TRIGGER WARNING: GRAPHIC DEPICTION OF SEXUAL ASSAULT, MEDICAL PROCEDURES, DRUG USE. Protect yourself and your health. Don't read this story if it will be harmful for you.

National Sexual Assault Hotline (USA): 8006564673

Chapter 4 –IV lines (BPOV)

I was aware of the coolness covering my body before anything else. It seemed someone had covered me in a sheet of ice – perfectly molded to fit every crevice and curve of my body. Ice unable to melt against the warmth that once existed in my skin.

There was a buzzing in my ear that was entirely aggravating. My body felt absolutely fatigued. My head hurt, and my thoughts dragged sluggishly along.

Moronically, and quite morbidly, I wondered if this was what insects felt like when put in the freezer. Sluggish, fatigued, and then dead.

I wondered if I'd ever slip past the fatigue long enough to get up and grab a blanket. Maybe I could call Charlie and he would grab one for me. If Edward was with me – and perhaps the source of the ice – he would get me one faster and more silently than Charlie could. But if Edward was the cause, why didn't he notice me shivering?

With a bitterness I despised, my mind finally recalls our previous conversation. He wasn't here, of course. He was hunting. He badly needed to hunt having put it off for so long to stay with me.

I could just curl up into a tight ball and try to sleep. Then no one – myself included – needed to be bothered with grabbing the blanket.

Just like those poor insects, I was well on my way to death, it seemed.

"Isabella, darling, can you hear me?"

Yes, of course I could. You were practically screaming in my ear. Did no one understand the concept of talking at a reasonable volume? I thought we'd all learned that in preschool . . .

"Open your eyes, dear."

So loud.

But I try. Because if I could open my eyes, then I could open my mouth and tell the voice to quiet down so I could slowly wither away in the cold. My muscles are slightly more cooperative than I expect, considering that I was a frozen bug on my way to death.

When I do open my eyes, I'm faced with a dark room. Everything was blurry – all the shapes and colors blending into soft hues. The dull colors hardly quaked the nausea I suddenly felt. The room was shaking like an earthquake was ravaging Forks, Washington.

That was strange.

I was elevated – the surface beneath me inclined to prop my torso up – and now that my eyes were open, I could see that there was no ice covering my body. I was just cold and confused.

"Ah, it's good to see those eyes open." The same voice from before said. It was much quieter now. I turn my head, wincing immediately at the pain I felt as I did so. Blinking as the pain receded, I watched the colors separate into slightly distinct objects. White walls. Pink vinyl chairs. Tan doors.

A woman was standing at the foot of my bed. She was holding a strange, grey-colored binder. Her blonde hair was pulled tight, her face in a strange sort of scowl that enhanced her wrinkles.

"How are you feeling?" I flinch from the rude inflection of her voice.

My mouth feels like someone stuffed cotton balls into it. I run my tongue over my lips, noticing how dry and cracked my whole mouth felt.

"You took a long while to wake up." The woman says. She was wearing mint green scrubs. "Don't move your shoulder."

I blink slowly, my thoughts flurry as I process her dramatic words.

What happened to my shoulder?

The bluntness of her voice wrapped up with her scowl makes my stomach twist.

I stare at her, remembering her scrubs. Was she a doctor? A nurse? Has she introduced herself? I couldn't remember.

Did she tell me what happened to my shoulder? I hadn't broken it, had I?

"Water . . . Please." My throat burned, and my voice was hoarse and slurred. Judging by the lack of response, I'm sure I was hardly comprehendible and much too quiet. Did my shoulder injury impact my throat? Or maybe the other way around. . . How would my throat break my shoulder?

I never paid enough attention to the anatomy section of Biology. I was more focused on not getting sick.

"You gave us quite a scare." The woman says, though her voice is curt, and the words feel strange coming from her. "Well, can you tell me what happened?"

What happened? I swallow thickly, grimacing as I realize the pain was present again. I didn't remember being sick or having a sore throat or breaking my arm.

Still, I gave her – or, rather, us – quite a scare. I didn't know what she could mean.

My eyelids fall shut, realizing with a painful breath that I was both confused and tired. It was difficult to focus on being confused when I was this tired. But it was difficult to let myself be tired when I had questions.

The woman with the scowl also had questions, and she wasn't letting up.

"Isabella? It's imperative that I know what happened." I open my eyes, but they fall shut again. She wasn't looking at me. She was looking at the binder and talking mostly to herself. The words faded in and out. The few I caught didn't make sense, and the ones missed I did not seem to grieve.

