by August Red
Before the words to argue can penetrate her thick skull, Belle hears herself saying the exact opposite of her intentions, “I… the easel just fell… I was trying to paint."
She’s just lied to her father.
For a stranger.
What the hell is wrong with me?
“In the dark?" he asks, placing one foot on the step in front.
“No, Dad, I’m fine,” she says, making sure her father stays put. “I was just antsy after the party and couldn’t sleep. Dad, go back to bed, I'm fine. I didn’t mean to startle you."
“You didn’t.” The landing groans under him as he steps back and Belle guesses she’s in the clear. For now. But it doesn’t relieve her one bit. She hears her father clear his throat before he continues, “I've got to go into the office. I won't be back, probably till tomorrow sometime."
“Is everything okay?"
“Yes, Pumpkin, everything's okay. There's just a couple of glitches in the monthly numbers… That's all… I already tried telling your mother everything’s fine, but she’s insisting on coming to make sure I eat and rest."
Belle descends the stairs, for some odd reason she’s compelled to see him. He sounds defeated, his body stagnant. “Dad—”
“Take care of your baby brother.” He kisses her forehead, his voice stern, like when he used to tell her to clean her room.
“You'll be back tomorrow, right?” Belle peers up at her father's face, which is etched in uncertainty. “Dad?"
“You look pretty tonight, Pumpkin."
Her eyes examine his face. “What’s going on?"
“I love you, Pumpkin. See you tomorrow.” He kisses her forehead for a second time—more quickly than the last—and doesn’t wait for her to respond. Instead, he leaves, without looking back.
“I love you too…" she murmurs.
Taking one step at a time, she prays the monster in the attic has left so she can pretend none of this ever happened. When she takes the last footstep into the attic, the last couple of minutes of her life play through her like a distorted dream; flashing and twisting through her like small spasms. Her body is on the crest of a wave, just seconds away from crashing. But this isn’t the time. The crying and whatever else that comes along with being terrified will have to come later.
No matter what her intruder says, Belle can’t trust any vow that comes flowing from his lips. If this truly is gang-related, then he’s obviously a very dangerous and violent man, despite her heart telling her otherwise. He said he wouldn’t hurt her. She didn’t believe him. At first. But finding out who he is… she can do nothing but listen to her heart. She doesn’t want to trust him, because if she’s wrong, it can cost her—her life.
But she owes him. And for that reason, she’ll let him leave as he had asked, and her debt will be paid. Life can move on…
He’s precisely in the same place and position Belle left him in. He is still. Deathly so.
Please don’t be dead…
Pressing two fingers into the side of his throat, she waits for a pulse. After several seconds of empty searching, a faint thump vibrates against her fingertips. It’s soft, barely existent, and she isn’t sure if it’s actually just her imagination. Holding her own breath, she leans against his chest, giving one glance toward his face, sure he’s unconscious from how peaceful his features stay. The strum of his heartbeat greets her, but it’s slow and waning. A tear pricks her eyes.
What do I do now?
His shirt stirs under her ear. “I'm... okay...” The whisper breaks the surrounding silence.
Backing away, she nears the door, supporting herself against the wall. “Uh, you need a doctor."
“The bullet… went in and out… I'm not bleeding anymore."
Don’t say anything! Just let him leave.
“You could have internal injuries. I can’t just let you..."
Why won’t I shut up?!
Belle curses under her breath. It’s second-nature for her to help people; it’s the reason why she studies diligently and why she chose Stanford. Her only focus in life is to become a doctor one day. But it isn’t doing her nerves any favors in this precise moment.
“Help me up," he orders.
Belle nods her head, then sees he isn’t paying attention to anything but his wounded side. His face is twisted sideways, facing the direction of the injured area.
“No. I'm calling an ambulance."
He’s going to die if she doesn’t. She stands, determined and a bit angry—mostly directed at herself.
“No?” he asks, clutching his side with his opposite hand and forces himself to sit up. “I'll leave, okay. Just pretend you never saw me."
His face contorts in pain and Belle does nothing to help him. She is numb. Numb to this whole ordeal.
He struggles, clinging to everything around him, from the junk on the floor, to the old beam that holds the place up. He isn’t going to make it. No matter how strong he appears. And from what Belle can decipher, he is stronger than most.
Finally he stands erect, a little bent over and shaking. For a man near death, he fights for a good impression of being alive.
“You never saw me,” he says, his words severe but softly spoken.
And then he makes a break for it.
Stepping—stomping—closer to her, Belle finds herself leaning into the wall, further and further.
There is no give. She is trapped!
“I-I... this... you need to be still. This isn't good for your wound."
He’s making the injury worse... God, he’s so stubborn!
“Used to it,” he replies, his gruff answer flows over her attempt to stall. “I won’t bother you again as long as you do what I say."
“I can't do that."
She hears herself say the words, but hopes against hope, it’s the voice in her brain talking loud. Talking really loud. Of course she’s wrong.
Reaching his full height, his shoulders straighten. Everything else goes cold around him—around her—like a sudden chill sweeping through the entire room. Crowded in an already small space, Belle switches her weight from foot-to-foot, alert to the horror written all over her face.
