Title: Blue

Summary: Her life has been filled with chaos. He provides the control.

Pairing: Bella & Edward

Rating: M

Word Count: 10,665

DISCLAIMER: Twilight and its inclusive material is copyright to Stephenie Meyer. Original creation, including but not limited to plot and characters, is copyright to the respective authors of each story. No copyright infringement is intended.

•B•

My old college roommate and I are just polishing off a glass of wine in my apartment when the first shot rings out.

We both pause from our laughter, lipstick smeared wine glasses trembling in our hands. Another shot pierces the night air outside. Then silence.

I've lived in the city only a handful of years, not long enough to lose the soft southern lite of Florida. In that time, I can count on one hand how often I've heard gunshots in my neighborhood. In fact, bragging to my friends back home about how much safer my life is now in New York compared to the white trash slums where I grew up is a favorite pastime of mine.

"We should call 911," Angie says, abandoning her wineglass on my curbside coffee table. I call it that because that's where I found it. Queen of dumpster diving, I am.

"No one will come. And if they do, the person will be dead before they show up." Hospitals across the city are short-staffed. There's a pandemic raging outside. A flu-like virus that began in China three months ago now ravages the US. Not only do we have shelter-in-place orders, they've now instituted a nine p.m. curfew. Opening my phone to the welcome screen, I note the time. Twelve twenty a.m.

I follow Angie to the window where we barely part open the blinds.

The streets are abandoned. All except for a black SUV. Tinted windows. Passenger door slightly ajar. It's idling halfway on the sidewalk parallel to my apartment. A body falls out, collapsing on itself until it's a jumble of darkness on the empty street. Angie and I release twin gasps, our eyes meeting briefly before returning to the scene. The door closes. The SUV tears off. I click the camera app on my phone repeatedly, but I'm sure the tag is but a blur.

"We need to get him off the street before someone runs over him." I'm away from the windows now, hunting for my face mask. Seconds feel like hours before I find it abandoned atop the small bookshelf near my door.

"I'm calling 911," Angie repeats. I wonder if repeating herself soothes her. Makes her feel like we have a plan. She tucks her pin-straight brown hair behind one ear. The tiny diamond stud blinks underneath the harsh, yellow, motion-activated light right outside my door. Wearing a mask of her own, she follows me down the steps leading from my apartment to ground level. The bookstore where I worked before the virus rendered me jobless sits abandoned below my apartment.

Angie rattles off her name and my address to the 911 operator as we reach the sidewalk. The city night is deathly silent, and it strikes me that this is the first time I've stepped outside my home after sunset in weeks. Shuddering at the thought and the form of a broken man lying deadly still ahead of me, I cross the street, not stopping until I'm standing over his prone body.

"White male, mid-twenties maybe," Angie blurts into the phone. "His face is beaten pretty badly."

Yes, it is. At least one side. His eye is swollen shut and there are cuts around his eye, nose, and lips. Blood dribbles from his mouth into the street. His face is stark white, and what I can see of his hair peeking around the edges of his hoodie is auburn and roguish. The back of his hoodie and shirt rode up during his fall from the SUV. There's a defined cut of muscles in his lower back, emphasizing a well-maintained physique.

"I don't know if he's breathing." Angie looks at me, her hand wavering above his body, afraid to touch him. "Is he breathing?"

It takes both of us to turn him over. The sight of his battered face forces me to suck in a sharp breath. More cuts and another swollen eye. The original shape of his nose is indistinguishable because it's now bulbous and red. In fact, his entire face is bulbous and red, like he's endured a thousand bee stings. If I knew him prior to tonight I wouldn't recognize him. The rise and fall of his chest answers her question. She relays the affirmative to the 911 operator while I press two fingers to the carotid artery in his neck.