". . . You haven't showered . . . unconscious before. . . Didn't need consent. . ."

My shoulder. Something with my shoulder . . . I open my eyes, blinking as I try to clear away the distorted colors again. The colors were shifting, moving.

"Maybe some more morphine. . . then the exam." The woman taps my arm. "Are you in pain, Isabella?"

"Nurse Wicker, I can take this from here."

I blink again, watching as a new person with striking blonde hair and pale skin entered the room. Carlisle.

The woman – the nurse – jumps, looking startled. "Oh, Dr. Cullen, I didn't hear you come in."

Carlisle only offers a small smile in response. He doesn't acknowledge me, and I'm starting to wonder if I'm really here at all.

"I just need to take her vitals." She continues, reaching for something beyond my head. My eyes shift to Carlisle, he's watching me with a cautious expression that relieves me. I am here.

"I can do that." Carlisle offers in a gentle, yet firm, voice. "Is this her file?"

The nurse looks defiantly at him, her fingers curling around the binder more tightly. She seemed to have abandoned the thing she was reaching for. "I'm assigned to her case."

Carlisle pauses, smiling. It's all wrong, though. Carlisle has always had a calm personality, but his demeanor felt detached now. "I appreciate that. I'll page if you're needed."

The nurse huffs as she hands over the binder, turning on her heels. I watch her body get blurrier as she walks away, her mint green scrubs blending into the tan and white of the walls. The door shuts loudly behind her when she leaves, and I flinch again as the noise pounds into my head.

Carlisle moves closer to me, pulling up a chair and sitting down. "I must apologize, Bella. I intended to be here when you woke but I was caught in a meeting." Carlisle shakes his head slowly. "Though, I believe, Nurse Wicker had something to do with your waking when I was busy."

I stare at him, quizzically, not understanding his words. I was too tired to ask him to explain, though, when he continues.

"Let's not worry about her for now." He frowns, his eyes flickering to mine momentarily.

Carlisle reaches past my field of vision, procuring a plastic cup with a white straw. Relief floods through me as I realize how dry my mouth and tongue feel, and he guides the straw to my mouth.

I sip greedily, trying to ignore as my throat protests with each gulp. The water is room temperature and does little to soothe my throat.

Carlisle's hand sweeps across my forehead, and I shiver against his cold touch.

"You were running a slight fever before, but it seems to be going now. That's a good sign." He murmurs gently. "Are you in any pain?"

My throat. My throat hurts. I want to immediately blurt it out, but my muscles feel like molasses. I really didn't want to speak.

"You had surgery, Bella." Carlisle says, as if he could read my mind. "The breathing tube will have made your throat a bit sore."

Had Carlisle and Edward switched gifts recently? How was he able to read my mind? Not even Edward could do that.

"Esme is making you some soup to help the pain." He continues, moving the cup away. "I'm sure she'll bring some by soon. We certainly did not expect to have you awake so soon, but I'm pleased you are."

"It doesn't hurt that much." My voice was a horse whisper. My wince coinciding with my words must have given my lie away.

"She's not put out, Bella." He smiles, chuckling quietly. "How do you feel?"

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the steady beeping of monitors. My head was hurting – perhaps from the annoyance of the sounds.

"My shoulder. . ." I whisper, though even I heard the disbelief in my voice. My shoulder didn't hurt. Nothing hurt – except my head and my throat. "She said. . . I don't remember. . ."

Carlisle smiles softly, reaching to touch my arm. "It's just a blood pressure cuff." He murmurs. "You must have been moving when we were trying to get a reading."

The Velcro makes my head pound as it's stripped off itself. Then Carlisle slides the cuff off my arm, showing it to me.

"Oh." I mumble, feeling utterly ridiculous and slightly embarrassed. A blood pressure cuff. "The beeping . . ."

"Heart monitor." He responds gently. Maybe he understood my frustration at the beeping because he eventually reaches above me, turning the monitor off. The room dims as the illumination of the monitor disappears.

"Oh." I swallow thickly, feeling even worse. "I thought – she said not to move."

I close my eyes, wishing I understood more of what was happening. I had been in the hospital plenty of times – but I don't ever remember waking up in one with little recollection of why I was there.

I open my eyes, watching Carlisle as he watches me with tightened eyes.

"Bella, do you know where you are?" His voice was casual, and he leans back in his chair slowly. My eyes crawl over the vinyl chair and then back over my body under the ice blanket.

