AN: Again, thank you for all the lovely reviews. I was especially touched, considering that most people probably started reading this for the Edward/Bella storyline, and slowly, I am beginning to convert you to enjoying my subplots as much as the main characters.

This week is FicsforNashville. Please consider donating, not just to receive the outtake from this story, Transgressions of the Mother, but because it's a very worthy cause. Tomorrow there will be a teaser up on the Fictionators website, and like I mentioned last chapter, the entire outtake is about Esme and her past. There's a link on my profile to the livejournal community with instructions on how to donate.

Thank you to my amazing beta, JosieSwan, who helped me cut this chapter into two parts when it became epically long. So yes, Chapter 11 will directly continue the conversation that this chapter ends on. It's not technically a cliffhanger, but they're definitely two halves of a whole.

Bella

I wanted to believe in the best of myself.

I wanted to believe that days, weeks—even months—could pass and I wouldn't once waver in my intention to never give Edward Cullen what he wanted.

Of course, we were in the dark, kept in captivity like animals, and it was impossible follow the passage of time. Maybe, I thought despairingly, it had already been months, and thus my quickly eroding morals made sense.

But I knew better than that. I couldn't figure out how long it had really been, but I knew it had only been days. Not weeks. Not months. Certainly not long enough to justify the fact that I wanted to tell Edward that I had changed my mind.

I'd fought against the inclination. I didn't respect myself quite enough to say that I'd fought bravely, but I had tried to resist his irresistible pull.

At first, I'd tried just talking to him, hoping that even if he told me nothing, just his voice could keep the demons overwhelming me at bay.

"How long do you think it's been?" I'd asked him, my voice sounding small and uncertain and scared. I had been pretending long enough—it was impossible not to show how terrified I was. And I'd have to be a fucking moron not to be terrified of what could and probably would happen to me.

Edward said nothing. I wondered if he was even awake, but then I'd become aware—as I was undeniably aware of every single minute sound in the utter stillness—of a slight tapping noise. I strained my eyes in the black void of our jail cell, but the view of his hands were blocked by the end of the bed I sat on. I could get closer, I surmised, to see what exactly he was doing, but I shouldn't. I should be mad that he hadn't bothered to answer me.

I should be even more furious that he was even withholding simple conversation because I wouldn't give him any sexual favors. He was a pig. He was an asshole. He was the most insufferable man that I'd ever met.

Of course, I'd never been more fascinated by a human being in my entire fucking life. It wasn't even about Aiming to Misbehave any longer, or really about the music at all. With all this time spent in silent, endless contemplation, my curiosity about the man with me had only grown exponentially. Now, I just didn't want to know why he made the music he did, I wanted to know the why of him.

I wanted to know why he was mixed up with these people; why he still trusted Emmett despite all he'd done against him; why he hated British people so much; why he always seemed so god damned alone—even when he was with me.

Why, why, why, why, why . . .

The whys of Edward Cullen echoed through my head like shiny metal balls in a pinball machine.

So, despite my best intentions and the better part of myself that insisted I not do this, I moved closer. Just a bit, I told myself, just close enough that I could see what Edward did when reduced to utter boredom. This was small beans compared to all the things that I was desperate to know about Edward, but it was better than nothing—which was exactly how much I knew now.

Even after moving a good foot towards the foot of the bed, I couldn't see far enough beyond the edge of the bed. Grimacing in frustration, I scooted closer, hoping that he was so absorbed in whatever he was doing that he wouldn't notice me. He was tapping his finger against the metal frame of the bed—not in a steady rhythm either, but in a syncopated, surprisingly melodious beat. I stared at his finger, so fascinated that I didn't even notice that he was no longer unaware of my intense study.

"Bella," he said with a quiet flash of temper, "what the fuck are you doing over here?" I jumped and glanced away from his finger, to see him looking straight at me.

