think so little of me, of how I feel?" The acidic questions cut her deep; she reached for him, just touching the slope of his shoulder.
The irony was not lost on her. "You know what I think," she answered in a small voice.
"Not what you feel," he muttered under his breath.
The air was stagnant. I don't know what I feel. "I'm so sorry, Edward." She wrapped her arm around his and hugged it to her chest, stricken on his stone face, his flickering eyes. The guilt crushed her. She felt a raise of momentary panic at his silent pain and hated herself a little more each second for being so stupid and so blind.
Unseeing in her desperation.
I take it back. It was a reflexive thought, a childish reaction she only wanted to share with herself.
He cringed, his beautiful face contorting, his head bowing down to the grey twilight beyond the glass. "You want me to come with you?"
She bit her lip and held him tighter unconsciously, her thoughts of denial false, but her slips of the mind telling.
"I'll go with you, Bella."