Coming to consciousness was like rising in the ocean: full of things that brushed by her in the dark.
There were sounds that left their slimy tendrils sliding over her feet. Sensations that blubbered softly over her arms, and her back, and her legs.
Then a firmness beneath her. Wood, she thought. It smelled of salt and seaweed too, like the driftwood coffee table Billy had in his living room.
Finally, there was the surge of memory—of grief, hearing again the final sounds she'd known. She almost vomited with it, but silenced the volley, clamping down on her body's urges.
Be calm, she told herself. You don't know for sure. She suppressed the metallic wail echoing in her mind. It lashed at her heart. No, you can't know for sure.
The grief locked up, she turned her mind to the physical present.
She hadn't moved yet, but knew she was capable of it.
She busied herself with listening, and feeling.
There was a murmuring, and then a snap of a phone shutting. The low rumble was familiar.
Jacob.
She didn't doubt her recognition.
After that, she let herself simply breathe for a while.
When the panic had subsided again, she flexed her wrists in the tiniest movement possible, and found them constrained. Tied.
The insistent and growing panic would be very easy to succumb to.
She stopped it, mid-chest.
No, she told herself. Stay calm. Remember what Rose taught you. You can outsmart him, and give the Cullens time to get to you.
Next she tried moving her ankles a smidgen. These too were somehow bound together.
If he was going to untie her, she needed to make him trust her.
She took her time, considering the many ways she could accomplish this, before she purposefully opened her eyes.
"Hey," he said, taking in a careful breath. He was seated across from her.
She was lying on a table. Trussed like a bird.
It would have been laughable, if it wasn't so terrifying.
They were in a small cabin—rough wood walls, and a ceiling hung with well stocked rafters and hooks. A fishing cabin, she guessed. Then she caught sight of guns, these too hooked to the ceiling, and boxes of ammunition stacked nearby. No, not a fishing cabin. Just a good approximation of one.
"I'm sorry I couldn't find a nicer way to get you here." He lifted his chin to her wrists, tight together.
"That's OK," she said, closing her eyes, sighing, "thank you for coming to get me." She made her voice warble. It wasn't hard to make the tears come. "Can you take them off now?"
He looked like he wanted to, his face making a series of uncertain expressions.
She didn't try to convince him of the need for her free hands. "Can you get us away? Safe?" she asked instead.
"Yes."
"Thank God," she whispered. The tears were easier now. She had to control them. It would do no good to give way entirely.
"Hey, hey, it's OK," he said, standing, undoing the knot there, and then the one at her feet.
She made herself not flinch at his touch.
"Thank you," she said, wiping her eyes freely.
He stood only a foot from her, watching her massage her wrist and hands, and then her booted calves, legs dangling off the table.
"How'd you find me?" she asked.
Jacob swallowed, looking uneasy, and then looking around uneasily. "The people who came for you, they're not exactly above board."
Bella nodded, feeling her hands and feet smarting with pins and needles. Keep him talking, she thought.
"With enough connections, and money, you can find anyone's property, their holdings."
"What sort of connections?"
"You don't want to know," he said, shaking his head, frowning as he watched her continue to rub her hands together. "Are you hurt?"
She shook her head. "How did you figure out when we'd be there?"
"My cousin," Jacob said, "works for the company that manages that house." Still not convinced that she was OK, he asked again, more insistently. "Did he hurt you?"
It took her a moment to realize what he was asking, as she pretended to look at him, but letting her eyes rest on the large window, and the door beside it. Exits.
When she didn't answer right away, he asked again, this time, putting his hand gently on her arm. "Bella, did he?"
He thought...this too would be hideously, and darkly comic….if she hadn't recalled again what she'd heard at the house.
Oh God, Edward…
Then she burst into tears.
"He can't hurt you anymore," Jacob said, and then launched into a volley of apologies. "I'm so sorry, I had to wait until I could come—" he babbled on, arms now secure around her, squeezing in a way he thought was gentle.
He didn't realize the tears had stopped. That her face held the shape of careful concentration.
"It's OK," she finally said, pushing her hands to his cheeks. "You're here." Then she let some deliberate tears slide down her face again. "When do we need to go?"
"Soon," he said. "The boat'll be here in an hour. They'll call."
"OK," she whispered, calculating.
She had time.
Then he leaned down and kissed her, his hands curling around her skull.
It hurt.
But she was prepared.
As he let go, she put her hands on his chest, spreading her fingers outward, as if measuring the spanse there, the shake in her voice convincing, because it was real. "Take away what he did, Jacob. Make love to me."