"I asked you a question," I retorted, "and you ignored me. I just wanted to see what you were doing that was so important you couldn't be bothered to have a conversation with me."

"Having a conversation with you requires me wanting to have a conversation with you. And I believe I've already covered what would motivate me to find that particular desire."

I moved back to my original location in a huff, not even bothering to pull my skirt down as it rode up my thighs. As articles of clothing went, this skirt was now on my top ten list of least favorite in my entire lifetime, and every hour that passed bumped it up a little farther on the list. I'd long since decided that it was unbelievably ironic that this was what I was wearing when I volunteered to be kidnapped.

"I told you no," I told Edward, and I knew he wouldn't miss that my answer was a little less vehement than it had been before.

"You sure about that still?" he asked, sounding more than a little amused.

"Yes," I spat out. "Now, tomorrow, and in ten years. I'm never going to do that with you."

Silence fell back over the room, and the tapping resumed. I listened hard, trying to decide if the rhythm was one of the songs of his I'd heard before, or if he was making up something on the spot.

I was busy narrowing down possibilities when he actually spoke first. "As far as I can tell, it's been two days. Maybe three."

Only three days, I thought with despair, and I was already thinking of throwing out my much-vaunted moral code and sleeping with the enemy.

"Only three days," I said instead, "of peanut butter and jelly, and already the thought of another sandwich makes me want to puke."

Edward chuckled. "And here I thought that the last thing you wanted to ever discuss was puking."

"Just your puking. That was the single most disgusting display I've ever witnessed. I'm surprised I could ever be hungry after being forced to see and listen to that." I shuddered, the images flashing before my eyes again, even as I tried to stop them.

"I don't have to remind you that you wouldn't have had to if you hadn't fucking blackmailed Emmett into coming along."

I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned back against the wall, wondering if we were ever going to be able to break the cycle of insults and silence. No matter how agreeable I was or how completely innocuous my comments seemed to be, we always seemed to devolve into the lowest common denominator.

"Have you slept?" I finally asked, even though I already knew the answer. I hadn't even slept, and I was on the bed, for christ's sake.

"Oh yeah. Definitely. I think this floor could double as a feather mattress," Edward responded sarcastically.

"You could have the bed for a little while, if only to get a few hours of sleep," I said graciously, hoping that maybe this gesture could be counted as three quarters of a sexual favor.

"You're ridiculously transparent, you know that right?"

Or maybe not.

"I'm serious," I insisted. "It isn't fair that I get the bed and you get the hard floor."

"You're a woman; you can't handle the floor."

"I'm tougher than I look," I argued. "I could handle it."

There was a beat of silence as he appeared to be considering my offer seriously. Maybe, I thought optimistically, I'd finally gotten through to him.

"Are you giving in here, Swan?" he finally said, and I knew that he was referring not to my offer of a comfortable—or marginally comfortable—bed but instead to his bargain.

"Absolutely not." Maybe.

"Don't sound so certain or anything," Edward said sarcastically.

"I just think you might be a tad less bitchy if you got some sleep. So really, I'm offering you the bed for purely selfish reasons."

"Men can't be bitchy—we don't have any estrogen."

"Fine," I spit out, "you're acting like your normal charming self. Now get your ass up on this bed now, before I change my mind."

"Eager, are we?" he murmured as I saw the faint outline of him stand up and walk over to where I sat at the edge of the bed. The blurry lines of his body focused as he came closer, and I swallowed hard. I'd only thought as far as making him grateful for my sweet, relatively unselfish gesture. I'd never anticipated that we'd end up in such close proximity with my Edward Cullen resistance at an all-time low.

"Speak for yourself," I retorted as gruffly as I could. I was terrified he'd find out just how close I was to relenting. He was near enough now that I could reach out and brush his arm with my fingers, and I tangled them in the cheap cotton sheet to prevent myself from giving in to the cheap, easy, way-too-accessible thrill.

