Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight.

I edited the summary for this fic to better reflect its true nature. I've been reading some pretty dark Twilight fics for years, but know that this really won't be for everyone. This started out as loosely inspired by Beauty and the Beast, which is one of the most bizarre texts to every be deigned a children's stories. Years ago, I read the now-classic Hide and Drink by Savage7289 and remember loving it. This won't be the same, but it's of that nature. Consider yourself warned.

Eyes the color of coal locked on mine as he crossed the room towards me. Except for the abruptness of his approach this time, it had been no more than I had expected — no more than I had bargained for, even — and yet every time it left me trembling. Every time I hoped it would be the last. Every time I worried it would be the last.

I could never keep myself from shrinking back from him, although I knew this, too, was fruitless. My back hit something firm as I took a step away, my instincts kicking into overdrive and telling me to flee. I'd backed into the wall this time.

Fighting was futile, and it wasn't as if I didn't have a good reason to succumb to this, anyway. That didn't make it any easier. As he crossed towards me at a near-human pace, my brain could tell that he was holding himself back, just barely. I swallowed, aware of the movement of my throat, as my heart jumped in it. It was only because I had been looking him in the eye that I noticed his eyes leave mine to track the movement.

Then he was on me. One arm had come around me body to pull me away from the wall just slightly, icy fingers twining into my hair, tilting my head back so that he could lean down to press his mouth to the sharp, stinging wound that he had cut into my skin with his fingernail. I was dimly aware of my right hand coming up to grip his shoulder, not to fight so much as to steady myself. I shut my eyes tightly, though I could not see him.

My blood flowed from the wound. I could feel my heart beating, pulsating towards the stinging pain, and almost feel the drops of it leaving my body. He drank more slowly now than he had done in those first few times, seeming to have found a way to use me longer.

I was shaking.

I was always shaking. It was worst at the beginning, after the wound was made. At some point I settled in slightly, felt the wound and fear differently as my mind slowed and fogged.

What if he doesn't stop this time?

No matter how much he took — and some times I thought he took more than others — this was the question that plagued me. It made me tremble harder, even though I was having trouble focusing now. In the beginning, it had made me shift and fight and plead.

He shifted slightly and I felt his body against mine, as cool and impenetrable as stone. He moved my body as if I were a puppet and he the puppeteer, angling me slightly so that he had even better access.

It had been better and worse on the bed and couch. I'd let it go too long this time, apparently. The human moments I had requested of the shower and use of restroom had been stalling as much as anything, and I had been surprised that he had allowed for such frivolities. It was, perhaps, a sign of him trying, however small, to compromise on his insatiable needs, and yet perhaps it had been too long.

I found I couldn't think of this any longer. The words left my brain slowly, slipping away as the blood left my body. I floated for a while in the haze of pain and dull fear of death that ignited each time his lips were pressed to my skin. It was familiar at this point in some ways, but this familiarity only lent it slightly more ease.

This time, there was a new sensation which came on slowly. I was beginning to feel cold not just where his body seemed to radiated it but also in my fingers and toes. There was a reason that this should worry me, but it took me a moment to figure it out. Just then, the sound of his phone ringing in his pocket dimly registered, but I had just figured out what the additional cold could possibly mean.

"Edward." My voice was a rasp. Speaking was difficult with his mouth on my throat but not impossible. I tried to push him away, knowing it to be impossible, but felt his arms close more tightly around me, clutching me to him.

"Edward," I tried once more, and felt the steel cage of his forearms dig into my shoulder blade for just one moment at the sound of my voice before the stinging pain on my throat stopped abruptly.

He had stopped.

It was relief, but my vision was swimming as I opened my eyes to him. I was limp in his arms, weak, and if he had not still been holding me, I would have collapsed to the floor.

There was no indication of what he had just done save for the change to his eyes. They were now a brilliant red. The onyx had been full of nothing but hunger, and now his gaze was sorrowful and anxious.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. Then I was held in his arms, feeling the wind of movement as he ran with me, briefly, up the stairs. Save for my trembles, I didn't have the energy to move of my own accord. He had put me in bed, covered me with blankets, and started the intravenous fluids before I had even processed the prick of the needle going into my arm.

"Drink."

A straw was held to my lips. Room temperature Sprite. I was thankful it wasn't cold, as I was freezing. I sipped a few times, then turned my head away.

He had taken too much. There were few times that he had started an IV before. As I laid under the pile of blankets, realizing that the one closest to my was electric, I wondered just how far he had gone. I was still conscious, but only barely. My eyelids felt leaden.

"Can I sleep?" I whispered, sounding slurred. My eyes were already starting to drift shut.

"Yes."

As I drifted off, my last thought was that no matter how bad my interminable servitude to Edward Cullen was, at least it kept my father alive.