She makes herself look at him, her eyes crawl up the long stature of his beast-like body. The wound—a mere shadow, a distraction—compared to the muscles and definition lined everywhere, mean nothing to his strength. Her response includes a gulp and a swallow of moisture that follows down her tummy and lands somewhere along her legs.
She takes in his pout, his angled nose, and sharp, almost animalistic cheekbones. His stare preys on her. Wolf-like blue eyes instinctually tear her down with arctic detachment. His wound, his pain—where is it all now? Maybe it was just an act to get her back in here because she’s the only witness?
Damn. Crap. I’m such a freaking idiot!
Isabelle Kaitlyn Dela Cruz, having at least two opportunities to escape from this murdering pig, is going to die. Not because she has to, but because she’s a total and complete moron who follows her heart and not her head! If she does survive, she hopes her ability to speak will be lost, because telling reporters, or whoever asks why she didn’t run when she had the chance, was down to this: She was overcome with naïve compassion for this award-winning criminal who had punctured her nurturing side.
Mustering up whatever internal strength she has left, she tells—orders—herself to do whatever it takes to stay alive. She hasn’t come all this way in life—graduating, living in a small town in the middle of nowhere, surviving a violent assault at just fourteen-years-old, and Emmett Irving—to just die when her life is finally about to change for the better.
Stanford. Nothing is going to stand in my way to become a doctor.
Ignoring the cold sweat gluing her dress to her back, and ignoring him, which is hard, she ventures past the inevitable and seeks for something further, unreachable.
Freedom.
He’s only a foot away and not giving an inch as he visually dissects her. The door is cl
osed. There are no possible weapons near her or big enough to use against him.
God, he is so big. Why does he have to be so... muscly?
Her options are thin, falling through her fingertips like melting snow.
“Wanna say that again." The lethal deadness of his voice shatters whatever she’s attempting to put together. Lethal and low, and so damn calm, it sends every nerve inside her up in a frenzy.
She can’t take it back and she won’t.
“I said I can’t let you do that.” Her chin rises, clashing with the terror that runs through her whole body. “I-I… I'm not letting you out of here... You’ll die."
I’ll attend to the wound, make sure it won’t get infected and bandage it. That’s what this is about… nothing else…
He doesn’t move. And he doesn’t open his mouth all the way when he says, “Is that so?” His brow arches, his eyes piercing hers.
“Yes.” Belle reaches for something more, not wanting to anger the beast further, but the smug way he’s looking at her, knowing he’s in control of her and her life, ruffles Belle’s feathers.
Her gut-instinct tells her that if this is the same heroic man she crossed paths with four years ago, then he’s calling her bluff. And from the way he’s been looking at her, Belle surmises that he doesn’t recognize who she is.
“You broke into my house, you practically assaulted me, I don't know what your intentions are for coming here but it's obvious from your injuries you need my help. I can’t let you just walk away. At least let me make sure that doesn’t get infected."
She guesses by the strict way in which he advances forward that his goal is set and ready.
Wait… What if something twisted and disturbing happened to him in the last few years… forcing something in his head to tick in the wrong way? And now he’s probably some sick freak who gets off scaring young women, playing sick mind games of cat-and-mouse, all-the-while he’s the one holding the strings the whole time.
He gains ground, never taking his eyes away from hers—and in a flash, there’s only an inch between them.
She doesn’t try and hide the terror welling up and spilling out. The engine in her brain is dead and her only solutions involve kicking his balls and spitting in his face.
His breath streams out in sluggish rivers of air against her forehead. If she moves, she'll be touching him. If she breathes, she'll be touching him. If she speaks, she’ll be letting him get to her. Whoever this man is, he knows how to read people. He’s pushing all the right buttons, squeezing them to the brink. Just when she thinks he will relent, he pushes harder, sees deeper through her.
“How about you think before you speak. That mouth of yours is gonna get you in trouble, woman." She feels his words—his warning—against her skin, and begs her imagination for some small ray of distraction. Escape.
Belle has had a lot of dreams about reuniting with her savior. Most of them involved cinematic romance scenes with a backdrop of sunsets and waterfalls. None of them ever had him threatening her while bleeding to death in her attic.
This is what twisted nightmares are made from...
“If you're going to kill me, just do it and get it over with."
Those are the first words that she’s spoken to smite his stone-cold expression, and she watches the subtle change in his guarded features. His eyes spark then fade. His body seems to waver the longer he plays his intimidating card, looming over her like a bear over a wiggling fish. She releases the tight grip on the front of her dress and her lungs don’t ache for air.
He licks his lips, scans her eyes, then looks away, almost bored with what he’s about to say, “Not gonna kill you,” he finally lets out, in a tone that tells her she should already know that. “Don't be afraid."
“Then stop threatening me," she says, huffing out all the air through her nostrils.
Sweeping the room, his head comes around toward hers again. “You wanna call for help—go ahead. But I'm not waitin’ around for them.” He tosses her a cold glare. “And don't think you're gonna try and stop me."