He took another step closer, and I held up my hand, panic streaking through me. Only one more small movement, and he'd be nearly on top of me, which was not the point at all. "Hold up," I demanded. "I didn't mean that we'd share the bed. The floor is perfectly fine for me."

"Actually the floor is hard as hell."

"Whatever," I insisted. "I don't care." I stood up and tried moving past him to the spot he'd been occupying. He probably hadn't thought I was smart enough to realize that he'd positioned himself as far away from me as the small space permitted, but I had—and I was totally following suit. Just for completely different reasons.

But before I could totally move out of Edward's range, I felt his fingers close around my arm and jerk me back. I whirled around, annoyed and secretly thrilled that he'd dared lay a finger on me. "I said no, asshole. Just get some sleep and leave me the fuck alone."

"I'm afraid," Edward said, refusing to let my arm free, "that it's not going to work that way. I'm pretty familiar with the breed of female that says no when they really mean yes. And you've got all the behavioral characteristics, sweetheart. So just give it up. You know you want to." I was close enough to see the cocky grin, and I wanted to smack it off his way too pretty face.

"That desperate for some PG cuddling? I thought I was the only one with estrogen in the room."

His grin spread, and I figured it was just my luck that Edward apparently considered this higher form of insults and sarcastic volleys a turn on, but I hated how he always forced me down to his level. No matter how much I cautioned myself to not lower myself into trading abusive quips, he always managed to bait me into joining him.

"I think you're just too fucking scared that you won't be able to resist me," he murmured sweetly, pulling me an inch closer to him. I swallowed hard as his hand loosened its grip and skimmed the surface of my skin, leaving a trail of goose bumps in its wake.

Logically, with the part of my brain that was still functioning, I knew that he was playing me right now. The taunt was a perfectly executed dare to get me to throw caution to the wind and jump into bed with him.

He knew I'd never be able to resist the affront to my self-control and pride, and damn him to hell, he was way too fucking right.

However, that didn't mean I had to give in without one last fireball to his defenses. "And you're just a little too desperate to get me into that bed." I shot him my own cocky glare, and wrenched my arm from his fingers, before returning to the bed and beckoning invitingly. "Joining me?" I asked. "Or are you a little too nervous that you won't be sleeping?"

Edward laughed then, and not just one of those bitter, sarcastic chuckles that I'd thought were all he was capable of. Instead, this was a full blown, real laugh. Even he looked vaguely surprised as the joyful sound echoed in the tiny room.

"Just come to bed," I told him softly. "We're both tired. We can. . .share."

"You're sure?"

"If you're wondering if I can handle some raunchy PG cuddling? You'd be surprised how hardcore I can be," I joked self-consciously. While I didn't consider myself exactly prudish, I also wasn't nearly as accomplished or experienced sexually as Edward was. But then, who was?

Edward chuckled again, the sound slipping out almost as if he didn't want it to. I wondered, not for the first time in the last few days, if he was softening up, just the tiniest bit. Yes, he was still his insulting, asshat self almost all the time, but once in a while, I could see his guard slip a little. His defenses were definitely impressive, but I knew that a situation like this could demolish even the toughest personalities.

Suddenly, I was unsure if I wanted those high, impenetrable walls tumbling down around his feet. Because if they did, and I could see the man behind all the sex appeal, the sarcastic anger and the booze, I was sure that I would melt like a popsicle in the dog days of summer. In the end, I'd never stand a chance against him—and that would never do.

Better mean quips and sarcastic volleys than heartfelt confessions, I decided.

"I don't like you, Swan, but I could approve of a little hardcore action," he smirked, and the thin mattress sank under his weight as he sat on the edge.

"The bed's kind of small," I said unnecessarily, my stomach suddenly fluttering with nerves.

"If you're worried I'll be so disgusted by your proximity that I'll re-enact the scene from the van, you're wrong. I think I can keep my peanut butter and jelly down."

