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. . . . . .

Prey for the Wicked

Chapter 29

Pralōbhana

. . . . . .

As the flicker of streetlights cast patterns of light and dark across her thighs, Bella rests her head against the buttery leather seat. The open windows in the car rush the hot night air against her skin, tickling her nose with the smells of dwindling summer and thirsty spruce.

Edward is quiet, his gaze locked on the road.

She knows she's crossed a line—made a silent decision that is nevertheless loud between them. She has chosen him and this path, wherever it might lead.

At least for tonight.

She puts her hand out the window, drowsily letting the warm tempest of motion-induced wind ruffle between her fingers.

A million questions run through her mind. She feels the whys tripping her tongue, keeping her voice locked in her throat. Why let Jake live? Why agree to Billy's demands? Why protect Leah?

"What now?" she asks out loud, swallowing down all the useless whys. She tucks her wind-numb hand between her shadow-painted knees, looking at him for the first time since she got in the car. The waxing moon sends additional light through the windshield, sprinkling stealthy copper shots in and out of his hair. She feels medicated by his proximity—better than Xanax.

He's quiet for the tick of too many heartbeats. Her heartbeats. They throb in her chest, achingly wanting. She refuses to repeat herself, waiting him out.

Finally, he softly drums his fingers against the steering wheel in a melodic pattern that skims the surface of recognizable. "Are you hungry?"

The question is incongruous.

She sighs. "No."

"I am." He says it without inflection. The multiple meanings pile up, his dark eyes reflecting a mood as eagerly dark.

He turns his attention back to the road, but now he's made her restless. Is he trying to unnerve her? If so, the effect is lost. Her skin tingles, arousal humming under her skin.

At the same time, her peripheral awareness alerts her that he's turned the car onto the road that won't take her home.

"Where are we going?"

"My house."

"I'm exhausted, Edward." It isn't a lie, even if her traitorous body zings with interest. "I want to go home and sleep." Her subconscious needs a chance to come to terms with this night and its craziness.

"What I need isn't available at your home, lamb."

She lets her head fall back, closing her eyes as understanding dawns. "Oh." She says nothing more, too busy squeezing her thighs together to ease the ache between them. Silly that she thought his hunger was solely about her.

The silence hurts her ears and opens pathways to thoughts she doesn't want to have. "Can you turn on the radio?"

The strains of Chopin cup her in melody and return the blissful drowsiness. She lets herself float in their cloud…

. . . . .

The second Isabella falls asleep, Edward lets out the air he's held since she contemplated walking onto Quileute land. He didn't need to read her mind to know she wrestled with her decision to come with him.

He fills his lungs with her scent, the iron of her blood snapping serrated teeth into the tenuous rope of his self-control. That she chose him has his thirst raging even though he gorged only hours ago. Venison might fill his stomach, but it cannot slake the thirst that razes him now. His throat is torched, desert-dry and hell hot. He needs to sip from her veins while she pants his name in her pleasure.

He wants to burn Jacob Black and Quileute interference from her mind.

. . . . . .

Feeling the car roll to a complete stop pulls Bella out of her light doze. The huge house is dark, and the skeletal bones of scaffolding rising to the roof give the impression the walls are turning inside out.

Edward exits the car and comes to her side before she can move, opening the door and holding out his hand. Chivalry mixing with possessiveness is a potent call she's unable to resist.

He lets go of her the second her feet are on the newly paved driveway. She hates that she wishes he didn't. A motion light flicks on, illuminating the path to the front door. She follows him, listening as the droning crickets go quiet in their grassy beds.

Inside, fresh paint and plaster perfume the air in a pleasant way. The cooler temperature embraces her. Edward turns on the lights, and Bella is surprised at how much work has been accomplished in one day.

The foyer has been painted a calming, pale gray, and the elaborate wainscotting has been restored to its original mahogany. She follows him over newly refinished and gleaming hardwood floors. The thick rubber mats placed to protect them are scuffed with dirty footprints and splotches of paint and plaster.