He steps away and glances at the door, checking his wound. There’s fresh blood on his hand when he pulls it away from his side. He takes a gulp of air as though he’s fishing for strength where there is none.
He must think he’s Superman or something.
The fresh blood looks black in the room and small shadows of white catch the surface at the right angle of moonlight. “You're going to die,” she says. His hand trembles when he checks his side again. “You’re not going to make it very far with a wound like that. You must know that, surely."
“Gimme at least twenty before you call,” he heaves out, making his way to the exit, his boots sliding hard against the floor. Parallel from her, he pauses at the door and repeats, “Twenty."
Belle lets the tear fall from her eye, not understanding why it’s there to begin with. She suddenly feels very tired. “Just… just get out,” she snaps.
He shakes his head, a glimpse of remorse playing in his stare for only a second before it changes to black and blank again. The old doorknob turns quick in his fast grip.
But the door never opens.
His forehead smacks into the door as his body jerks, and then he is down.
Belle catches him just as he falls, her body leaning on the door for her own support. Somehow his head finds its way into her lap, and when she wonders why he doesn’t struggle to remove himself, she peeks over the crown of his head to see that he is… unconscious again.
She nudges his shoulder, presses her clammy fingertips into his cheeks, but gets nothing. Belle searches the room for answers, looks back down at the man in her lap, then at the tiny window that appears so far away at this very moment.
Her place… her refuge… has morphed into a prison.
Sighing, she glances at the ceiling, praying for a bolt of lightning, a divine intervention to come and rescue her.
The choices are there, but which one does she make? Help her hero from the past who broke into her home, or leave him to die and call emergency services? She gazes down at him.
Her very own… sleeping beast.
This is not the way she wants to remember her last summer at home. Cleo was right. This night will be unforgettable.
The night that changed everything.
Chapter Five
DEBTS ALWAYS HAVE A PRICE.
And all hundred-and-ninety pounds of it is sleeping on her futon in the attic.
The beast has been sleeping for awhile, and Belle reasons with her sanity that as long as he isn’t awake, and wrecking her nerves, she doesn’t have to make a decision. Not at the moment.
Denial is the best form of medicine…
“Isabelle, are you listening to one word I have been saying?"
“Yes,” she replies, clutching the phone closer to her mouth. “I'm sorry. I just... I'm still groggy. You woke me up, Mom.” She can’t stop herself from turning around, peeking over her shoulder like a mental patient off her meds. What terrifies her more than the monster lurking in the attic, is having one that is on Death's door.
“Your father and I are going to be here for awhile. This place is a mess."
“So what happened exactly? Like, what's wrong with the numbers?” Her lame attempt to sound enthralled fails miserably.
“Daddy’s partner made an absolute mess of the books. And your father, bless him, has to fix them. I'm doing what I can to help but it’s going to take all night and day, darling.”
“Is Dad okay? Mom, he seemed kind of weird when you left earlier. The study is a mess too, there are papers everywhere."
“Oh... He's, uh, fine, sweetie. Just, you know, overwhelmed.”
“I'll clean it up before he gets home—"
“No!” Her mother’s answer cuts through so fast, Belle flinches. Within a second her mom’s tone switches. “Honey, that’s very kind of you but unnecessary. Your father has things that way for a reason. If you clean it up he won’t know where anything i
s now, will he?"
“Um, I guess...”
“Well then, we'll see you tomorrow hopefully—Oh, have you checked on Toby, dear?"
“He stirred a little so I checked his diaper and it was wet, but he was so dead asleep he didn’t even wake when I changed him."
“Good.” Her mother let her tiredness slip into her words as though she hasn’t slept all night. “Oh, before I forget, how was the ball? Did you have a good time? Did a handsome rich man ask you to dance with him?"
“No."
Her mother’s exhale of breath drowns in disappointment. “Isabelle."
“Mom, please, I don't feel like regurgitating tonight's horrific events. Please. I'm tired and I need sleep."
“This conversation is not over."
Belle clenches her jaw. “Whatever. Goodnight, Mom."
“No sleeping in and I am not going to be there to feed Toby. He likes his breakfast—”
“At seven. He likes mashed corn in the morning with watered-down milk and then he likes to play in his playpen for about an hour before he gets tired again and naps, although—"
“Isabelle, you're rambling. Just take care of him… I don't know when me and your father will be home exactly.” Her mother makes a clicking sound and then stops and speaks again, lower this time, like she’s revealing her secret. “Listen, if anyone calls the house looking for your father, don't tell them anything. Ask who they are and if they want to leave a message but don't tell them where your father is.”
“Why?”
“It's just… business is bad and your father might get in trouble because of this botch-up."
Her mother is lying.
Everything seems so wrong somehow. Usually her mother’s words flow out rehearsed like some cheesy infomercial, but she’s rambling. Her mother never rambles or stumbles over her words. Never.
“Mom? What’s goin—”
“Don't ask questions. Just do as I say and make sure my little Tigger is okay."
Belle rolls her eyes. “Okay."
“Isabelle?"
“Yes, Mom, I understand. Don’t ask questions.”