"Thank god," I said sarcastically, as I slid lengthwise against the wall, pulling my skirt with me. "I was really concerned about your gag reflex." My head dropped onto the mattress and I stretched my legs out, feeling the unused muscles go rigid, then slack.

"It's not my gag reflex you should be worried about," he retorted cheekily, and I couldn't help but roll my eyes and yes, despite my best intentions, smile a little bit. There was something kind of freeing in the way that we could insult the crap out of each other. I'd never felt quite so liberated to say exactly what was on my mind—and now not only was I 100% permitted to do so, I was literally reaching for the worst thing I could think of to say.

Edward lay down next to me, and I was mildly comforted to see that though the bed was indeed very tiny, there was enough room for at least a small Demilitarized Zone between us.

With my head on the mattress, and my eyes drifting shut, I realized I was exhausted. Adrenaline and fear had been coursing through my veins for so long that I'd felt jittery and too awake to do anything but doze off intermittently. But now I was really, seriously tired, my body worn out from its ordeal. So I could only mumble into the cotton sheet, "North Korea. South Korea. We've got the zone covered."

"The zone?" he asked, his voice as sleepy as mine sounded. I couldn't imagine how unpleasant it had been on the floor. I should have offered the bed much sooner than I had, but I'd been so angry at him that I hadn't even thought of it. And I'd been too scared that he'd see my suggestion as more than the simple peace offering it was.

"I'm South Korea; you're North Korea. And this," I murmured slowly, gesturing to the strip of unoccupied mattress between us, "is the Demilitarized Zone."

"Only you, Swan, would decide I'm North Korea."

I couldn't help but smile as I fell asleep to the vibration of his voice against the cotton sheet.

I woke up gradually. At first, I was only vaguely aware of where I wasn't—not where I was. I knew this couldn't be my bed, or the bed in my old room at Renee and Dr. Phil's house in Beverly Hills. I definitely wasn't at my ex-boyfriend's house (not that I'd been to Mike's for almost a year). Wherever the hell I was, I did know, however, that there was definitely someone with me because I could feel their warm, cozy bulk next to me. My only theories were either Alice had gained a few pounds or my cat had quadrupled in size.

And then it hit me. Like a sledgehammer to the head and to the heart. Or a freight train. I wasn't in Boston anymore, or in California, or even in Manchester. I was in the middle of fucking nowhere, locked up in a room that doubled as a jail cell, with Edward Cullen.

Suddenly, I didn't really want to open my eyes anymore, and see him sleeping way too close to me. I just wanted to pretend that I was somewhere else, with someone else—someone safer—but now that I'd remembered it was Edward next to me and not Alice or the cat or god forbid, Mike, I couldn't block out the thought that it was him lying so near.

His arm was outstretched, casually slung around my waist, the weight on my middle solid and reassuring, and his breathing was steady and calm. We were so close, I felt rather than heard the rhythm, and I was almost appalled to realize that my heart was beating in perfect tandem.

Almost.

It was only six letters, two syllables—one single word. And it was nearly enough to convince me that separating our bodies wasn't just a good idea; it was fucking imperative that I do so immediately, before my weak body decided to become any more attuned to Edward Cullen.

But first, before I untangled my limbs from his, I had to look at him and see just how he looked as he slept. Holding my own breath, I slowly opened my eyes, and a sigh escaped from between my lips and gently stirred the locks of messy copper hair falling over his forehead. He had to be that close, I thought, knowing it would be better to roll over and pretend we'd never woke up intertwined this way—or at least, if I hadn't woken up and seen it and felt it and wanted it.

My body was more traitorous than Benedict Arnold.

I watched in awe as he stirred a little in his sleep, twitching as if he was deep in the REM cycle. He looked so peaceful and boyish like this. So un-Edward Cullen like. Almost. . .likeable. . .I decided before I could change my mind and conclude something safer to my peace of mind.