"Strong pulse," I murmur. "You're a fighter, huh?" He'd have to be. His shirt is ripped. I push the fabric up to study his chest, checking for more injuries. His ribs are beaten red. I touch them, feeling for broken bones, but what I feel isn't a broken bone. I feel his eyes. Heavy. Studying me. Blood drips into his eyes from the cut between his brows. The whites of his eyes are now pink. And his irises are like emeralds.

"Hey, you're gonna be okay. Angie's called an ambulance." My voice sounds strange. Softer than normal. Not like I'm speaking to a child, but maybe a wild animal. His chest falls and rises faster. There's a subtle shake of his head.

"No ambulance. No cops." His voice is thick and scratchy.

I reach for his hand and he flinches away at the contact, leaving a trail of blood on my palm. I wipe it on my jeans and try not to feel offended.

"We heard a gunshot. Have you been shot?" There's little to no blood on the street. What I do find seems to be coming from his face. With his dark clothes it's difficult to tell if he's bleeding anywhere else.

Ignoring me, the guy stares up at Angie. "Hang up the phone."

"Are you worried about the virus? Because at this point I think the virus is less likely to kill you than all this." I gesture at his injuries and crack a smile, trying to lighten the mood. My smile is pointless though. The mask hides half my face.

He struggles to sit up on his elbows, never breaking eye contact with Angie. When he reaches inside his waistband he pulls out a gun. Points it at her face.

"Say nothin' and end the call." His accent is thick now that he seems to have gotten some of his strength back. Classic New York. He's definitely a native to the city.

Angie's jaw becomes unhinged and her fingers nimble. The phone clatters to the ground. The guy finally looks at me, nodding at the phone.

I pick it up, my grip surprisingly unshaken. I've seen my fair share of guns. And a lot bigger than this one. I'm well aware of the damage they can do but this still seems like nothing to me. All I feel is numb, calm.

I think the guy's aware of that, too, because of the way he looks at me. He's reading me.

"Sorry, we made a mistake," I tell a flustered, blubbering operator. "No one's injured." I end the call and raise an eyebrow, waiting for his next set of instructions.

"Give me the phone."

Even though I'm calm, I'm still cautious while handing it over. Once it's in his possession he smashes it on the ground and all caution is thrown to the wind.

"Hey! Those things cost money, you know! You can't just go around breaking my friend's shit."

"Uh, Bella …"

"What?" I turn my annoyance on Angie who appears regretful, wringing her hands together.

"That was actually your phone."

Well, fuck.

Blowing out a breath, I flash the guy a nasty look before stepping over him to retrieve my busted phone that cost me eight hundred dollars.

To my surprise and deep satisfaction, he flinches.

"Come on, Ang. Let's get out of here. It's obvious we're not needed or wanted." Stepping back over the busted piñata, I grab Ang by the elbow to haul her back inside. "I knew we should have just minded our business." That's what we get for trying to be good samaritans. A broken phone and a gun in our faces. Damn Angie and her good heart. But mostly for grabbing my phone instead of hers.

We just step up on the curb when a quiet curse echoes through the street.

"Wait." His plea comes out as a kind of pathetic wheeze.

I turn back to face him, crossing my arms over my chest. "What now?"

"Need to use your phone."

I scoff. "You should have thought about that before you broke it." I hold it up to show him the shattered, black screen.

"Not yours, hers." He juts his chin toward Angela.

I roll my eyes at the audacity then turn away again.

"You're not really gonna leave me down here in the middle of the street now, are ya?"

"Yes." My answer is immediate. I don't even have to think about it.

Until he cocks his gun.

Angie and I both stop in our tracks, our backs still to him. I'm so pissed I could break my phone all over again with how hard I'm squeezing it in my fist.

Slowly I turn around, putting myself in front of my friend because she's a good person and she doesn't deserve this shit. If she ever got shot because of my mouth I'd never forgive myself.

"You really gonna shoot us?" I ask.

Angela wraps her trembling fingers around my upper arm. "Bella …"

"You really gonna shoot two innocent women who came out in the middle of the night to help you?"