I blink once, and then again and again. Nothing quite making sense. "Forks Hospital."

I felt strangely queasy. I didn't smell blood, though. Still, I took slightly more tentative breaths, prepared to hold my breath if needed.

Carlisle reaches out, touching his fingers to my wrist. "Yes, you are." His voice masked with pain. Carlisle couldn't hide his compassion if he tried, and he rarely tried. "Do you know why you're here?"

My thoughts flickered back to the nurse and her warning not to move my shoulder. It was just a blood pressure cuff, though. Not at all what I imagined it was.

I tried to remember – what had I done? What landed me in the hospital with a stay that required surgery and left me with a splitting headache and a sore throat. The pounding of my head was almost mocking me – nearly encouraging me to try and think and make it hurt more.

A fuzzy memory popped into my head – Edward, standing before me, instructing me not to get hurt.

I moan, closing my eyes. If my eyes stayed closed, the room stopped shaking. "Edward is going to be so worried." I open my eyes, trying to glance around the room. I could barely make out anything behind Carlisle. "Where is he?"

"He'll come soon." Carlisle's even voice tells me. Carlisle's eyes are haunted with something I can't decipher.

"He told me not to get hurt." I grimace as I speak the words. Of course, this would happen. Of course, he would leave me, and I'd end up in the hospital. He wouldn't ever let me out of his sight again.

"Do you want him to come here?" Carlisle asks slowly, his tone slightly bewildered.

I shrug, then wince as pain rushes through my body. Now something hurt other than my head and throat. Everything hurt. I glance at my body nestled beneath the blankets. Nothing looked strange or out of place – but it was not the normal, sore pain I was used to with my frequent accidents and clumsiness.

"Bella?"

"No, it's better that he comes." I mumble. I'm trying to figure out what's wrong with me. "He'll be anxious."

"And you?"

I stare at Carlisle, not understanding his question or his baffled tone. "You have to take my vitals." I murmur finally, wanting some sort of distraction for myself and for Carlisle. He was watching me. Waiting for me to speak, to answer his question.

He nods, rearranging his features to remove any signs of his confusion. "Yes, I suppose I do need to do that." He stands up, reaching for the binder that was placed on the foot of the bed. He pulls a pen from his jacket, scribbling some notes onto the papers. "Are you in any pain?"

"My throat." I mumble, and then I immediately flood with embarrassment. I had already complained about that once. "My head, too." I add quickly, as if that would pull his attention away from my repetition.

I lift my wrist, reaching up to touch my head. But my hand and wrist were covered in a thick white cast, shifting my attention from my headache. A small breath of shock escapes my lips.

Carlisle moves to my side instantly, gently taking my encased hand in his. His fingers rub small circles on the exposed parts of my fingers as I stare at my hand. My fingers tremble in his, and my stomach churns.

"You said – the nurse. . ." I whisper, feeling hot tears pooling in my eyes.

"It's a fracture in your wrist. It will heal easily." He responds gently.

I shake my head, trying to will the tears away while also trying to remember how I'd broken it. My mind seemed utterly blank. Void of any memories connected to my wrist.

"I don't – I can't. I can't remember." I whisper, almost frantically. "Why? Why can't I remember?"

"You have a concussion, Bella." He says slowly. "You've been through something traumatic. It will take your mind time to catch up."

I swallow thickly, feeling overwhelmed by the confused emotions rushing through me. I close my eyes, a strange sense of betrayal washing over me as my tears fall onto cold cheeks. They made my vision blur in a way that discomforted me immensely.

What did I remember?

The nurse. With her cold eyes and thin-set lips and curt voice. My headache – splitting and heated. The icy coldness of my body as I awoke. Watercolor images. Pictures blurred together in a strange way.

"Watercolors."

"What do you mean, Bella?"

How did I explain the dull colors that made no sense? I look at Carlisle, opening my mouth to explain, but I wasn't quite sure how to. Looking at him, through my tears, sends my heart into a frenzy. It takes me a moment to realize that the drum in my ears is not one Carlisle is pounding on.

With a jolt of pain in my stomach, I dimly remember the blonde hair of someone else. And the pain I begged to disappear – begging Carlisle, begging Jacob, begging someone else before them both.

I pull my hand from Carlisle's grasp, feeling as if he was squeezing it too hard. My wrist seared with pain, though his grasp was light and easily pushed away.

"Bella," Carlisle says gently. "Breathe, honey."

