by August Red
“Goodnight, dear."
“‘Night.”
Her cellphone buzzes as soon as she hangs up, and her heart nearly jumps out of her chest. God, she needed to get it together if a simple text-message alert nearly scared her to death. She flips her cell over, pressing the side to light the screen. Cleo.
B, y u not cll me? How was party? Need the 411. Cll me x
Placing her phone beside her, she looks over at her window. There is a faint shadow of light peeking through the curtain.
The party. That seemed like weeks ago. This whole night somehow has become her whole life in a matter of seconds. It’s hard to wrap her mind around all that has happened in the last few hours. If only it had been just a nightmare. But as the cold, hard reality of day dawns, she can’t fathom how she’s supposed to go on pretending to be as strong as she is.
Her eyes drift to the ceiling. His eyes, blue and probing, cast a shadow over her running mind. She tries hard to remember his face when he vowed that no harm would come to her, but all she can see is hard-shaped diamond blue.
“I am so dead,” she mutters, getting out of bed, and ambling out into the hallway. Sleep is never going to come. She’s still wearing her dress. It itches like hell and wraps around her so tight, she feels like a mummy in spandex wrapping.
She forces herself to walk past Toby's room; it will be the fourth time this hour that she’s checked on him. He is sound asleep and perfectly safe, but seeing it makes it more real. Nothing seems safe right now. Not her house, her mind, the attic… it has all morphed into a bizarre version of some dark Hitchcock setting. Dark, dreary, and dank. Like the way she feels inside.
She halts at the landing, staring at a framed picture of her family at the top of the stairs. It appears normal and unscathed to the situation impounding through her. It’s the same picture that’s been there since they lived in this house. But now, staring at it, willing it to remind Belle of yesterday and normalcy, the picture can’t be more foreign to her eyes.
She’s stalling. It’s time to face the truth. No amount of delaying will change the fact that his presence has somehow collided with hers. His health, his death—it’s all in her hands, being hurdled at her from several scattered directions. Reaching the attic, she brushes her hair back from her face and curses her life.
Time to enter the lion’s den...
The sight almost steals her breath away. He’s curled up in a fetal position and looks… innocent. So at peace.
She pads over to him, her heart skipping a beat. He’s too handsome, stunningly so, with sharp but rugged features. Before she can gain control over her hand, it reaches out and strokes the dark tempting ruff of whiskers on his chin. She traces a faint cream-colored scar that runs the edge of his powerful jawline and guides her fingers over his cheekbone to his handsome, well-formed mouth. Her gaze lingers on his generous bottom lip and the upper with its strong cupid’s bow.
How can something so beautiful, be so deadly?
A scorch of heat prickles up her neck and it zaps her mind into focus, remembering what needs to be done. His fever is climbing. Like clockwork, she’s checked it every hour and it’s worrying her. His skin is soaking in sweat, it burns at the touch. His side hasn’t bled since he last collapsed, but that isn’t the danger anymore. If he has an infection, if this fever is the first stages leading to pneumonia, her bedside care will only delay his death by maybe a couple of hours—days, if he’s stronger than most.
The water splatters in the basin when she rings the damp cloth over it. She touches as lightly as her shaky hands can control. All she does is tremble now, her heart stuck in a perpetual state of hysteria. Her chest continues to sink tightly like it’s trying to make its way into her spine.
The beast moans underneath Belle. He’s restless, mumbling incoherencies. She moves the blanket to cover more of him, but it continues to fall off as the abnormal breath of the man's shoulders gets more violent. His eyes drift open. She pauses, casting him a weary but hopeful glance. She sees the blueness clear, and it shuts everything else out when his eyes land on hers. Belle stops dead-in-her-tracks.
They are so blue.
She hears herself say it out loud and instantly feels naked.
Her strokes smooth down his bare arm, across the thick corded veins that run all the way up, and she shifts it from beneath the heavy comforter. His arm is unimaginably solid, and so thick with muscle, that a hot buzz skims the surface of her flesh. He moans, licking his lips. His eyes never leave hers; watching, but not quite staring. It’s as if he’s searching her for something. The intimate nearness sends lightning frissons through her and her fingers tingle.
She dips the washcloth in the basin again, careful to stay focused on what she’s trying to do for this stranger. He’s probably delirious with fever. His features are agonizingly hard and constricted, waiting for the next bout of pain to railroad through his body. His panting becomes a little more aggressive and louder, his pain unmistakable.
“Shssh. You’re okay,” Belle murmurs. The cloth is in her right hand and the other hand cascades through his thick short dark hair. She brushes a few strands from his hot forehead, then sweeps the tips of her fingers through the side of hair near his ear. She curls her fingers around the short strands where his ear curves, following the natural line his hair shapes. She does this over and over without thinking, just resting on instinct. “You’re okay.” She hovers over him, closer, waiting for a small sign of consciousness. His eyes move back in between hers, waiting on the brink of catching something.
“I-I…" His swollen lips part. He swallows with great difficulty, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. He squeezes his eyes shut for the first time in minutes. His whole body is shivering.
