by Hera August
“You're such a stupid bastard—you know that?” Tate goes on, unhindered. He comes to stand in front of Judas who is leaning against the wall, his head down. “You think I don't know why you did what you did for her? Why you saved her family? It's a lot more than just gratitude. Gratitude is one thing. You're risking your fucking life for this girl—your job, Vladimir, everything. Because what?”
“She saved my life. I owe her."
“Bullshit.” Tate shakes his head. “That's bullshit and you know it. You wouldn't have done any of this, gone this far for her if you didn't feel something. And the other day, man, I interrupted something in your bedroom. You don’t get that angry over something that ain’t important. I mean, for fuck’s sakes, she smashed your goddamn mirror. There definitely—”
“Tate."
“What would've happened if I didn't come in, huh? You want her, you like her—it’s so fucking obvious, you just don't wanna like her. Isn't that right?” Judas shakes his head. “She’s special, Judas, I get it. The world ain’t made up much with girls like her. Don’t fuck this up... You ain’t your dad."
Standing tall, Judas reaches his full height, his stare heavily armored. “You don’t wanna go there," Judas says through gritted teeth. But seconds later, he sighs, his shoulders lowering a little. "Just go. Know how scared you get when you ride at night."
“Is that so, Judas?” Tate says with a grin, backing off before sighing. “Like I said, Judas, I'm not trying to piss you off. I just… I care about you, man, you’re like a brother to me—and Belle. She's sweet. Too fucking sweet for all this shit. You gotta be careful with her.” Tate glances at Belle’s sleeping form, then swings his eyes back to Judas who’s watching over her.
“I'd never hurt her on purpose,” Judas admits, his voice, for the first time, defenseless. “I don't want her hurt... I'm trying... She means…"
“I know, man. I know.” Tate pulls out his keys from his jacket, and gives Judas a smile before leaving. “I'll be in touch."
“Yeah.”
Judas doesn’t turn his sight from Belle.
He isn't anything like his father.
He isn't.
WHEN SHE AWAKES, it’s to the sound of crackling fire and warm silence.
For a second, Belle thinks she is dreaming. The smell of sweet coffee, the peaceful lull of quiet, invades her senses like a drug filling the crevasses of her insides that the cold has hollowed out.
Her lashes blink up at the ceiling; fluttering and offbeat with her foggy mind. She searches to remember where she is and what’s happened to bring her here. Trying to move, she suddenly feels a shockwave of pain bolt up from her jaw to the center of her head. She stifles the painful cry in her throat; if it hurt just to speak now, then this short-lived twinge is just the warning pain of a migraine if she dares to move an inch out of place.
Her eyes drift down to her body. A sea of pillows and blankets lay around her, and then she notices her clothes have been changed. Her attention is averted when the roaring fire beside her stokes higher; a gentle heat to her damp and bruised body. Belle feels like a rag doll that’s been gnarled on by a bunch of seething dogs. She attempts to move again, the vibration of pain just a slight introduction to God knows what.
“I wouldn't do that if I were you."
Belle stiffens. Her eyes travel right; her body lays still on its back. Judas is on the couch. And he looks like he’s been there for some time, watching her.
Watching over her.
“I'm… I’m fine.” She clears her throat. It burns. “I… could use some Motrin or something."
Judas is in and out of the living-room before the last word utters from her mouth. As he makes his way back to her, she gets a full head-to-toe view of him.
He looks… good. Better than good. His complexion has held on to its golden-brown color, while his eyes are diamond bright and piercing. Whatever weight he lost from the gunshot wound has been filled in his face and upper body, giving him an all-around healthy male glow. He’s all in black: shirt, pants, shoes, even his watch is black. Something about the monotony of the one-color attire dramatizes the edge of Judas’ already lethal appeal.
“What happened?” he asks, concerned.
His cold persona seems to be missing and is instead replaced with warmth. Care. It unnerves her as she tries to remember. “There… I thought I heard something in the woods…”
His eyes darken. “Was someone there?”