There was an erratic beeping in my ears. I wanted to pound my hands against my ears to make it stop. I yank my hand furiously, wanting to wipe the traitorous tears from my eyes. Except there's a tugging on my hand that is entirely unpleasant and makes me freeze in place.

A thin, clear tube was running beneath the layers of bandages wrapped around my hand.

"Take it out!" My throat burned with every word, and my head hurt more. Pressure threatened to make my entire skull explode with every word I screeched.

The memories flood back into my brain. Sunlight streaming into my room. My copy of Hamlet. His hands on my skin. My body pressed against the mattress. A tsunami of pain, of fear, of helplessness. Edward begging me to fight. The look of enjoyment and the depth of peace in his eyes as he tormented me. And then watercolors. Dulled, watery colors preceded by a drug that induced them.

My hands fly to my stomach, feeling a pin-prick pain before I remember the drugs are in my hand now.

"Take it out!" I plead, my casted hand hovering over my other, my fingers grasping the tube. The sharp pain as I tug lasts seconds before Carlisle's cool fingers pull my hands apart. "I want to leave." My voice trembles with the shivering of my body. "Take me home. Carlisle, take me home."

But not home. Don't ever take me back to that house. I never want to go back.

"Bella, listen to me," Carlisle urges, his finger on my chin so I'd look at him. I want to rip the tube out myself, and I could barely scrape my eyes away from my hand to look at Carlisle.

"Take me home. I want to go." I beg, my sore throat a long forgotten pain. I wrathfully wipe at my cheeks, brushing away stinging tears as quickly as they were falling. My hands were shaking – my bones turning to ice within my body and freezing me from the inside out. I wanted to scream – I couldn't see with my tears and I couldn't brush them away with my shaking hands.

"There's no needle, Bella. It's just a plastic tube, that's all." Carlisle professes knowledgeably. His fingers stroke my cheeks, helping me wipe away my tears. "It's saline to keep you hydrated, antibiotics, and morphine to help with your pain. Nothing more."

"I don't want it." I plead, hiccupping a sob. "Take it out."

Carlisle was lying. There was no way I could be in this much pain if I had morphine in my IV.

The air around me seemed entirely too hot, and each breath scorched my lungs. I shove his hand away from my face, crying out as it hurt to move so suddenly.

Carlisle eventually nods slowly, his golden eyes watching me pitifully. "Alright."

His resignation shocks me for a moment, and then I turn immediately to desperation. I shove my hand at him, and he reaches for the tubing connecting my hand to the IV bag, detaching the two.

"No." I protest, shaking my head, feeling the betrayal return with uncontrolled force. "No. All of it. Carlisle, please. Take it all out."

Carlisle hesitates now, looking pained. He grasps my hand in both of his, squeezing. I flinch, violently yanking my hand back.

My stomach rolls with nausea as phantom fingers crawl over my broken wrist, squeezing it until pain explodes within. My head hurts then, at the back, as if I'd banged it against something hard. I knew I hadn't moved, though.

I wrap my IV-ridden hand over my cast, rubbing my wrist to push the pain away.

"Bella, the IV is so we don't have to constantly inject you with needles. You need pain medicine and antibiotics."

"No." I shake my head, ignoring how much the movement increased the churning of my stomach. "No medicine."

He was wiping my face again. I'm not sure why – I was crying so much it didn't help at all.

"You had surgery. You need it or you'll be in pain, sweetheart."

I flinch at his words. Sweetheart. Had Carlisle ever called me that before? Had he called me that? I couldn't remember.

"Please, Carlisle." I squeeze my eyes shut, as if that'd push away all the hurt and pain. "Don't make me beg anymore."

Carlisle looks reluctant, but he finally caves. His fingers start working at the tape and gauze holding the tube in my hand. A sob of relief escapes my lips, and I feel my head drop against my pillows in pure respite. It doesn't hurt when he pulls it out. I only know he's done it when he presses a new layer of gauze and tape against my wrist.

"Better?" He asks softly. I pull my hand to chest, grateful that the tugging of the IV tubing is gone, replaced only by the pressure of tape.

I nod, swallowing thickly. No more medicine. No more needles.

My chest hurts, but the air seems to be cooling now. I close my eyes again, wanting the darkness to envelop the pain the way it enveloped me before.

"I want to go."

"I think that's wise." Carlisle says quietly after a long pause. "Your father will be coming soon. He should see you first."