He doesn't answer, instead uncocks his gun and lies back down, defeated.

"Bella, we can't just leave him out here. It doesn't feel right."

"What do you suggest we do? Actually take him inside the apartment so he knows exactly where I live? Are you insane?"

Angela frowns, looking over at the stranger sprawled out in the middle of the street then back at me.

"Jesus. Fine. Fine!" I head back over to his limp body, motioning for Angela to follow me. "I'm not hauling him up five flights of steps by myself. Grab that arm," I tell her while going for the other. "If we help, can you stand?" I ask the guy.

He nods, letting out a low groan when we hoist him off the ground. Draping his arms over our shoulders, we link our arms around his back. The best he can do is hobble, putting most of his weight on us. He's much heavier than he looks. Then again, he does appear to be made of pure muscle. I'm damn near out of breath before we even make it to the door. I have no idea how we're going to make it up all these stairs.

As it turns out, very slowly.

Once he's settled on the couch I go straight for the Motrin then offer my guests some. Angie refuses but the guy on the couch whose name I still don't know doesn't think twice before swiping the pills and downing the rest of my water.

You're welcome.

We're all silent for a moment, catching our bearings. Angela's staring off into space, her eyelids drooping lower and lower. Glancing at the clock, I see it's nearly two in the morning.

"You should go to bed, Ang. We can both stay in my room. I'll be in in a minute."

Barely breaking out of her trance, she gives me a look. "You're sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. Your phone still charging in the kitchen?"

"Should be."

I nod. "'K, I'll grab it so he can call a ride and get out of here." I glare at what little green I can see through the slits of his eyes. He glares just as hard, his head resting against the back of the couch. I swear to God if he gets any blood on it … "I'll be fine."

Angie just nods, taking a few more seconds to pry herself off the couch before heading into the bedroom, making sure to leave the door cracked.

I hold back an annoyed huff when I finally get to my feet to retrieve the phone from the kitchen. The last thing I want to be is awake and dealing with this shit. Especially when the guy shows no manners, dismissing me with a jerk of his head. I flip off the back of it, disappearing into the bathroom so he can make his top secret phone call in private.

Fucking double-o douchebag.

I don't even try to listen in on the hushed conversation making its way through the paper thin walls. The last thing I need is knowledge on some detail that's going to get me murdered or worse. Instead I gather supplies to try and clean this guy up because the dried blood is seriously starting to stink. I would offer to let him take a shower but then his clothes would still be bloody. If I wash them that means he'd end up walking around here in nothing but a towel until they were done. And, no. No. I'm not offering to wash this guy's stupid clothes. Fucking no.

A knock startles me. Everything is so much damn louder in the dead of night. The next thing I know the bathroom door is flying open.

"What the hell? What if I was in here taking a piss?" I ask the bloodied man who takes up half the doorway.

Leaning against the frame, he folds his arms across his torso. "Then I guess I woulda caught you with your pants down." He glances at my legs that are still hidden behind my pajama pants. "Pity," he says, nodding once at the supplies in my lap. "That for me? You plannin' on cleaning me up, putting me back together again? Ah." He shoots me a smirk, his pearly white teeth peeking out when he adds a condescending, "Ain't that sweet."

I bet that look does it for all the girls because it sure as hell does something for me. I want to punch him all that much more for it.

My scowl turns into surprise when there's a knock at the apartment door.

"Is that for you?" I ask.

"No, too soon. You sure you're not expecting anybody?"

I give him a look and shove the supplies I'm holding into his chest. "Do us both a favor and clean yourself up." I turn sideways, doing my best not to sweep any part of my body against his when I whisper, "You're starting to smell."

He does the exact opposite and dumps the supplies on the counter to follow me into the living room. Holding a finger up to his busted lip, he has me stand on the opposite end of the door as he slides the chain lock into place then pulls the gun from behind his back.

"Is that really necessary?" I whisper.