“You're going to be all right. Just rest.” Her voice comes out hushed and quiet, softens to a delicate whisper. She feels his body react underneath her, immediately becoming alert to how close to his face she is. Her breath holds and she recognizes that his chest stops moving too. “It's okay.” She rests her palm then, cupping the side of his face, her thumb moving against the end of his sharply-lined jaw. “Sleep… You're going to be okay. Just sleep."
This is against her nature. All of this is. Going on her instincts, feeding and obeying her first reactions, helping a man—a strange man—fight a bullet wound and possible death... Everything is happening all at once, and the only thing Belle decides she can control, is this man's pain.
She doesn’t know if she is comforting him or not, but his face remains rooted to hers. He never breaks stride with the pace her glances take on him. He looks through her like a man eyeing the last life-preserver. His eyes flash open again, locking her in an intense visual grip. His stare demands her not to look away. And she can’t.
It’s raw. Primal. The stream of air in her lungs dies. Her chest burns, but the words of comfort come out anyway, like there’s another soul inside of her, possessing some other piece of her.
His eyes close again. Belle doesn’t know where the urge to soothe him and why her body reacts in pure compulsion to do so, but she can see outside herself as she does it—
The ring startles her.
She flinches, the rag in her hand falling onto the chest of the man beneath her. He doesn’t move. Belle hears the ring again.
It’s coming from him.
She pulls the blanket down, and the noise gets louder. It’s in his leather jacket.
There is no way I’m putting my hands in there… But what if it’s his family worried about where he is? Oh God... I have to do it...
She slips her fingers inside his jacket, slowly at first, but when he groans, her heart pounds louder, and she quickly catches the small device between her fingers, yanking it out as fast as possible. She stands and walks away from him, almost dropping it as her sweaty hands try and find the volume button.
Where the hell are you?!
Her heart thuds louder and louder, knowing that if the beast awakes now, she’ll be in a lot of tr
ouble.
Finally, after what seems like a lifetime of torture, she finds it on the side, her eyes instantly darting to the man beside her. It hangs in her hands, flashing ‘unknown number.’
It couldn’t have been his mother, could it...? No, that would be too easy...
Belle bites her lip and moans, leaning her forehead against the phone. So far she’s been running on pure impulse, so she doesn’t wait to listen to her next thought when the light continues to flicker and buzz in her hand.
She just does.
Pressing the green button, her heart thumps hard inside her chest as she brings the phone next to her ear. She doesn’t know why, but she waits, and just when she’s about to speak, the person on the other end cuts her off.
“Judas? Judas, you there? Fucking answer me! Did you get it done?"
Judas...
Her breathing erupts against the plastic and she can hear the blood rushing through her head.
The words on the other end vibrate through, “It's been too fucking long, Judas. Is it done…? Fuck’s sakes, say something!" The man’s yell is short but explosive.
Belle clicks the phone off, taking her first gulp of air. Her chest rises and falls, a pressure tightening across her chest. The caller had been so furious, it brings every emotion she’s trying so hard to keep in check, to the forefront. A tear falls from her closed eyes. Another follows, and soon there is too many to wipe away. Her head falls toward her chest, gripping the phone in between her trembling hands. The phone is surprisingly cool against her skin.
What have I gotten myself into?
She shakes her head. This isn’t helping. She can’t break down now. She can do this. She has no choice.
Quickly, Belle wipes the tears from her cheeks, pretending that the momentary lapse of weakness never existed. She has a mission. And failure is not an option.
But… how can she place his phone back without alerting him to her intrusion? Praying his predatory eyes are not digging into hers, she turns slowly, her breathing labored. Relief washes through her. He’s still peacefully asleep. Her steps creak as she treads warily over to him. Belle doesn’t know why it’s always so hard to walk over to him. It feels like something is pushing her toward him, some magnetic force, and it more than disturbs her.
His features are so soft and boyish in sleep. He looks nothing like the man looming over her from before, making veiled threats and scaring the life out of her. His eyes, his mouth, the plane of his high cheeks, appear almost delicate in their strength under the light of the Moon.
Her hand slips an inch of the comforter off, finding the pocket remarkably quick in the dark. The sigh of relief that slips from her lips breaks the pressure in her chest and her stomach eases inside her. Her hand draws the comforter back up over his shoulder. When her eyes drift up again, they surrender into the impulse to look at his face. When they skim his chin, something warm travels through her. Her glance unabashedly glances higher, and then her body locks.
His stare, alert and cold, blasts hers.
She looks down instantly, heat prickling her cheeks. She turns to the side, stuttering over awareness that grows between them in the atmosphere. “How’re… Are you feeling better?” she asks, softly.
When he doesn’t answer, she grinds her teeth together, annoyed at the nerves taking control. She tries to glare at him, but the expression he is carrying, kills her temper. Nothing else moves around him, his body doesn’t even look alive, but his crystal orbs scorch her speechless. She tries again to speak, but it’s futile.
He’s angry.
Are you angry at me for keeping you here? But what can I do? You don’t want me to call for help and you’re too weak to leave… Maybe time alone will give you some perspective and semblance…
She turns to leave—
His hand whips up to catch her wrist.
