by August Red
“Belle,” he calls out. He wants to unfurl the tension that seems to enter and conquer them without warning. And the urge to tell her to stay, controls every fiber of his being. But he hears himself say, “Nothing,” as though he is watching the scene from above, his soul no longer vacant in his body.
He wants to rid himself of her; of the little bit of unpredictability she brings to him. It brings out the very worst in him, without his knowledge or strength to stop it. She closes the door, her stark pale hand his last reminder of her when he finds his true voice, “Stay...”
Fifteen minutes later, he watches her leave the house from the window. And all he can do is recall her name, and how it fits her so beautifully.
Belle…
Two days. He has to leave in two fucking days.
Even if it kills him.
“YOU’RE ABOUT AS FUN AS A ROOT CANAL.”
Seated opposite him, Belle slumps forward pressing her weight into her elbows as they lean heavily on the small rounded table. She’s doing her best not to look at her surroundings. She should have known he’d arrange their ‘date’ at a strip club. Does he think girls degrading themselves for money will turn her on?
Belle’s eyes trail the red wine seeping from his lips as he gulps his fifth drink of the night—not counting the ones he probably had before she arrived.
“Maybe I'm not inspired by my present company," she huffs.
“Not what you used to say.” He sucks some wine that leaks onto his finger, his sleazy eyes never leaving hers. "There was a time when I gave you more pleasure than you could of ever imagined."
Rage sets itself inside her like a simmering pot of hot water; the fire hot underneath.
“Emmett. Have I told you how sick I am of your games? You think because I let you get to me one time, it means something?” she scoffs. “It doesn't. We're not together. We never were and we never will be. I was young—too young to know any better and you took advantage of that! I regret it more than anything. Makes me sick to my stomach I ever let you—"
“I was your friend.” He leans forward, whispering to her as if he means to expel the grandest secret of all time. “I still want to be. I helped you that night. We helped each other—"
“Stop!” Her nostrils flare, repulsion biting into every nerve-ending in her body. “Stop making what happened between us sound like we had some monumental connection. You’re a sick bastard to do what you did to me, Emmett. For God’s sakes—I was thirteen!”
“You ungrateful bitch,” he hisses, slamming his glass down on the table. Red liquid spills everywhere. “You were upset remember? You had a huge fight with your mother and I found you in the park crying. My friends and I were drinking and when I offered you some, I was surprised when you actually took it."
Belle can’t hear this. That night was the biggest mistake of her life. It’s her constant reminder of why she is the way she is. Why she can’t make friends. Why she spends most of her days and nights locked up in the attic.
The reason why she had gotten into that man’s truck...
Her head turns away, her stomach sick with memory. “I don't need you to recall what happened. I have nightmares to remind me."
Emmett’s lips tighten as he spits, “Just because you regretted it doesn't mean it's my fault. You wanted it just as much—”
The chair scrapes and stops his speech. She turns to grab her purse. When she braves herself to face him, she is pale; her eyes dark and clouded with unwelcoming images of a night she wishes she could erase.
“It's over. The past is the past. You want to look back and believe that we had something special together—you go ahead you perverted bastard! I can’t—”
“You teased me!” he yells, standing over her. A group of drunken men sat at a booth next to them, look over and begin to laugh. “All those years I pursued you after you let me fuck you—you never gave me the time of day! You thought you were some great untouchable beauty—”
“I never thought that Emmett, I was thir—”
“But I have news for you. There's nothing special about you. I know that now.” Emmett grips her chin and the bones in her jaw burn. “You’re just some whore who thinks she is this untouchable doll, worshipped but only from afar."
“Emmett,” she grits out, her words coming out strangled, mixed in anger and fear. “Let go of me."
"What exactly do you regret about that night, Petal? That you let me see who you really are. Maybe you're a little embarrassed because I'm the only one who knows you're not so fucking perfect after all. Or is it that you disappointed me as well?" Her heart lurches, his words bruising her far deeper than any mark on her face. “I mean, after a year or two of pursuing you, I thought my night with you would be this life-altering experience, you know? I'd see angels or a white light would appear.” He steps even closer and Belle squirms away, but his fingers dig into her flesh, harder, keeping her in place. He licks his lips and stares down at her. “It's pretty fucking sad when you think about it,” he says, lowly. “In the end… everyone was right about you."
Belle tenses. He notices. A smirk crawls on his face. It isn’t a smile watching as her breath aches in her throat. It’s malicious cruelty laughing.
“You proved them right that night. I thought all the girls in this town were jealous because every guy wants you—you, this beautiful mysterious girl no-one can approach but…” He looks down, appraising her body. “…I was wrong. You’re just a frigid cold bitch." She yanks her chin away and he lets her go freely. His skin appears yellow and his face hollow. “I don't know why you think anyone would want you now. You’ll be begging for me one day. And I’ll make sure you beg, Petal."
Belle clutches her handbag, small nails digging into the soft fabric. Her chin aches, and she can feel the tears on the edge of her eyes threatening to fall and satisfy the bastard in front of her.
She will die before she lets that happen.