He doesn't answer, instead silently gestures, giving his permission to proceed. I shake my head, opening the door to find my landlord, Mr. Forge, on the other side.

At five-six I'm not a particularly tall woman but I still stand a good foot above Mr. Forge's balding head. There are always big chunks of dandruff in his combover and holes in his shirts. His hairy belly protrudes below the hem as if he doesn't realize he's grown out of it. Not to mention he reeks of patchouli. I fucking hate patchouli. I fucking hate him, too. We both frown at each other because the feeling's mutual. Has been ever since I passed on giving him a blow job in place of this month's rent payment. I'd rather be tossed out on the street.

"Mr. F., it's two in the morning. To what do I owe the displeasure?"

He chuckles darkly like a movie villain. "Exactly. It's two in the mornin'." His voice rises, echoing down the hallway. "So, why are you out here causin' a ruckus and disturbing people while they're tryin' to sleep?" he asks in his overbearing voice, accentuating the words with his hands and short sausage fingers.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Mr. F. I've been inside all night." I shrug, lying easily. "Must have been somebody else."

"Ah. It was somebody else, huh?" He points to the ceiling. "You forget I got cameras." He sweeps his finger from one end of the hall to the other. "I go pull the footage and you realize I find out you're lyin' to me, that's grounds to throw you out on your ass, right? Unless … oh, I don't know …" He scratches the underside of his chin. "You reconsider, put that big mouth to some use."

I'm this close to telling him to do it. Go ahead, pull the footage on the cameras that haven't worked in years. My mouth is open and at the ready to tell him to fuck off and go fuck himself when the door is pushed closed, the chain lock is unhooked, and the guy who caused all this mess tonight rips it back open pointing the gun at my skeezy landlord's forehead.

"The fuck you just say to her?"

Mr. F audibly gulps. He slowly raises his hands at the surrender.

"Did I hear you right?" The psychotic stranger removes the gun from Mr. F's forehead and places the barrel against his own ear, acting as if he's cleaning it with it. "Did you just threaten to kick this lady out if she didn't suck your curdled dick?"

I wince at the crude description.

"Are sure you even still have one? When's the last time you seen it?"

Mr. F. glances down. I gum my lips to keep from laughing.

Dropping the gun to his side, my gangster in a black hoodie sighs. "Listen, it's late. Or early. However you wanna spin it. I'm tired. You're tired." He flippantly waves the gun at Mr. F. "Bella here's tired." The fact he remembers my name and says it out loud sends a sick thrill through me. "I'm willing to chalk this up to, uh, sleep deprivation." He shrugs. "As long as you apologize and promise to never threaten her with eviction or your dick again. And if you do, I don't know. I'll blow it off or somethin'. Sound fair?" he asks, then looks at me.

Astounded by the turn of events I simply nod my head.

Mr. F. looks simultaneously regretful and relieved. Bringing his hands up like in prayer he bows. "Of course, Mr. C. I … I apologize. I—"

"Not to me, to her."

"Yes, yes. I'm so sorry, Miss Swan. It will never happen again. You have my word." Mr. F. swiftly bows to me before the door is slammed in his face and I'm standing there confused as all fuck.

Mr. C? My landlord knows this hoodlum? He bows to him? What?

This guy, Mr. C, heads into my kitchen, pulling out drawers and slamming them shut like he's in search of God knows what. Once he finds it he comes back over to where I'm standing.

"He won't be bothering you again. Not if he knows what's good for him. If he does, let me know and I'll take care of it. For good this time." He hands me Angela's phone and a piece of paper with a number scribbled on it.

All I can do is stand there and stare at it as he turns to leave. I'm tired. I'm speechless. I have no idea what just happened or what's going on.

"Oh, and make sure you lock up." He taps the edge of the door with the end of his gun. "The world's full of crazy assholes. And not all of them are as nice as me."

"Wait," I tell him before he leaves.