The force of his strength throws her crashing over him. She uses her knee as balance against his side so she doesn’t fall on him completely. But he yanks her closer, bringing them a whisper apart. The tip of her nose bumps his, and she immediately draws back a little, a harsh breath giving her fear away.
His face doesn’t change as he watches her. She makes a small try at wiggling her wrist from his bruising hand, but it only seems to reinforce his hold. “Let go of me,” she finally grinds out, out of breath.
His nostrils flare, his eyes flash, and his body tenses. He’s showing her that he isn’t some tame beast. That he’s been sent from Hell to stalk and terrify her every step. And it’s working.
“Tell me,” he says, his voice raw with emotion, “what the hell were you doing with my phone?"
Chapter Six
HE’S A STATUE AGAIN.
The leap of anger in his eyes simmer below a very shaky surface. The patience being hold together behind the blue is waiting to burst free. His hand remains encased around her, holding her over and around his body.
Oh God… breathe… Keep breathing… Think of something—anything—just say something!
“I-I, um… the phone was ringing, and, uh, I didn’t know where the ringing was coming from so I looked around and I saw in your jacket pocket that it was your phone… so…” she trails off, letting her words fade, praying to every god listening that he understands her intent.
Instead, his features darken further and he yanks her closer—harder. Her skull seems to shrink, and she winces as his other hand wraps around hers. But his grip eases just enough for her to feel cool air breeze around her wrist.
“You always answer other people's phones?"
Everything that’s happened this evening—from her confrontation with Emmett, to this intruder shaking her into fear every other minute—it all comes crashing down. She can’t take it anymore. Something snaps inside of her.
“Excuse me, but I don't normally have unconscious men bleeding from gunshot wounds lying around. Guess I'm a little unclear on etiquette here. I'm pretty sure since you stumbled into my window and you're staying in my house, I can pretty much do as I damn-well please."
Belle yanks her hand away, and this time he lets her go. Her whole body trembles, but she makes herself put at least a foot between them. It drives her mad how he can still look at her like she’s the one to have wronged him somehow. She needs to compose herself, get out of there quickly and come back when she has more control over what she’s feeling.
“Get some rest—”
“Answer my question." His tone is harsh and deadly cold, the fire in his eyes blaze when she shakes her head.
“You're the criminal. I'm the one who should be asking you questions. Not the other way around."
He ignores her as if she hasn’t spoken. “Answer me."
Folding her arms, she tries to appear aloof. He’s the one who needs her. That gives her the advantage and, however little that is, she has to take it.
“No I won’t. As long as you’re under my care, it's my rules. You don't like it? Tough.” She’s playing with fire. His eyes sharpen, but it doesn’t stop her. After all, it’s easy to talk brave when the animal is wounded. “Walk away if you don't like it—Oh, that's right, you can’t. Guess you're stuck here for the time being but until you can walk out of here on your own, and believe me as soon as that's possible, I will escort you to the nearest exit myself—I call the shots."
Neither back down as silence takes over. He narrows his eyes at her, but he looks a little less lethal than before. He turns to look toward the small window above him, even though he’s too low to look out.
“I'm going to make some soup. Just rest until I get back," she says.
“Not hungry."
“Too bad."
She heads toward the door, relieved to be escaping the thick tension that has invaded her small, cramped place.
“I said I'm not hungry." His words hold so much anger, Belle has to almost wonder if some of it’s misdirected—to some unknown thing or person that isn’t connected to her, or this place.
“And I said, too
bad,” she mutters, moving closer to him, against her better judgment. “I don't know exactly what your problem is and I personally don't care, but I’m not going to have you die on me. Your fever is finally starting to come down… Just… You need to listen and let me take care of you."
He starts to move, wiggling under the blanket. He props his weight on his weak elbows, leaning his head against the armrest of the futon. His breathing is already labored and shallow.
“Got to get out of here.” He speaks with so much determination, Belle almost believes he can.
“What’re you doing?” He doesn’t answer her, using his one good hand to try and unwrap the comforter from his side. She settles her hand on his shoulder. He pauses, his head angling down. “Hey… Listen, I know this is hard but you need to stay still or you’re going to start bleeding again."
His shoulders roll when he sighs and the warm large muscles under her, pulse, leaving nothing to her imagination. His fingers fold into his one hand and he hits the bottom of the futon, cursing under his breath.
She remains still, feeling more than little over her head. Silly cliché encouragements are not going to settle him. She doesn’t know how to act or deal with any of this. Finally, she drops her hands from his shoulders.
“What do you want?” she whispers, without thinking.
His head comes up and he finally looks at her. There is no bite in his eyes, just pure unbridled frustration. And for a split of a second, Belle thinks she sees a spark of remorse. His face is red from exertion, his lips quivering as he licks them. “I need to go home.”
“You will, I promise,” she replies, more softer than she intends to. “I don't think you'll have to be here much longer."
“Good.” She casts her gaze down, twisting the ring on her finger when his face settles in on her. It’s like looking directly at the Sun. “I'm not a very good patient."
He seems genuine, but Belle refuses to look back at him. “I kinda got that already."
She feels him shift slightly. “I don't like people… taking care of me."