“Don't you ever come near me again.” Her words sound weak, frail even, but she doesn’t care. All she wants is to get away from this monster.
“I'll see you later, Petal. The fun is just beginning for you and me.” He waves, watching her retreat. Her back hits the entrance and she pushes at it, finally releasing her sight from him. The pounding of the music blurs before the voices in her head take over and parade through her all the way home.
The nightmare has only just begun.
Chapter Twelve
SHE CAN’T MOVE.
Belle is stuck on the third step. Facing the attic door, she isn’t certain she wants to go in there. Especially because of the way she is feeling.
She had stampeded through the house not thinking, not wanting to feel what’s coursing through her like a sickness. She wants peace. She wants, more than anything, to stop the thoughts whirling through her.
And her first instinct is to… come here. To see him.
The attic has always been her place to hide, but knowing who stands behind the door—she needs to be here more than ever.
What am I doing? Why is the urge to see him so strong, right now?
He’s made it perfectly clear that she’s in the way, and what had almost happened between them is something he doesn’t want pursuing. So why the pull to be with him, to seek solace in his big arms, practically overcoming her?
“You've been spending an awful lot of time lately up there." Her mother’s voice nearly makes her heart jump out.
“Excuse me?” Belle turns slowly, her defenses already peaked and raw from earlier.
“Lately…” her mother says, ascending the stairs.
She never comes up here. Why are you coming up here?!
“…you've been up there more than usual."
Belle folds her arms and moves in front of the attic door, blocking her mother’s entrance.
“So?"
“So... we haven’t spent much time together recently, dear. Why don’t I help you pack your things from the attic.” Her mother budges past her to acce
ss the attic door. Belle feels her stomach knot and chills chase along her spine, her heart beating faster and faster.
Oh God… No, no, no!
“Isabelle, come on.”
Her mother places her hand on the door knob. One turn, and Belle’s dirty little secret will be the death-of-her, if she doesn’t think fast.
How am I going to explain this? ‘Oh, Mother, it brings me great pleasure to introduce you to the man I’ve been hiding in the attic, who may be caught up in a violent gang war, and not to forget—the man I have a major crush on...’
What if Judas panics and... No, he would never harm me or my family. Never.
“Isabelle. What’s wrong with you? You’ve gone pale, dear.”
Belle frantically thinks of something to say to make her mother go away. But it’s too late.
Her breath stalls, and her heart pounds in her chest when her mother opens the attic door—
“Mom!”
Her mother jerks back, her hand on her heart. “My God, Isabelle! You made me jump, for heaven’s sakes. And please don’t shout, Toby is sleeping.”
“I’m sorry, it’s just, uh, I just remembered, I, uh…”
“I really do worry about you sometimes. I don’t know where I went wrong with you.” Her mother shakes her head as her right foot seems to pound against the attic floor.
“Don’t! I saw a really big hairy spider in there today!”
“Aaahh!” Her mother flings herself out from the attic. “Ewww. Gross. Oh, yuck.” Her mother physically shakes her whole body as though a million spiders are running all over her body. Belle takes the opportunity to shut the door and stand in front of it, guarding what lurks behind. “Really?” Belle can only nod. “Maybe you can sort the attic out yourself, dear.”
“Yes, leave it to me, Mom.”
Thank God her mother has an irrational fear of spiders.
Her mother heads back down, desperate to get away from the attic, but halts halfway down. “Isabelle, understand your father loves you and this family very much. Everything he’s done, he has done for us. Don’t be too hard on him, dear.” When Belle says nothing in return, her mother sighs and finally disappears downstairs.
Belle rests her whole weight on the door and sighs with relief.
That was a close call...
When she finally enters the attic, she can’t see Judas at first. But then he comes out from behind, her heart skipping a beat. He must have heard her mother come in and hidden behind the door.
He walks away as though he hasn’t noticed her presence. His back is to her and she watches him pace the floor, slow but steady. She’s glad to see there is no visible wobble in his step. For a man who’s been shot only recently, he seems almost perfectly healthy, maybe even strong enough to leave.
Leave... He'll be out of my life as quickly as he came into it... But isn't that what I’ve been waiting for?
Judas is a little out of breath, and his skin looks like a collage of yellow and white paint. She knows he will be okay, but she doesn’t think it wise for him to over-exert himself. The dark-blue black circles under his eyes bothers her, but she can’t blame his lack of sleep solely on his physical condition.
Once the door clicks behind her, and her own breathing gathers in a ball in her throat, she predicts what will come next. Unfortunately, she is right. His feet halt, his back stills. He stops whatever he’s thinking and just remains. He doesn’t turn around.
Somehow, Belle feels like the intruder.
A wave of protectiveness overcomes her as she watches his hollow gray profile tilt in her direction. His breathing becomes shallow, but there is a heavy rattle to it that she doesn’t like.
“You should be resting." Nothing changes except the corner of his mouth that pinches. With the small amount of light in the room, she can’t decipher whether he’s annoyed or glad to see her. Knowing Judas, or what little she knows of him, she is gathering neither. “I came to check… check your wound,” she murmurs.
Why is everything with you like pulling teeth?