"You're watching me sleep," Edward said groggily, and I nearly jumped out of my skin in surprise. How had I not noticed that his breathing had changed and he'd woken up? I was clearly deranged—or distracted. Either way, I flushed bright red and rolled over, dislodging his grip on my waist, which was something I should have done ten minutes ago.

"A momentary lapse of judgment," I mumbled into the cotton sheet. "You looked so nice when you slept, I forgot what a total asshole you are."

I felt him stretching behind me, his legs brushing against mine briefly, but long enough to make me wish that we were in a California king instead of a glorified cot. "It's too early for that shit," he said.

"You don't know it's early," I retorted. "It could be night, for all we know."

"I think we slept a good few hours, though," he continued, as if I hadn't just corrected him. So much for him being more likeable after getting some much-needed rest. He was as insufferable as ever, which was good, I told myself. Even more than good, it was safe. Like a protective barrier.

"We did." I could feel the awkwardness growing between us—that same awkwardness that you sometimes felt when you woke up in bed with a stranger after a one night stand. The Demilitarized Zone of the night before felt as if it had morphed, rather suddenly and inexplicably, into a gulf filled with secrets and lies and closely-guarded information that he would never share. When we decided to share the bed, I had wondered if maybe we were finally beginning to lean on each other a little, and I could stop having to hold myself quite so upright.

I pretended for my sanity and for the sake of my pride that I wasn't scared out of my fucking mind, but surely he knew it was an act. The truth was, I was terrified and sure that whatever the future held for me, it wasn't going to be good, and for just a moment before we'd fallen asleep, I'd thought for sure that he felt the same. As much as he tried to hide it, the darkness and the tedium and the feeling that you were utterly alone even though you weren't began to tear you down. I knew because I was feeling particularly ragged at this moment.

"You're quiet today," he said, the typical derision dripping from his voice. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to imagine I was anywhere else; tried to imagine that I didn't want to beg him to open up to me so that I didn't feel so hopelessly, wretchedly alone.

"I thought you wanted them silent, Cullen," I said, hiding the fear behind yet another witty retort. I knew there wasn't much ammunition left in me, but I was willing to dish it out while I still could.

"I said I didn't want them talking—I never said anything about wanting them silent," he corrected, his words shoving another couple of million miles between his vastly experienced, jaded player persona and my frightened desperation.

I told myself that it was just because he was afraid too; afraid and desperately trying not to show any weakness before me, but the Psych 101 analysis, while so effective in the classroom, felt flimsy and fleeting now. "You're vile," I said, and again, felt the heat leaking out of the words. I didn't mean them the same way I'd meant them yesterday, or the day before, or the day before that. Of course he could slip back into his role effortlessly, whereas I was finding mine increasingly misshapen and ill-fitting. And that I could hate him for.

"Turn around. I want to see your face, your eyes, when you say you hate me."

I couldn't do what he wanted, because I knew that if he saw, he'd see right through me. I didn't hate him; I only wanted to.

He sighed, clearly annoyed, but just as my words lacked the killer edge, his annoyance wasn't quite as razor sharp as it typically was. "Just turn over, Swan. You're not half bad to look at, even in the those clothes."

When I still didn't do as he wanted, I felt his hands reach over and tug on my torso, pulling me inexorably over to face him. I could resist, I thought, but it would ultimately be futile. Might as well let him see the truth of me now, because he'd see it eventually.

"There, that's better," Edward said, and if not for the knowing smirk on his stupid pretty face, he might actually have sounded nice for the briefest of moments. No doubt hell was about to freeze over.

"For you maybe."

"I'm wounded," Edward said in a pseudo-hurt tone. "That wasn't very nice, Brit Bitch. I would ask you to apologize, but we both know you didn't mean it."

I could argue, but what would be the point? The truth was staring at him through my fucking transparent eyes. "And?"

"I've said it before. And I'll say it again. You want something—well, two somethings if I'm going to be fucking honest—and I want it too. Let's just cut the petty bullshit and do something to kill this fucking boredom."