Her head aches as she tries to think back. “I… I remember hearing something… seeing boots, then… nothing.”
“Boots? Like those?” he asks, looking over to a pair of muddy black boots by the fire. She follows his line of vision and closes her eyes, feeling like a complete idiot. Everything from before is a blur and all she remembers is being paranoid because she heard something shuffle. In the woods. At night. Of course there’d be noises in the woods at night, and the boots traipsing after her were probably Judas’. Coming to save her. Again. Her skin peeks in temperature. She can’t even run ten feet without being paranoid that the world is out to get her; running for no reason.
Hiding.
“Here," he says, sitting next to her. He is so close, she involuntarily inhales his essence. His large body casts a shadow over her, and gives him an ominous presence she isn’t quite comfortable with in her weakened position. She wets her lips, realizing he had been the one to undress her into her comfy sweater-vest. Suddenly she wonders how long she’s been out, and for how much time he’s been sitting there, looking over her while she’s been sleeping, completely unaware of his trained eyes on her.
The two small pills lay flat and tiny in the palm of his hand, and the glass of water stretches out in his other palm. Ignoring the thundering pain that shoots out in her head, Belle swallows, sits up off-balance, and skitters a bit away from his huge form. She doesn’t know why, but he seems so much bigger than she remembers. Like there is so much of him, her brain can't take it all in at once; his mere presence starkly overwhelming.
She ingests the pills, handing him back the glass, and making sure her skin doesn’t touch his. Judas may act like nothing happened, but she hasn’t forgotten. When he doesn’t oblige the space she is seeking, she forces a smile. Even that hurts. “I'm fine,” she lies. “Really."
“You don't look good."
“Thanks a lot.” She presses her finger into the sore spot on her cheek. He continues staring, his eyes eclipsing black when he sees her flinch at her own touch.
God, how can you sit there and look so cut-up, when you’re the one to cause me so much pain…
“I'm being serious," he says.
Her head falls forward as her fingers travel up, finding and rubbing the sore spot just above the crown of her forehead. Her reply is muffled and dry, “Well, if you fell down a hill and were knocked unconscious, maybe you wouldn't look so good either."
“Don’t know about that but you're in pain, Belle.”
“I'm fine." She glares at him through the small opening of her fallen hair. Why is he suddenly acting like he gives a damn? After the way he behaved. After what he said...
"This doesn't exactly fit you, you know. Pretending to care. I don't need it. So Stop pretending," she mutters.
“Let me help you—"
“Help? Is that part of some training course you take before you do your first kidnapping job,” she scoffs. “I don’t want your help. I can take care of myself.” Her chin rises, along with the temperature in her face. “I don't need a babysitter.”
He pins her with a hard glare. "Belle." His eyes root to some place on her face. “Are you hungry?" he asks, changing the subject.
“I can get it myself.” She shifts under his caging watch, licking her lips and wincing at the small sting. “I'm too tired to do anything else but sleep right now. So just go... No, wait. I’ll go." When he remains bent over her, his stare still pervasive, her frustration gets the better of her pain. “What?"
The veil lifts from his eye
s. “What?” he sighs angrily, his eyes narrowing.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” she snaps. He doesn't say anything. “I'm fine. I don't need you coddling me. I have a headache, not an aneurysm. Give me some space—and why do you care, anyway? You’ve made it perfectly clear how much you care about me."
“Why were you out there?” he questions, as if he hasn’t heard a word she’s said.
“I like running at night. Didn't Tate tell you?"
His breathing grows lethargic, his glare beating down on her. "Why?"
She eyes him with trepidation before returning her attention to the cut on her head. “Clears my head."
“From what?”
“From being here."
“With me," he says, lowering his head.
“Yes, because everything is about you, isn’t it, Judas?" She scrapes the hair away from her eyes, her body imploring for some semblance of balance her senses have been abandoned of. “It helps me think, all right."
“And you have to endanger yourself to think? You could've run in the courtyard—it's big enough. But no. You have to journey into the fucking woods at night. You could’ve injured yourself worse than a few cuts, goddammit."