In the kitchen, Bella notices the addition of more cupboards. It's all too sleek and modern for the house's age. The contradiction is jarring, chasing away the remnants of calm from her short nap.

She sits on a tall bench pushed up to the island. In front of her, a pile of receipts, paint samples, and fabric swatches in various colours compete for her attention.

Outside, the crickets start singing again.

. . . . .

Edward opens the fridge and removes a can of cold soda, placing it in front of Isabella. She accepts it with a murmur of thanks, cracking the top and peppering the air with the effervescent smell of carbonated sugar. He offers her a glass, but she declines, raising the can to her lips. He's pleased to see her drink half the contents, her pretty throat bobbing with each swallow. She burbs softly, thudding the can back to the counter, one shapely eyebrow rising as though challenging him to comment on her manners. He doesn't remember what human digestion feels like, and for a second, he envies her.

He takes a mouthful from the cup he retrieved from the back of the fridge behind the soda. The innocuous insulated travel mug is filled with the only sustenance he can digest. He leans against the cabinets and watches her curiosity swim to the surface.

"Animal or human?"

Edward smiles, reminded that Isabella loses inhibition when she's fatigued. "Human. Donor. Retrieved through ethical means, not stolen from a blood bank. In case you were concerned that some human in need will be shortchanged." He studies her, wondering if he'll find disgust.

She takes another drink and then asks, "Care to elaborate on the ethical means?"

"All donations are done freely without coercion or threat. Their health is never compromised, and they all receive monetary compensation."

Tapping her fingers against her diminishing soda, Isabella considers this. "But what do they think they're donating it for?"

"Medical research."

She bites the edge of her lip as he takes another drink, downing the remainder in two large gulps.

"It's not a complete fallacy. Not all of the blood goes to our kind."

She nods, using her fingernail to shift the tab on the soda can. "Do they… all taste the same?"

Edward listens to her heart rate accelerate—a volatile and voluptuous sound. Pink heat bitten to the surface gives her lips a raspberry hue, and he might as well have saved the donor blood for all the effect it has had on his appetite.

He catches a hint of jealousy in her tone. "Are you worried you'll be replaced, lamb?"

. . . . .

And there's the ego, she thinks. The freshly sharpened knife of cruelty is present in the dark smirk that's been missing through most of this night.

"Not worried. Hopeful." She hurls the words at him and wonders if she hurled her cola at his head, would it hurt? Too bad it's nearly empty, or she might try it.

Edward places the cup on the counter. "And yet you did not escape onto Quileute land. You got in the car with me."

The truth she isn't ready to deal with stings.

"Would you have let me go?"

The casual placement of his hand beside the cup on the counter looks forced. She isn't sure she wants the answer. A yes will mean she is disposable to him. A no will mean she is not. And either way, she's screwed, isn't she?

The soda feels turbulent in her stomach, colonizing acid. She watches his eyes narrow as her anxiety widens. He opens his mouth to answer, drawing in air for words…

And her phone blares a ringtone in her pocket.

. . . . . .

Jake shifts his weight on the narrow bed that barely fit him when he was a kid, never mind a grown-ass man. The sheets stick to his skin, and the old fan, perched precariously on a chair from Billy's kitchen, does jack-shit to cool him down. He can hear the window AC in the living room churning out a meagre amount of frosty air, but it's too far away to make a difference in this back bedroom.

He craves sleep, but it eludes him. Pain firing in every nerve ending makes him twitch. He's drowned the fever in a gallon of ice water and dumped four extra-strength Tylenol's down his gullet, but the relief is minimal.

He stares blearily at a poster of Jimmy Hendrix tacked to the wall and the dusty guitar in the corner from his teen-wanna-be-a-rockstar days. His sore cranium pounds out a rhythm that's more out of tune than the cheap instrument he hasn't touched since he was seventeen.