I was on the edge of the cliff, staring down into the white-tipped swells that crashed against the hard body lying next to me. It would be so easy to give in, to just lean forward a little, give Edward the sign that I had officially given in. I wouldn't even have to say the words; I was sure he could read female body language better than just about anyone else.

I let my eyes drift partially closed, and my heart thumped as his flickered to my lips. He wanted to kiss me again, I realized, and I wanted him too.

But before he could, the word vomit I'd tried my entire life to force down erupted. "Tell me something real, first," I murmured. "Tell me something that you don't want to tell me."

The kiss, which I'd been sure only five seconds before was inexorable and inevitable, halted before it could ever begin. Edward paused, so close to me I could pick out the flecks of gold in his green eyes. I tensed, afraid that he'd be angry—or even worse, that he'd refuse my request. But he didn't do anything that I'd expected. I should know better by now, I realized, than to expect the expected from Edward Cullen.

He fucking smiled. "You're devious, Brit Bitch. I think I like it."

"I'm not devious," I spluttered, both a little offended and a little complimented. "There was a bargain."

"Which I was about to make you forget," Edward said cockily, and I wasn't sure I disagreed.

"You forget who you're talking to."

"True. Every time I underestimate you, Swan," he said, tightening his loose grip on my waist, the fingers rough but still gentle, "I end up getting kneed in the balls. I should know better by now."

It wasn't exactly a compliment on par with what most girls were desperate to hear from a man, but I knew he was telling the truth, and there was a kind of beautiful honesty in his words. Especially considering I knew how infrequently he played it straight with the female sex.

"You should," I agreed solemnly. "So what are you going to tell me? Your real name?"

That question did make him tense, and I regretted it the second it left my lips. I was sure that he wouldn't tell me anything now that I'd gone and reached for the stars.

"No. I don't tell anyone that. Even Carlisle doesn't know my real name. That's between me and . . ." he drifted off, his eyes going flat and emotionless. I couldn't help but finish his statement.

"Your mom," I supplied softly.

He nodded jerkily, rolling over onto his back until I couldn't see into him anymore. Only his profile and the edges of his self were visible. I could tell that he thought he'd fulfilled his half of the bargain, but I didn't agree. He hadn't really told me anything at all—only that he was even more fucked up than I'd imagined.

"That's not enough," I told him. "Tell me something else."

He said nothing for so long, the minutes ticking by soundlessly in the dark, that I wondered if he'd blocked me out and he hadn't heard after all. I debated whether I should say it again or I should just leave him be; clearly there was a reason he didn't give interviews. There was a whole ton of shit he didn't want to talk about at all. The awkwardness returned, settling in uncomfortably between us, occupying the Demilitarized Zone as if, instead of our bodies merging, it was meant to be there instead.

"My dad is dead too," Edward said so quietly that I almost thought I'd imagined it. "He died on my second birthday."

I'd never understood why people didn't know what to say to me when I confessed that I'd lost my father when I was 12. Now I understood that there wasn't anything to say. Words to express the yawning chasm of grief and loss didn't exist. At least I had never found any. So instead of saying some lame platitude about how I understood or "I've been there, dude" or "it really sucks, doesn't it?" I extended a hand, disregarding the awkwardness, and gently touched his shoulder.

"He was one of them," he continued. "A member of this group that's holding us. The Red Hands of Ulster."

AN: I have a quick offer for you-two offers in fact.

I'll be responding to every single review this chapter-I keep meaning to, but failing. Therefore, I am making a public vow to respond. Also, if you leave a review, not only will you get a review response but you'll also get:

1. A teaser for Chapter 11.

2. I will try to answer any and all questions you pose for me. The only caveat to this offer is that I will not spoil later chapters or plot points that I have in the story. Therefore if I don't answer a question or tell you I can't, that means I don't want to ruin the story for you.