"Don't take me back." A shudder rolls over my spine, thinking back to my room. It had been my sanctuary. My space. The place Edward and I grew to love each other. I never wanted to go back there again. I open my mouth to clarify – don't take me back home, but please take me out of here. But Carlisle responds before I can.

"We won't." He promises. "Bella. . ." He hesitates, battling himself. "Do you remember?"

My stomach churns. "It's blurry. . . watercolors." My voice is strained, and my eyes hazy with tears again. My fingers kneed at my cast, rubbing away the pain.

Carlisle is silent for a long time, and I have to open my eyes to ensure he's still in the room with me. He's a statue, on the chair, watching me.

"You should get some rest." He finally says. "Your father will be here shortly."

My heart beats with a bizarre feel of rejection. His response – even delivered in his soft voice – still rang with dismissal.

"Carlisle?"

He looks at me, waiting.

"You said . . . With the nurse. That this was her fault."

He grimaces, turning away as he speaks. "I apologize, Bella. I shouldn't have spoken ill of her."

"Why?"

He turns to me, looking remorseful. "I suspect she wants the inside information before anyone else."

"She won't . . ."

"Your file will be safe in my office – away from prying eyes." He offers reassuringly. "It'll remain there, and I'll have her off your case immediately."

"I remember . . . talking . . . before." I cringe, remembering the muffled words that carried.

Carlisle nods. "Yes – I've spoken to them already. Both Edward and Alice are confident they can be trusted. If anything gets out, we'll know."

"Alice?" I feel the blood drain from my face. I exhale sharply. Why hadn't Alice seen what happened? Why hadn't she helped me. "She didn't see. . ."

Carlisle frowns, squeezing my fingers in his reassuringly. "She didn't know what happened until you were already here."

I swallow, wincing at the raw pain in my throat. My mind racing through what I could remember of being here. I shiver, remembering the loud voices and the anger vibrating from Jacob's body as he held me against himself. "Jake?"

"He left as soon as I took you from him."

I close my eyes, feeling the fatigue stronger now.

He left. Jacob left.

"Sleep, Bella. We'll have time to talk later." Carlisle tells me tenderly. He pats the blankets around my trembling hands.

Neither of us say anything more.

My mind is scattered with fragments of pain and screaming, reflecting images of a pale man with blue eyes against my closed eyelids.

I'm unsure of whether Carlisle has remained in the room until he's pressing a cold towel to my forehead and mopping tears I hadn't realized I was shedding with a soft napkin. I'm not sure when the memories bridge to dreams, but they hold me captive in terror either way.

My vision is clearer when I've opened my eyes. I look over, opening my mouth to ask Carlisle a question but he's not there. In fact, the entire room is illuminated in sunlight dulled by heavy clouds when I was sure it had been dark when I closed my eyes.

"Bells," Charlie's gruff voice grasps my attention. I automatically turn toward his voice, cringing as the movement sent spasms of pain down my neck. He was sitting in a vinyl chair, his expression a mask of grief.

My chest clenches tightly.

"How do you feel?" He asks.

I barely hear his words. I'm looking at his face. His eyes are surrounded by deep bags, his hair tousled, his skin pale. He looked sickly.

"I'm fine, Dad." I whisper. "You look tired."

Charlie laughs curtly. "Don't take care of me, Bells. That's not your job." He sighs, breathing shakily. "That's my job. . . I'm supposed to take care of you."

My stomach feels as if someone punched me. . . Or someone pressed their knee into me. While holding my hands down and ripping my clothes off.

I exhale sharply, feeling my lungs collapse under the pressure in my chest. The movement burns my lungs and throat.

"You okay?" Charlie's voice is distant. "Bells?"

"I'm fine." I wasn't. My heart is flying. Each beat jolts grief through my body.

"You look sick. . ." Charlie's voice is muffled. "Edward is in the hall. He just got here a minute ago. . ."

For a moment, relief floods through my body. Edward was here. He would hold me, talk to me, protect me. But just as fast as it comes, it disappears. Would Edward touch me knowing someone else had? Would he stay if he knew?

My head was throbbing. So was my chest. And as I thought about my pain, the more I became aware of it. My neck was sore and stiff propped against the low pillows. My ribs ached, and as breathed in and out, my whole chest pulsed with pain. In fact, so much of my body ached with the movement of my shallow breaths. My stomach ached too, though I had no idea why. It just hurt. But what scared me the most was the deep, pulsing pain between my legs.

I didn't want to think about that pain. I didn't want to think about how much it hurt or what he did to me or what he said to me while he did it.