Longing for his king-size bed in his tiny apartment above the garage, he swings his feet onto the floor and instantly regrets it as the room goes topsy-turvy. He fights nausea, focusing on the grease stain on the carpet from the motorbike engine he dragged in here when he first started dating Bella. Under him, the mattress coils give a half-hearted squeak and conjure memories of fumbling around with her, learning the birds and bees dance. The sweet success when they figured it all out…

It occurs to him that what he longs for isn't solely Bella. It was that time when everything made sense, and life seemed simple.

His thoughts drift to Leah and becoming a father. The weight of new responsibility sits like a brick on his aching chest. Underneath that brick, a warm glow starts spreading. A kid. His kid. Damn.

The twirly carnival ride shit settles down, and Jake snags his phone out of the pants he chucked off. He taps the number he wants to call into the keypad, not needing speed dial.

. . . . . .

Bella stares at her phone, half grateful, half trepidatious about the interruption.

It's Jess.

She thinks of letting it go to her voicemail until she notices Edward frowning at her phone.

Spinning on her heel, she accepts the call and leaves the room. Behind her, she hears the water turn on.

"Hi, Jess. What's up?"

The living room is a silent oasis. Bella goes to the fireplace, happy to see the ornate stone mantel is still in its original state.

"What's up is I'm hearing you've been seen all over town with the new, hot, rich guy living in that creepy old mausoleum in the woods."

"Um…"

"Are we even friends!"

"Jess—"

"I guess not, considering you were happy to let me think it was Jake you were hooking up with."

"I'm sorry."

"It's been two weeks, Bella. You couldn't find five minutes to call and tell me about this? I had to hear about it from Eric Yorkie at the gas station this morning."

"It's... complicated." If Jess knew how complicated it was, she'd think Bella lost her mind.

"Fine," Jess huffs coolly. "Keep your secrets. Anyway, that's not the only reason I'm calling." She clears her throat, changing her judgmental tone. "I wanted to ask. Is there any news on Mike?"

Bella's skin crawls. She looks over her shoulder at the kitchen doorway. The water has stopped.

"Not that I know of," Bella answers hesitantly.

"Hasn't your dad told you anything?"

"You know Charlie, Jess."

"Yeah, good old tight-ass Charlie." Jess's microwave beeps loudly, rattling Bella's nerves.

"What's the sudden curiosity about?"

Jess's microwave bangs shut. "Can't a girl be nosy?"

"You can. You are. But what's the real reason?" Bella turns away from the kitchen doorway and traces a tiny, ornate cherub carved in the corner of the mantel.

"It's probably nothing." Jess goes quiet, and the hesitancy in her voice leaves Bella frustrated.

"Even so, tell me."

"I've gotten a couple of weird phone calls about Mike, asking if I know how to reach him."

"From who?"

"I don't know who they are."

"They?"

"Yep. The first call was a guy, and the second was a woman. I told them I didn't know and asked why they'd call me, of all people, and they hung up. Super rude."

"Huh."

"So, do you think I should talk to Charlie? Make a report or whatever?"

"And tell him what? You don't know who they are." Bella leans against the fireplace and stares at the ceiling. Anxiety tap dances in her stomach, splashing through the cola she guzzled.

"Well, not for sure I don't. But I have an idea. You know Mike has been selling at the Twilight, right?"

"I heard rumours." A little brown spider scurries across the ceiling, darting for the hallway. Bella wishes she could run away as easily.

"Ever hear rumours about his suppliers?"

"He had suppliers?"

"Bella, sometimes you are so naïve. Where do you think he gets the stuff from?"

Frowning, Bella switches the phone to her other ear. "I didn't think about it, period, Jess. Mike wasn't super interesting to me." Saying his name causes a stab of guilt and anxiety. Jess doesn't pick up on the past tense, and Bella is grateful her friend is self-involved.

Jess sighs. "You work with him. Ever see a couple of shady-looking guys, one blonde and one dark-haired with dreds? Or maybe a red-haired girl, pretty but skanky?"

Bella rubs her temple, wincing. "I don't think so. I doubt he'd have them show up at work with his father around."

"I told Jake about them when he came to my house after you did your little disappearing act to Seattle." Jess sounds as if Bella should know all of this.