He raises an eyebrow when I dart off to the bathroom, but is still standing by the door when I return. I open a tin of salve, dip my finger in, and gesture for him to turn his face downward a bit. He's tall. At least half a foot taller than me.

"That shit stinks," he complains, but goes quiet when my fingers glide over his face.

"Stop complaining. This'll numb the pain and help with the swelling." I coat his face in a thin layer of the cool salve, my throat tightening with each swipe. This Mr. C. guy has perfect bone structure underneath all that swelling. It's regal really. Sharp and cutting, and thick, low eyebrows giving him a serious, sinister expression without any actual effort.

"You smell nice," he murmurs, eyelids fluttering. For a moment he softens, but then his eyes are wide open. He catches my wrist and brings it to his nose, inhaling. "Sweet. Smells better than this shit you're rubbing on my face." One side of his mouth kicks up. "Maybe I should rub some of you on my face."

"Does that line really work?" I snap, but he's no fool. His fingers are resting on the inside of my wrist, palpating the unsteady strum of my frantic pulse. He full-on grins.

"Interesting." He presses a kiss to my wrist, his gaze never leaving mine. "Seems like it does."

Somehow I manage to wrangle my arm away and screw the lid on the tin. I offer him the salve. "Put it on twice a day until you're healed. Unless you prefer that ugly mug you've got going on now."

I've never met a man who enjoys my bite. But if his growing smile is any indication, he's into it. Which doesn't serve me well because the guy's obviously a psycho.

"I mean it, if your landlord gives you any more trouble, call me."

"What, with my imaginary phone?" Rolling my eyes, I practically push him out the door. "Goodnight Mr. C."

He gives me a split-lipped grin. "Night, Bella."

•B•

Angie leaves about midday after a long interrogation concerning what happened after she dozed off last night. She blames her stupidity of inviting a complete stranger with a gun up to my apartment on wine and sleep deprivation. For some reason, I forgive her and give her all the details about Mr. C. threatening to blow off my landlord's dick, but keep the part about him giving me his number to myself. Not sure why I do that. I tell myself it's because she'll be asking me daily if I've called him, even though she knows I won't. Calling guys goes against my very nature. I'm an introvert at best, preferring my own company to anyone else's. Not including the "grown and sexy" pajama party Angie and I throw monthly, quarantine be damned.

The next couple days crawl by. They go something like this: wake up around ten a.m., eat breakfast, check the daily stats on how many people have died from the virus, eat a snack, watch CNN, click over to Fox News for entertainment purposes only, eat another snack, turn off the TV, stare at the wall, eat lunch, pin DIY low-budget projects on Pinterest, eat supper, wander to the rooftop, stare at the blazing sun as it dips past the tall buildings in the horizon.

While on the rooftop I spot a black SUV. It looks like the one that dumped this Mr. C. character in front of my apartment. It creeps by, chromed out and gleaming under the streetlights. The driver has the window open, one arm casually resting against the open window. He nods at me. I nod back. Italian guy around my age. Twenty-four or so. Once he's too far away to recognize, I abandon the rooftop and head into my apartment. But I no longer feel safe inside my home.

"No good deed goes unpunished," I mutter to myself.

There's no way I'm staying here tonight. After digging around in the back of my closet, I find an overnight bag, fill it with toiletries and a couple change of clothes. The Glock 22 I bought a few years ago rests in a case under my bed. I grab it, plenty of bullets, and stuff them both inside the bag. On principle alone, I hate guns. That doesn't mean I don't know how to use one.

There's a bodega around the corner that sells burner phones. For a second I consider calling Mr. C. After all, he's the one who's put me in this situation. I quickly discard that idea. I've never been dependent on a man for anything. I'm sure not gonna start depending on one now.

Since I'm not planning on coming back tonight, I stop to check my mail because honestly, it's been a while. I let out a huff while reading the notice that a package couldn't be delivered without a signature. So, it looks like I'm also going to the post office. Oh well, at least it's on the way to the bodega. I still need a phone whether I call this guy or not.