He scratches the side of his face. His five o'clock shadow evident in the dark. “I'm fine."
Belle sighs. “I know you're fine…” She ambles closer. “I still need to check."
“I said I'm fine—”
“Please.” The word makes him turn. Her voice is granite, slicing the thin veil of politeness she’s trying to gather. His arms come up from his sides in surrender, uncaring. The blue of his eyes film over and daze as he takes in her evening attire, stopping at her neckline and then traveling down again.
He never looks her in the eye.
Judas stands instead of sitting, like she thinks he will, next to the small window. The moonlight is weak but he still manages to look… godly. His body is nothing like anything she’s seen before. He’s some kind of living, breathing paragon of an ancient Greek God. She takes strength in the fact that her fingers aren’t shaking, taking long strides forward, not wasting anytime.
They face each other. She waits for him to lift the white shirt she’d bought him before leaving for her ’date’. Just thinking about it makes her skin twist like someone is ringing it like a rag. But the physical pain doesn’t compare to the emotional torture she suffered.
Regrets killing her slowly…
“What's wrong?" he asks, his deep, gruff question shoots through her. That feeling of being naked, exposed, heightens to a degree almost unbearable.
“Nothing…” Belle purses her lips together. “…I'm just waiting for you to lift up your shirt."
His eyebrow arches and his head leans forward. “Getting me naked again, huh?” His lips tug at the corner as if she amuses him.
“No, of course not.”
“If you say so, Little Bit.”
“Little Bit?” she asks, angling her head slightly down. She can feel beads of sweat on her brow, in her cleavage. He just has a way of doing something to her. When he’s close to her, like this, she has no control over her body. She hates that he can govern her like that, but what she hates more, is that she likes it.
“Yeah,” is all that he gives her, until he whispers with a sexy curl of his lips, “The little bit in my life that’s annoying.”
His dimples set deeper when he lifts his shirt and she places herself closer; closer than she wants to be.
God, he is extremely arresting this close-up. Her body clenches in private places, puckers and strains in others. Acutely aware of the precise rhythm of his hot breath, it vanquishes her. Without warning, his taste, his scent—is inside her. A rich, heavy scent of musk and leather, and a crisp freshness. It paralyzes her ability to control her reactions to him. Her head spins a little, lightheaded.
“Move a little toward the light,” she murmurs. He complies immediately. She presses her fingertips gently into the sore red flesh. The swelling has definitely lessened. The bleeding has stopped, and his fever is almost down to normal. The bandage is fresh from the morning, and since he hasn’t bled, she places it back on, setting it back over the healing wound.
“Looks good.” She bites her lower lip over and over with her two front teeth, trying hard not to inhale his intoxicating scent.
He clears his throat and stands straight, his face moving away from hers. “You do that a lot."
“Do what?” She peeks up at him, dropping his shirt down and stepping a little away. He looks at her face. She isn’t sure where he is staring at or what he is looking for, as his eyes become silver in the moonlight, swirls of white dancing at a hypnotizing pace.
“Your mouth… You bite it a lot."
Her lungs swell up, and suddenly her mouth tingles; it feels on fire as if his gaze is physically touching that very part of her.
“Nervous habit,” she says, turning away from him. He moves to face her, but she refuses to return the gesture. She walks away, her back facing him, trying to escape what he’s unconsciously doing to her.
“You have a lot of them.” She hears him snicker, the arrogance evide
nt in the small noise, and her eyes squeeze shut.
God, he gets under my skin. I have to stop letting him get under me...
“Yes, well, it’s not every day you have a criminal being held up in your house."
“How’d you know I'm a criminal?" he says, somewhere behind her.
“The gun kinda gave it away."
“Could be an undercover cop." She hasn’t heard any footsteps, but he sounds closer.
“Do I look that dumb?” The dryness in her voice drips like acid.
“Stupidity has nothing to do with it.” She finally turns to face him. “Just don't be so sure you know me."
She surprises him by moving closer, her eyes squinting. He looks black and haunted in the dark part of the room where he stands. A foot away from him, she uncrosses her arms. Her eyebrows lower and almost meet as she tries desperately inside to untangle his mystery.
Her question comes out breathy and unsure, “Who are you? Really?"
Her tone seems to disturb him. She bites down on her lip. He watches her movement. Closely. His thumb traces the outer edge of his finger.
“I'm not your friend. You shouldn't trust me."
She nods, fighting back tears that will undo her. “I know. I don't."
“Good."
“Good.” She goes to move around him, wanting to escape through the door, but he catches her arm and nudges her closer.
“That doesn't mean...” His husky voice is hesitant. He licks his lips when his sight frames in on different parts of her profile. “You have someone, don’t you? This... date…" He sighs like it hurts him.
“There is no-one." Something beats and echoes under the lining of her skin, urging her forward and tearing her back. He leans over her.
“No-one?"
“No,” she clips out between another sniffle. “I'm fine. I don't need anyone."
She wipes beneath her nose before she braves herself to look at him. Her lashes are wet from unshed tears, and reluctantly they trail slowly up his face, meeting his penetrating gaze. A tiny corner of her heart pulls hard.