"He didn't mention it." Bella feels like she's juggling grenades, unsure what to say in case it all explodes in her face.

"It would make sense, though, right?" Jess doesn't let Bella answer. Sounding like she's rifling through her cutlery drawer, she rattles on. "It's not just the calls. Today, someone in a crappy old car was following me around."

Bella wipes her sweaty palms on the frayed hem of her cut-off shorts. "This is Forks. There are beat-up cars everywhere. Are you sure it was following you?"

Jess is quiet for a few seconds. "I don't know. I guess the calls have me freaked out. Maybe I'm just being paranoid."

"Probably. But listen, if they contact you again, call me, okay? I can talk to Charlie for you." Bella steals another glance at the kitchen doorway. Is it her overactive imagination, or does it feel like a noose is settling over her and Edward?

"Yeah, I can do that." Jess sounds relieved. Charlie has always made her nervous. If he even looks at her, she's convinced he knows she keeps a little bag of pot in her freezer.

"And if you notice the car around, write down the license plate and model. Charlie will want details. A crappy old car won't cut it."

Jess laughs. "Yeah, fine."

"I should go, Jess. I'm... in the middle of something."

"I bet you are," Jess replies in a tone that lets Bella know she's grinning. "Lucky for you, I've got a date with leftovers and Netflix, so I'll give you an out. But, Bella, I want details on Mister Hot and Rich soon. Got it?"

Despite everything, Bella feels herself smile. "I bet you do."

Jess snorts another half-laugh. "Later, bitch." She hangs up, typical Jess, always getting the last word.

. . . . . .

The phone rings way too many damn times to suit Jake. On the fourth ring, he attempts to stand and fails with a curse.

"Nice, Jake. Is that how you greet all your friends?"

"Seth?" Shaking the dizzying buzz out of his ear, Jake tries to figure out who he's talking to. "I thought I called Quil."

"You did. He's… uh… busy. I can get him to call you back if you want?"

"I don't want him to call me back. I want him to answer his goddamn phone and talk to me right fucking now. Put him on."

"Whoa, man. Grumpy much?"

"Seth, I swear to all that is holy—"

"Yeah, I know. You are going to kick my ass. But, Jake, I can't put him on the phone. He's literally, um, un-disposed."

"Indisposed." Jake corrects.

"What?"

Jake lowers his head. It hurts too much for this bullshit. "Tell him, the second he's not indisposed, to call me. Better yet. Tell him I'm at Billy's. Tell him I need him. Do you hear me?"

"Yeah. You're yelling, so I think everyone can hear you, Jake."

"Seth…" Jake's growl sears his throat, but through the phone, he senses Seth getting the memo and paying attention.

"Fine! Jeez! I hear you. I'll tell Quil you are at Billy's."

"And that I need him. Those exact words, Seth."

"Right. You need him. Consider it done. As soon as he gets back."

"And Seth? Get your ass home, ASAP. There's a lot of shit going down right now. Whatever you and Quil are up to can wait."

Seth starts to squawk questions, but Jake disconnects and immediately fires a text off to Leah.

You ok?

He only has to wait a few seconds for her reply.

Like u care?

Snarky is good, he decides. Snarky takes energy and means she's probably fine, albeit pissed.

I do.

He has to wait a whole lot of seconds for her next reply.

I'm ok.

He rolls his eyes and types. Good. I want u here. With me. I don't like u alone.

Come here then.

The words blur, and Jake knows he won't be able to win the battle to stay upright much longer.

Not in any shape. Babe, please. I can't chill if I'm stressed about u.

Don't call me babe.

Jake lets his body weight slump back down on the sweat-damp sheets with a groan. Why, he wonders, does everything have to be so fucking hard?

I'm not alone. I'm staying at my mom's place.

The words double up, and he rubs his eyes, managing to croak out Billy's name. His father rolls his chair through the door, looking concerned but still pissed. Billy never could let go of a damn grudge.

"Leah's at Sue's. Will you go pick them up? I'd rather they were here and not alone."

"You don't trust the vampire's word?"