Maybe Edward didn't know what happened to me there. Except, if Charlie knew, then Edward absolutely did. Maybe Charlie didn't know, though. He hadn't said anything to indicate he knew what happened.

Charlie lips move but I can't hear the words as he mouths them. And then he stands from his chair, nearly tripping as he leaves the room. Did I repulse him that much?

I close my eyes so I don't have to watch my father leave me here alone. The dark behind my eyelids is soothing to my head.

It's too quiet. I almost wish the beeping on the heart monitor was still here to count my heart and to count the time.

I've been waiting a very long time for this.

I've been waiting for Edward.

A small shiver rushes through my body. My slightly thawed bones freeze up again. I've been waiting for Edward, and Edward's been waiting for me. But he got to me first. Would Edward ever want me now?

Edward can't know. But Carlisle knew, and maybe Charlie. How could they know, though? Did Carlisle confirm that he knew? Carlisle must have seen my injuries. . . But anything could have happened. If they knew, Edward would know instantly.

Unless I lied. Unless I could convinced them that they thought wrong.

Women did this all the time. They always lied about who hurt them or how they got hurt. How mysterious bruises and broken bones occurred. I could lie, too.

It was nothing. I fell down the stairs while carrying laundry. I was cleaning the tub and lost my balance. I was mopping and the floor was slippery – I can be so clumsy. .

I try to rehearse the lines, trying to figure out which one makes the most sense.

I wish I had Alice to help me. Alice staged the story so perfectly Charlie had no choice but to believe I fell down to flights of stairs in Phoenix. I needed her now. . .

Even if I fooled Charlie and Carlisle, I'd never fool Edward. He could always tell when I was lying.

Thick tears were pooling in my eyes. It made me angry that my body would betray me like this. Anyone could tell that I was a liar if I started crying. My throat hurt so much as I withheld sobs, but it was no use. My tears slipped over my eyelashes and down my cheeks too fast for me to discretely wipe them away.

The air around me feels too still and quiet, and I know then that I'm not alone.

I flinch when his hand cups my cheek, my eyes still shut tightly so I didn't have to face him.

"Bella, breathe." Edward's voice is smooth. "I know it hurts. You're going to be okay."

"I'm sorry." I can't breathe. I pull away, needing his hand to be off my skin.

"I'm the one who needs to apologize – profusely." I swore I'd protect you. I swore nothing would hard you again. And, yet again, I've broken my promise."

His words – his voice – tear at my heart. Hot tears are rolling down my cheeks.

I open my mouth to argue with him, to tell him it wasn't his fault. But my mind wheels back. It wasn't his fault, and yet it was – his and Carlisle's and the whole coven's. They had done nothing, but this was about them.

This was about them. Not me – until it became about me.

"Bella." His thumb runs over my cheekbone, barely touching my skin. I'm a little surprised by how reliving it felt. My face hurt – all of it. And so did the rest of my body.

"That feels good." I whisper, my throat hoarse with pain. "Your hand. . ."

"It's cold." He murmurs. Perhaps, for the first time since I've known him, Edward doesn't sound horrified by his nature. I struggle not to lean into his embrace, to beg him to lay down on top of me and relieve the discomfort everywhere else.

I swallow thickly, blinking back tears as I open my eyes. His dark eyes were just inches from my face, wide with worry.

The blankets rustle beneath us as Edward shifts, and I flinch back before I even realize what I'm doing. I don't miss the flicker of pain in his eyes, or the way he makes it disappear in a second.

My heart throbs in my chest, twisting and wrenching with each beat.

"I won't hurt you." His voice is a soft whisper. "I'll never hurt you, Bella."

I know. You never have. I want to say it, but a lump is lodged so deeply in my throat that I can't make the words out.

He knew what happened. He knew what was done to me. I can see it in his dark eyes. He read Carlisle's mind, or Charlie's, or one of the nurses. I'll never be able to convince him or anyone else otherwise.

I'm nauseous – my stomach twists as the room spins.

I didn't fight enough. I should have fought more. I should have listened to his voice in my head. I should have fought.

I stare down at my body – at my wrist in a cast and my hand wrapped in gauze that once held an IV. I should have fought harder. I should have listened to his voice. I shouldn't have given up. Why did I give up?

It's the thought that stutters through my head like a broken record until my world falls dark.

A quiet knock echoes at the door, and Carlisle is stepping in when my eyes crack open against the bright light.

