A/A: Just in time for Valentine's day. Snort. These two. smh.

..::.. Chapter 26 – Midnight Blue ..::..

Present...

He looks even paler under the light of the moon; his hair like midnight blue. He wears a light jacket, a t-shirt beneath it and slacks that look like he pulled them off the floor in the dark.

"Would you mind closing the door?" I ask.

He's motionless, and it just makes him look like a statue coming to life when he finally moves.

He slams the door shut.

I start.

"Don't kill him, I just used him to get my friends and myself home—and to get you in here. He's a poor, innocent chump. I figured Emmett would talk."

He exhales audibly, runs a hand over his face tiredly. "Worse than school girls," I poke. I can't help but grin a little.

"You are one difficult man to get a hold of, you know that?" I continue talking thoughtlessly. I sit up and bundle my pillow behind me. He notices my full-fledged pajamas, yoga pants, and fluffy socks I cover up under my quilt. Probably not the attire one wears immediately after a rumple on a one-night-stand. I pull the robe over my chest. His eyes move up to mine.

"Did I interrupt a murder or an interrogation of some kind? I wasn't sure when to reach you. You look like hell."

I guess I'm the only one talking here.

He sluggishly shuffles around, his eyes blank as they land on any random object around him. He finally finds a place to sit. He leans his elbows on his knees in a slouch, drops his keys and a crowbar on the carpet.

"You think that's all I do?" He finally responds.

I shrug. "I don't know. Don't you?"

"Yeah, kind of, but it's not my point," he says. I try not to react. "You know—you here—I can't keep an eye on you. I gotta tell yah, I don't like it." He shakes his head.

I roll my eyes.

"Come to my place. I got a big bed, a big TV. You can … actually move around over there, and in my bed," he deadpans.

"Would you just …" I lift a hand and scoff. "Jesus."

He flicks his wrists and lets his hands fall like he gives up.

Right by him there's a small wine rack Sue bought that conveniently functions as a side table to his plush seat. He pulls one out, turns it over in his hands and cracks the label to get the cork off the champagne. The plug pops soundly, and bubbles get going. He takes a long drink, breathes, and makes a face of approval.

"Winded?"

"Well, what the fuck do you think?" He snaps. "I come all the way here, and you're just … sitting there looking comfortable … and soft, while I busted my balls to get here. You haven't changed, like one bit. You know that?"

I'd smile if I weren't so torn on using this knife behind me or tie him down until he tells me everything. I roll my eyes when the latter just seems like something he wouldn't mind me doing.

"What? Did you have to ditch your lay and come running?"

He looks at me, the bottle hanging from his fingers. "Wouldn't you like that, to sharpen up those horns on my head more."

"Well, did you? No wifey on the side? All these years?"

"I haven't been dead, but if you must know, not tonight," he says with a searing look. "You weren't the only one who had to adjust to life. You left to live blissfully unaware. I had to find someone to warm my bed."

I roll my head over the headboard behind me. "Oh, please, like you were innocent in that nightmare you dragged me into."

There's a slight shake to his head. "I gave you the choice. I always did."

I shrug. "Well, how would I know? I can't remember anything. And no one is willing to tell me."

He's quiet.

"That was a prompt, Edward," I nudge. "Like, you can answer this: why did you have to listen to Dad? Why weren't you there when I woke up? Explain that."

His brows knit. And for the first time, I see hurt. His face young, like time just turned back in seconds.

"I … agreed it would be best. You didn't exactly want me. And how are you so sure I wasn't there when you woke up?"

I let out a breath.

"You were wrecked," he says. "Wounded everywhere. I couldn't even fucking recognize you, let alone touch you. Your father beat the shit out of me, and … I let him. I deserved it."

I blink. Tears seem to flow on their own. He sees. He sighs like it breaks him apart at the thought alone.

"She didn't deserve it. None of it." I murmur.

His head dips until I can't see his face.

"I promise I tried to find whoever planned it, Bella. I did all I could."

I wipe at my face. "Of all the things you have control over, this had to be the one you didn't."

He says nothing.

"So, why did I leave?" I ask.

The memories seem to rush past his eyes, and I wish I could see them just the same.

"It became too much. One night you came to me, blood on your lips, black eye, ripped knuckles. There were two of them against you. I was about ready to turn the world upside down to find them. Everyone knew who you were and who you belonged to. But, you know what you said to me? 'I took care of it.'"

I watch him let out a laugh. He's lost in thought.

"I had to go send people to clean up what you did," he says. He looks at me and smirks. "You made me so fucking proud."

"That's nothing to be proud of, Edward."

"That's exactly what you said to me. From there on, it was a downhill struggle for you to cope. You couldn't take it anymore. But you never went down without a struggle. Not even when they went after you and your mother."

I nod. "That's why you'll let me in your circle," I say. "You'll give me the reins. I have to find my mother's killers. You owe me that much."

"Over my dead body," he says with sudden anger and certainty.

"Over yours and your entire family if that's what it takes," I tell him. "I'll figure it out if you won't."

He doesn't take his eyes away.

"There are rules, Bella. Sacred ones we go by. I don't even let my most trusted colleague in—and you? You're angry."

I chuckle. "No. You haven't seen angry."

His brows knit. "You're not making your case. How can I ever trust you like this?"

"You did once. You can again. You'll just have to."

He lets out a chuckle. His hands come up to his face. They press together against his lips like a prayer. Maybe he's hoping Christ would save him from this, but no one can.

"I'll give it to you—everything—anything you want," he says suddenly. "But you'll give me the same from you."

All I give him is a glare.

He continues. "You find your target. I'll find somewhere far away where we can go. When you're ready, we leave. No turning back."