Jake shrugs. "I trust it. But that doesn't mean I trust the situation. Shit could change at a moment's notice."

"You mean if Bella accepts the offer to come here and lands on our doorstep."

Jake fixes Billy with an exhausted stare. "You don't miss much. I'll give you that."

Billy huffs out an exaggerated laugh. "Son, I know more about vampires than you. Every bit of Edward Cullen's actions tonight screams that he's gone and mated himself up to our Bella. And a mated vamp is the worst kind. The most dangerous kind."

Jake goes back to staring blearily at the ceiling. "Yeah. I may not know as much, but I do know that."

Billy sighs. "All right. I'll pull out the air mattress for Leah and Sue and put it in the living room."

"You take this bed, Dad. Sue can take your room. Me and Leah will take the air mattress. It's cooler in there, and I'm frying."

"You sure you're okay to be alone? I can call Sam and get him to pick them up."

"No." Jake's immediate answer is born from some instinct he doesn't have the well-being to back up. Adrenaline gives him enough of a jolt to sit up. "Not happening, Dad."

Billy holds up his hands defensively. "All right, relax." He grins. "You know. It's not just mated vamps that are dangerous. Pretty sure imprinted werewolves are, too."

Jake ignores that quip and snags his pillow as exhaustion sucks him under. The last thing he hears is Billy's chair wheels turning over the carpet as he whistles the wedding march.

. . . . . .

The railing provides welcome support as Bella tiredly navigates the stairs. She makes her way to the bedroom, finding the bed the way she left it, rumpled and slept in. It would look appealing, except her brain is wired with anxiety that acts like a caffeine dupe. She sits on the edge of the mattress and contemplates her situation. The window provides the only light source, and she's grateful for how unobtrusive it is.

The house is quiet, save for the occasional eerie, settling noise. She has no idea where Edward went. Maybe he's still in the kitchen.

She replays her conversation with Jess, trying to problem solve. Should she tell Edward or call Charlie? Her exhausted brain provides nothing except a dull ache and a rabbit hole of what-ifs. Brushing a few wayward strands of hair away from her temple, she winces when her fingers snag in a tangle.

Ditching her shoes, she pads her way to the washroom barefoot. She does her best to brush her windblown hair out, leaving it loose, not needing the yank of a hair clip to add to the headache brewing at the base of her skull. Toothpaste and a toothbrush strip away the residue of sticky cola in her mouth, and a splash of cool water brings colour back to her cheeks.

As she reenters the bedroom, Bella finds Edward leaning in the doorway, shoulder to the frame, hands tucked in his pockets. She sits back on the bed and stares at him, waiting.

Somewhere close, a gentle tick of an outdated clock counts off the seconds that pass before he leaves the doorway and joins her at the bedside. He turns on the small lamp, replacing the silver moonbeams with the hazy gold of artificial light. His hair is damp, telling her he's taken a shower. He smells like vibrant greens, fresh with a spicy undertone that enriches his already appealing scent.

The tension between them feels like the calm before a storm. When he finally makes eye contact with her, she isn't prepared for the darkness. Gone are the copper rings and the red rims. You can't tell where his pupil ends and his iris begins. The whites are as stark as bleached cotton sheets. She shivers though nothing feels cold.

He looms over her, but intimidation doesn't resonate with his demeanour. It's something more controlled than that. She fists the rumpled sheets to keep from touching him, a flood of the things they did in this bed last night starkly present between them.

"Did you listen to my conversation with Jess?" she asks, wanting to break the silence and distract herself from how needy she feels. Her willpower is fading fast.

"Yes."

Curious, she tilts her head, wanting to understand him. "And?"

"My mistakes haunt me."

The inflection in that sentence resonates on a deeper level than Bella can interpret.

"Mike was a mistake?"

An eyebrow arch and a slight tip of his lips greet her comment. "A mistake of nature or nurture or both, certainly. A mistake I dealt with too hastily, perhaps."

"Because of me."

"For you. Not because."

She feels the word tickle her throat and dance across her tongue with spiked shoes. Her ears ring as she speaks it, a soft cry in the word. "Why?"