"Good afternoon, Bella." He says softly, offering me a smile.

My only response is a coerced gulp to force the lump in my throat away. It doesn't work.

"Bella, I spoke to your father." He continues, moving past my silence. "He and I both feel you'd be better off recovering away from here."

"Where?" I croak. It feels like my throat has been cut open.

Don't take me home. I never want to go back there. I never want to go back to Forks.

"Our home." Edward says. I cringe away, realizing that Edward was sitting right next to me. That I was wrapped in his arms. My shoulders tense against him, and, as if he could read my mind, he pulls away slowly.

Carlisle is quiet a moment before he speaks. "If you're comfortable with that."

I exhale a breath that was pressing painfully on my lungs, relief and pain flooding through me simultaneously.

Home, but not mine. I was safe with the Cullens. I would be safe at their house. I wouldn't be left alone. I'd always be protected. They would stop him when I gave up fighting.

"I want to go now." I whisper, suddenly feeling incredibly exposed in a public place where vampires wouldn't have the same capacity to protect me.

I look from Carlisle to Edward, hoping they understand the need I have to leave. If not from my words, then from my eyes.

Carlisle responds to me before Edward does. "Esme is just outside with some clothes. Edward and I will take care of everything else."

At Carlisle's words, Edward stands. His fingers brush against my good wrist as he rises, tossing one last glance in my direction. Esme enters before Carlisle or Edward leave. She's carrying two bags in her hands, setting them both down on the table at the foot of my bed.

"Sweetheart, do you want something eat?" She asks gently, laying her hand on my shoulder. The pressure feels peculiar – soothing, but intolerable. I don't want her hand there. "I made some soup for your throat."

"Maybe later." I murmur. I try to subtly move my shoulder, to suggest I just needed to readjust my position. I don't think it comes across that way because Esme pulls her hand back immediately. If she's offended, she shows no indication of it.

"I have some clothes for you. We can leave as soon as you're changed out of that gown." Esme says. She reaches for the bag, pulling out wads of fabric. "Do you mind if I help you?" She asks, and I shake my head instantly, ignoring the pain that spikes through my skull and down my spine. I didn't even want to try getting dressed on my own.

Esme smiles at me.

She is incredibly gentle as she helps me sit up. I hadn't moved much, and now I understand why. Pain radiated through my body so sharply that I had to bite my lip to keep from crying out. It did not ease as Esme helps me sit. She works quickly helping me into my shirt and shedding my hospital gown. I bite my tongue to stop from crying, but my body betrays me, and tears leak down my face anyway.

As she pulls the blanket from my legs, I catch sight of my discolored skin. The sight twists my stomach painfully.

Beg me, Bella. Beg me not to do it.

Esme lifts my chin, her thumb wiping at my cheeks. "Don't look too closely, sweetheart. They aren't permanent."

"How long . . ." My voice shakes. "They're so dark."

It takes a long moment for Esme to answer. "You were brought here just over a day ago."

It seemed like much longer and much shorter at the same time. Longer, since there was so much that had happened. Shorter, because it seemed impossible that my memories were from a single day ago. It felt much closer – as if they were happening just seconds before they popped back into my mind.

I don't speak as Esme helps me into the soft pants she brought or as she helps me pull a thick sweatshirt over my arms.

I instantly hate the pressure and restriction of the sweatshirt. Esme helps me out of it as quickly as she put me into it. She says nothing as she folds the cloth up and puts it back into the bag.

Esme stays with me, offering me food twice more, until Carlisle comes. He's carrying a wad of paper in his hand. He stands at the table at the foot of my bed, silently arranging the papers in a folder.

I knew there were rules about being discharged. Wounds needed to be healed and cleared of infection. Nurses and doctors hustled about patients checking vitals, making sure they knew how to care for themselves, asking for signatures on papers with medical and legal jargon. But now, it seemed as if no one cared. No doctors or nurses were requested. No one asked me if I knew what to do with my cast before a shower. No one checked my wounds or taught me how to care for them.

I knew, if they did, I wouldn't be able to. I knew if they asked me to stand and walk across the room – as they had in Phoenix when I needed a cast and crutches – that I would not be able to. Nurses routinely checked my temperature – insisting it be below a certain threshold prior to my discharge. But here, no one seemed to mind as Carlisle whisked through pages I assumed were for me.

"Charlie called." Esme tells me, making conversation. "He said he'll come visit today. He didn't want to crowd you here, but he's happy you'll be resting in a comfortable space. He knows you don't like hospitals much."