“Don't curse at me.” Despite the screaming soreness in her head, she stumbles to her feet, leaning her legs against the couch. “I like the woods. I like the trees and the open air. I like being there. Alone. And I don't have to explain why. Especially not to you. I’ll run where I want, when I want. "
She turns her back to him to leave, but he stands up and grabs her by the wrist. “It’s my duty to keep you safe."
She tips her head at the ceiling. “You're trying to make me crazy. Stop pretending, Judas.” She pulls at his hold, but it's useless. “Stop pretending to care. I know where you stand. I get it now. Crystal clear. So this whole caring routine you're doing isn't necessary."
He shifts closer, close enough that the tip of his toe is touching hers. “You think I'm pretending to care for you?" he growls throatily.
“You said the other night—”
“Fuck what I said—”
“Judas,” she warns. Her eyes close and she sighs. “I don’t like that word.”
“Too bad,” he shoots back, not falling for her petty attempts at diversion. “Answer the question,” he demands. “You really think I don't care?"
She doesn’t hesitate in replying, “Yes." Her voice lifts then falls. "I really think you don't… Can you blame me?”
His bottom lip drops ever so slightly to reveal his hurt. Her throat feels dry, and suddenly she’s almost too aware of the warm skin underneath her fingers that are wrapping around her. She feels her goose-bumps ringing around his hold, her shoulders lifting.
“You don't, Judas. You don't.” Her body tenses, fighting back his touch. His closeness. She can’t give in. She can’t. “Right?" she croaks.
His body drifts nearer, diminishing the distance between them to a sliver of a thread. His stare heats, and she knows he can see her burning in slow degrees as the pad of his thumb falls and swishes against the white unexposed flesh of her inner wrist. He licks his lips, like the battle of wills war to life inside him. His thumb presses deeply into her flesh. His eyes follow her small, nervous movements, and he seems to grow more aggressively pleased with each shake her body makes.
“Belle,” he murmurs with tight restraint, looking unsure of what he himself is doing as his other hand comes up to her face.
“Judas…” She breathes his name in a warning, wanting him to stop, but pleading for him to touch her. To invade her space. She pulls at his hold, twisting her hand so that her palm is facing the ceiling.
“Don't…” his breathless whisper cautions.
“Don't what?” she asks, her words foggy. “Judas?"
Neither of them have the strength to look away from each other, with the gravitational intensity that climbs between their bodies and pulses in their gaze. Belle tries to back away, but Judas won’t let her walk away.
Not this time.
“I'm sorry."
Her heart stops for a split second. The sincerity of his apology has her eyes meet his lingering stare.
Since Judas left, she’s been dreaming—begging—to hear those words from his lips. “For... what?” she asks, breathless. There never seems to be enough air to inhale when she’s around him.
“I did this,” he confesses, lowly. “If I hadn’t been a bastard to you… The thought of losing you... I was wrong… God, Belle, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean the things I said. You have to know that. You’re beautiful. Too fucking beautiful for me." Her body scoots forward, acting on sheer impulse. “I don't want you hurt because of me. You're already in enough danger."
“Judas, I—” A sharp, tight sting ricochets off her skull, drumming to the depths of her brain. She leans forward, pressing the flat of her palm into her head. “Ow!” Judas is right over her and guides her back to sit down on the couch. She tries to conceal her pain from him because that’s what she’s done for most of her life.
Hide.
“I'm okay. I'm fine."
But he won’t let her.
“Look at me.” His soft order stirs the tiny hairs on the back of her neck. When she doesn’t immediately tilt her head up, both his hands cup each side of her head, raising it in small deathly inches.
“Don’t, Judas… Don’t.” She tries to fight him, the pain and anger he caused inside her still intoxicates her mind and heart.