His smile has a sinister edge. "Only in turmoil do you allow yourself to ask why."

"Tell me!"

"Don't you know, lamb?"

She needs to know if there is more to his plans than selfish destruction, so she shakes her head.

His hand cups her cheek briefly and then drops into his pocket, presenting the tie to her robe. She stares at the silky, blue sash, watching as he partially winds it around his hand and wrist, then drops the remaining length, allowing it to trail down to the floor.

It takes her time to absorb that he's taken it from her house and brought it here.

More whys scrape their heels up her throat, but before she can spit them out, he tugs her hand free from the sheet. Her fingers unfold as he binds their hands together. The fabric is cool and soft, but there is nothing soft about how tight he twists, creating a sweet, stinging pressure.

"You hear me call you lamb and think I am the lion. Stealing your life like a thief," he says, continuing the wrapping motion and engulfing her wrist in satin-blue hues. You think I have made you my prisoner, but have you considered that perhaps it's you who has stolen my freedom?"

He entwines his fingers with hers and pulls the tie tighter. Heat flares under her skin, the tiny pinch of pain confusingly tantalizing.

Her ability to breathe evenly fails.

"Edward."

. . . .

There is both a question and a demand in the way she says his name—an entreaty hidden in the perfection of her spiking arousal.

It is no surprise that she likes the binding play he engages in. Earlier this day, those stolen minutes of decadence in her bedroom, he felt the response and suspected he could take her places physically she never dared contemplate in her past.

Now, he knows he can.

His desire to master her grounds him further, allowing the predatory side of his nature to capitulate, all in favour of playing with its prey. A perfect match to the mated male that yearns to please her.

Using their linked hands, he brings her to her feet, forcing her to look up at him and expose that pretty throat. She swallows, and his desire for her blood merges with his passion for her body until they are so enmeshed that one holds no power over the other. The potency of the combination is an aphrodisiac like no other.

He unwinds the tie from their hands, bringing it over her head and down to the small of her back. Cinching the fabric slowly, she loses the inches of safety between them. Her body fits his like a puzzle piece, though she keeps an arch in her spine to keep looking at him. Her hands on his chest feed the ache of his aroused state, her swift little heart rushing the crimson wine he craves.

"I have never believed in fate, Isabella. When I arrived here, I thought I was driven by impulse and nostalgia. I was a fool. I was drawn here like a moth to a flame."

He tightens his grip, and her dilated pupils urge him to continue. She inhales sharply as he uses his thumbs to lift the shirt she wears, slipping the tie beneath it directly against her skin.

"You are what binds me, Isabella." He allows the physical illustration of their connection to drift downward until it meets the strip of bare skin above the waistband of her shorts. "So, you see, I have no choice but to bind you to me in return."

For the first time, he uses real force, a sharp pull that makes the arch of her back more severe and pulls her up onto her toes. She makes a breathless sound, rewarding him with glazed-over eyes as she drifts into the sensation, letting it pull her under its influence—wordless permission that he can take this further.

The button and zipper of her shorts part under his touch, denim and lace puddling at her ankles. She lifts one foot and then the other without needing to be told, and he kicks them away, murmuring praise that brings a blush to her skin. He feels her relax into his will as he drags the tie to the place her spine meets the crack of her ass. Winding the ends around his palms, he strokes the fabric whisper-light across her navel and abdomen, her muscles contracting in spasms that make her squirm.

He is an intimate witness to her struggle to hold onto reason. Balanced precariously at the edge of the void where bliss is her due, his duty is to banish clarity. Her submission is his by design, and he will not waste a precious second of it bartering for understanding. Not when actions speak so much louder than words.

"Don't be afraid. I have you now, and I'll show you the way. Burn with me, Isabella."

Breathless, her lips open to drink in the air she needs, he lowers his head and exhales so she can know she needs more than mere oxygen. She needs him. She needs this.

He takes the fabric over his fingers lower… lower… and swallows the cry she makes now because it was born for him.

Just as she was born for him.

. . . . . .