"What the hell makes you think I'd do such a thing with you?" I say.

He moves. My muscles tense and they also hum. He crawls onto my bed by the end. The champagne bottle slams on the nightstand by my shoulder.

I can't help but bring the quilt up over myself a little.

Like I'd ever hide from this monster.

He's inches away. Hovering. Simmering. Crawling up my sides and kneeling on all fours above me.

"Open your arms, then those lips. I'll show you."

"Stay away from me."

"Pull my hair. Beat me. Then kiss me."

"I'm warning you," I try to say calmly.

He delves his hand behind me and pulls out the knife. I fumble to grab it first, but all I see is that blade flying.

It sticks. The handle bobs; the point driven into the closet door.

"First things first; you can't be predictable. They'll eat you alive," he says.

My shoulders drop. I settle back in my spot.

"And secondly, stop trying to kill me," he adds.

"I'm not, I … how was I supposed to know it would really be you breaking in here? It was a precaution."

He stares at me.

"Okay. Fine. But I wasn't lying. I … forgot it was even back there." I roll my eyes.

"Would you feel safe if I gave you something to keep here?"

I scoff. "Honestly? No."

He gazes for a while. "You're gorgeous when you're like this," he whispers. "After all these years … " He skims my cheek with his nose. "You still make me crazy."

These deceiving eyes of mine seem to close again. My hand juts out instantly to push him away. But then I think—

Trust.

He seeks it just like my touch. He always steals a kiss whenever we meet, like time never widened that gap between us. He's ready to pick up where we left off.

His lips dance around my lids, down my neck. He melts over me. His arms and legs give way. His lips go down this journey over my chest, his chin paving the way. He inhales deeply and curls an arm around my back.

"Every day I thought of you," he murmurs over my t-shirt. I still have his wrapped around my fist. That space between his brows creases, eyes closed.

This, only this part makes me fear, not all the violence and the chase. It's his … frankness. He always has been. I fear because even if I try my very hardest, I always fall into this.

He settles there, cheek to breasts, clouds in his head. He used to do this very thing in my old bed.

And I think—trust. I need to let him feel it.

"Okay," I whisper.

I move a hand through his hair, also like I used to. It's the answer I gave him the first time I accepted his life into mine.

I need to now. I must. For my mother and for my only dying chance to end this.

He looks up. I twist my hand and pull him from his collar. I initiate a single kiss to seal this, but he takes more.

His breathing grows heavy after he finally lets go of my mouth. He jostles the bed as he kneels above me. He pulls his jacket off, and he says, "Take my clothes off." His eyes are dark. He challenges this; my word, his validation.

With trembling hands, I touch the hem of his shirt. He slaps my hands away. "Not that first."

I glare.

He waits.

This is how he does his job; manipulates and intimidates to see right through your hidden intention.

I sure as fuck won't be one of his dying, helpless victims.

I push him away. He lands on his heels, and he watches me rid my clothes before I even lay a finger on him.

He sighs.

His mouth goes slack, and so does his spine. His eyelids flutter just like they always have at the sight. His knuckles dip into the bed as he moves to sit at the edge and watch, ready to pull me in. His hand reaches out. I slap it away.

"Your orders first. A deal is a deal," I say and let my hair loose.

He's thrown—and quite literally. I climb on, and he lands on his back.

I yank on his belt and pants. I crawl up, and his shirt is next. He watches, cocooned under me, breasts hovering above him as I pull at everything between us. He merely catches a perked nipple into his mouth. He sighs when our chests meet for the first time. His hair falls in disarray. He's all lazy eyelids and a heaving chest.

I push him down and wrap a hand around his neck.

"Bella," he says firmly. He grabs at my wrist. But, all he can do is brace himself, holding onto my hips.

I writhe on him until he comes alive. I grip his hair and slide, skin to skin. "It's what you want, right?"

He looks up at me. He clamps his jaw and watches me move until I come undone. My breathing escalates. My lips part and then come all the sighs at the feelings that make my eyes close, and my fists tighten. My head dips, nails dig in. Every muscle lax and warm.

I grow frantic.

I shudder and cry out.

I float down from this, and it's endless—a feather finding its way back to ground. Then, I open my eyes and I see myself. I'm above and looking down.

I look at him. I pull back, stunned.

The skin around his neck is red, sweat over his chest, he's hard and wet because I did this.

My chest feels tight. I try, but I can't take a breath that'll go deep enough.

I look into his eyes. A sob comes pouring out of me, and so do all the memories of us like this.

"Bella," he says differently this time. Brows furrowed, he sits. He scoops me up, and I meld myself to him; cognizant of what he once meant to me. And the feeling bursts so strongly.

I cry on his shoulder. I fiercely kiss him all the way to his lips like I did in another life when I yearned invariably for him.

He hugs me tight and takes my mouth to his willingly; we're reckless now.

We fall over one another, tumbling, taking turns to love the other, grasping the familiar feeling that's right at the tip of our tongue. We cannot wait.

He's over zealous, thirsty of the void in him emptied out for years now. He's filling up.

We join, and we're desperate. He cups my face and waits for me to open my eyes. It's like he knew—this feels like we've never been apart a day in our lives.

It scares the hell out of me, more than anything I'm remembering in this part of my life I'm recovering.

When we're spent, he pants over me and caresses all the red skin we've exhausted. To lavish. To reminisce. To see the changes; all the favorite parts he remembers. I'm dormant but feel his lips still. Then he pulls me to him again. I don't fight it, I fully surrender. Tears drip down to my temples every time.

This was not my plan. It was wrung out and mangled.

I've become utterly powerless.

...