“Don’t fight me, Belle.” His voice drops. “I’m sorry.” When his brilliant eyes sweep across her face, she melts in his hands. She can’t deny him. The self-loathing she sees in his eyes for what he’s done to her, eradicates any hate within her. For a man like Judas Bane to ask for forgiveness, it is something rare.
Belle licks the dry, parched patches of flesh on her lips, feeling self-conscious when his face inches to the point of sensory suffocation. Her eyes drill into the spot above his shoulder, her hands fist at her sides clumping fabric with her hands. His inspection drags out at a torturing pace. His eyes seem to sketch and memorize every detail of her as they move the length and width of her, from ear to ear, hairline to chin. It's as if she isn’t there at all. He is so thrown into what he’s doing, Belle almost feels like a distant memory. A ghost.
Her mouth opens on a sigh, barely missing his chin, “It's okay, Judas. I'm fine." But she isn’t. She’s been breaking apart ever since that night.
Judas doesn’t seem content with her words or with what he sees, as though knowing she isn’t talking about her physical injuries. He stops, releasing her face, but not budging from where he sits over her. “I hurt you, Belle. I know I have.” His whisper almost hazes in her mind. “You’re not okay because of me.”
“I-I…" The side of his finger comes up, pushing her chin gently but firmly in the direction of his face. Looking openly at him, her eyes grow large, darting reluctantly between his candid stare. Her skin grows heavy, she feels like cement is being poured over her whole body. She can’t move to resist him. It’s as if she has ignored all the warnings and leapt with both feet from a dizzying cliff, and now she’s afraid to look down for fear of what she may see. Feel.
But she can’t stop falling.
“You hurt me.” Belle makes the phrase come out before she crumbles altogether.
His thumb climbs from her chin to the cut below her bottom lip. In a slow menacing caress, he follows the pattern of the cut and whispers, “I know…” and his stare follows his finger, darkening along its path. “You scared me,” he confesses, so quietly, she isn’t sure if she imagined it.
“I didn't mean to,” she admits, just as low, swallowing when his hand voyages farther back and palms her head in his hand.
“You never mean to,” he lightly accuses before his tone switches. “I’ll never forgive myself for the things I’ve done and said. But I’ll do anything to make it up to you, Belle. I promise.” His voice is solemn as he speaks against her face, draw
ing her breath into the rhythm of his. The small connecting sounds, like tiny earthquakes, silence the room, wrapping around their bodies, annihilating whatever excuse she is about to hand him.
All she can do is feel and think... him.
He is overloading her senses, drowning out her pain, her worry, her life, and taking full reign of what small control she has left. The weight of his palm under the curtain of hair, presses against her skin like a hot furnace. He unabashedly brings her closer, nudging her unwillingness to surrender. Her cheeks keep up their continuous everlasting burning as the tip of her nose bumps the space between his upper lip and nose.
She hasn’t touched him yet, but her imagination is running wild with the idea of him. She remembers vividly how his body feels against hers. The small hairs on his face, the smooth sharp tip of his nose as he draws her in with his greedy intake of breath, the way his eyes cut through her thin veil of awkwardness, reaching for the one he wants, the one he hunts out and seeks, like a starving man in need of sustenance.
He licks his lips, his breath shaky against hers, “What do you want?"
“I... I want… I don’t know..." He’s breaking down her defenses—again—to the point she can no longer trust her instincts.
“Right now…” His eyes pin her against the wall of her mind. “…what do you want?"
The details of the night they were intimate come back to her in a warm rush, and her answer is urgent, desperate, “Something that doesn't exist.” A tear pricks at one of her eyes, but it never falls.
That answer seems to be enough for Judas, pushing him over some limit, some line he swore never to cross. He grips her hair tighter, firmer, almost to the point of pain, but the pleasure is so overflowing and cumbersome, she has to bite at her lip to shield the moan her body threatens to scream.
“Belle,” he warns darkly, the crackle of the fireplace meeting in beat with the crackle of building sensations that are stalling and waiting at the very edge of her. “Aren't you going to stop me?” he taunts.
Belle Dela Cruz has fallen hard for Judas Bane.