I don't respond.

"Bella," Carlisle says, his voice gentle. He closes the folder of papers, and Esme hurries to put it into the bag. My heart pulls, unsure of what he was preparing to say. "I know you're in a lot of pain right now, and it's only going to get worse as we're moving you. Can you allow me to give you some pain medicine?"

"No." the word is out of my mouth before I realize I've even said anything. "No, I'm okay. I don't . . . I don't need anything."

I shiver, thinking about the pain in my stomach again and the blurred colors around me. I didn't want that. Not again.

Carlisle sits on the vinyl chair next to my bed, his eyes pleading with me. "I know that you are afraid."

"I'm fine. It doesn't hurt." I insist, my eyes filling with tears. Anger tears through me – anger that I'm crying again, that the tears are blurring my vision, that Carlisle and Esme can see how weak I am. That Edward will know because he can hear their thoughts and he'll see me falling apart.

Carlisle is silent for a long time, and I stare at him, pleading silently to drop this.

"Bella, you were under the influence of a drug called Rohypnol." Carlisle tells me, his voice slow, hesitant.

I wince at his words, inhaling so sharply my chest radiates with pain. I turn my face away from him, as if that would shield my ears from his words. My vision blurs with memories of sluggish limbs and molasses thoughts. I can't seem to focus – everything is weaving in and out, hospital and then my bedroom, Carlisle and then the other man, pain from Carlisle's hands and his.

Carlisle's voice is far away. "It's a drug used to incapacitate. It's cruel to use, and even crueler to be victim to."

Everything hurts, and I can't differentiate between my current pain and the pain of when the injuries were inflicted upon me. I can't differentiate between Carlisle's fingers on my hand now and his fingers on me before. They feel the same.

Watercolors. Melting images until they blur. Like I'm looking through a rain-covered window.

"I won't do that to you." Carlisle tells me, his voice ringing with a sincerity that pulls me from my memories. "Bella, I have never used medicines for violence, and I won't in the future. I have not given you reason to distrust me with your care."

I glance at him through tear-filled eyes. He was watching me, his expression resolved.

"I need you to trust that I won't harm you."

Carlisle's fingers rub at my palm. His fingertips are smooth, cold, gentle. I stare at them for a long time, hot tears cascading down my face.

The drug. Watercolors. The blackness that overcame the pain and hopelessness before I woke up to a much worse fear. I don't want to go to sleep.

"I don't want to sleep."

"I won't give you that much." Carlisle promises.

My throat hurts with a sob I'm forcing down. I pull my fingers away from Carlisle, wrapping them around my wrist. It hurts. My bone feels like its shattering all over again.

"Just take me home."

Esme moves to my side, taking both my hands in hers. Her eyes are filled with emotion I don't want to see. Her voice fills the room, gentle and quiet. She talks about nothing in particular – words that float past my ears, quenching the silence but hardly filling the void in my chest.

She tells me of an island with bright blue water. She tells me of the fish that assume colored masks she had never seen before. She tells me of white sand beaches that kiss the waves.

My hands tighten in hers when Carlisle grasps my arm, his hand steadily immobilizing it.

"Deep breath, Bella." Carlisle murmurs, and then the needle bites into the skin of my arm.

I gasp, flinching closer to Esme. My body moves, even the arm that Carlisle had been holding. A warm feeling was spreading through me – starting in my chest and expanding outward. As it moved, the cold relinquished its grasp on me, taking the pain away with it.

"Thank you for trusting me, Bella." Carlisle massages my arm for a moment before letting go. "Edward will carry you to the car. Until then, try to rest."

My body seems to settle into the bed more comfortably now. My head lulls back against the pillows, too exhausted to be held up.

Esme keeps holding my hands, but her voice is more distant than before. I try to listen intently, try to grasp the words about colorful fish and tall palm trees. But they're all too fleeting. My body, once wrecked with pain, feels swollen with air and warmth. It's much harder to focus on anything else.

"You're exhausted, darling." Esme finally tells me, brushing my hair through her fingers. "Your body is ready to sleep now that there is no pain."

I blink at her, noticing the energy it takes to open my eyes after the darkness falls over me. "I don't like the dark." I whisper.

The door opens and Edward silently slips in. Where did he go? Why wasn't he here before? Why didn't he hold my hands instead of Esme?

"I'll hold you the whole time, that way you're not alone in it." Edward whispers to me, his hands weaving into mine.