There's a guy sitting on my stoop when I step outside. A big beefy guy tucking into a massive Italian sandwich. He looks like he's been sitting there awhile. He glances up at the sound of the door shutting behind me and smiles around a mouthful of bread, meat, and cheese.

"You Bells?" he asks once he's swallowed his bite and stored the rest of the sandwich in a paper bag.

"Bell-a," I correct. "Do I know you?" I'm immediately reminded of the SUV, but this doesn't look like that guy. Maybe someone in his crew, but not the driver.

I clutch my bag closer to my side and take a step back, bumping against the door behind me when he stands to his full height. He wipes the oil and spices from his fingers on some napkins from the bag and offers his hand in greeting. I stare at it, unmoved.

"Ah, yeah, shit. Virus and all, right? Fucking virus." He shakes his head, the idea that I don't want to touch his greasy hand because it's greasy never seeming to cross his mind. "You forgot your mask, yeah?" He points at my face. "Masen'll kill me if I let ya out of here unprotected. Even if it's just a shitty mask."

"Back up. Who's Masen?"

Wait.

"You mean that guy that got dumped here a couple days ago? Mr. C?"

"Yeah. Not very observant, are ya?" He grins at his unfunny statement. "I'm here to protect ya, kiddo." The guy's maybe two years older than me at the most. I huff at the kiddo comment.

"How long have you been here?"

The guy counts it out on his fingers. "Couple days."

I gape. "Excuse me?"

He shrugs. "Not twenty-four/seven. We switch out. Take turns and shit."

"We?"

"Me and Jasper, one of Masen's guys. You sure got a lotta questions, kid."

"Not a kid, and of course I have questions. When a rando hangs around my stoop, I'm gonna have questions."

"Yeah, but you didn't notice me." The grin he wears shows off his impressive, deep dimples. "Don't get out much, do ya?"

I stare at him blankly. "We are literally in a quarantine. Not getting out much is kinda the point." Sighing, I add, "Look, tell Masen thank you for keeping an eye on things, but I can handle myself. There's no need for the muscle."

"Got it under control? Is that why you're packed up and heading out at the first sign of trouble?" Big guy raises an eyebrow. "Yeah, I saw 'em. The Russos. This ain't the first time they've been by."

"What do they want with me?"

Shrugging, he sits back down and pulls out his sandwich. "Nothing. They're not looking for you. They're looking for Masen."

"So they can finish what they started?"

He polishes off the rest of his sandwich and wipes his fingers clean again. "It's cute the way you think they started anything."

"So Masen started some kind of war and now I'm trapped in the middle? Great." Adjusting the strap of my bag over my shoulder, I quickly step around the hulking figure and dart down the sidewalk.

"Hey, where ya going?" he calls, lumbering far behind me.

Instead of answering, I cut through an alley and break into a run, not slowing down until I'm two blocks away. For a few blessed minutes I think I've lost him, until the blare of a car horn echoes down the nearly empty street.

"Slow down, shorty. All that running almost made me lose my lunch."

The big idiot rolls up beside me in a G-Wagon, window down, his flashy white teeth gleaming in the morning sunlight, an expensive pair of shades hiding his big blue eyes. A steady stream of vehicles starts to gather behind him in an impatient procession as he follows me at a snail's pace. People blow their horns, scream obscenities from their open windows, and shake their fists. A couple cars illegally pass him. I cringe when two vehicles nearly collide.

"You're gonna kill someone!"

"Get your ass inside." He jerks his head in the direction of the empty seat beside him.

"Fuck my life." Waving apologetically to the growing crowd, I dart around his oversized vehicle and climb inside. The scent of fine leather and men's cologne surrounds me. My body sinks into the seat, and for a brief second I wonder what this guy does to make enough dough to afford a vehicle like this.

"Where to, m'lady?"

"First the post office. Then the bodega. Take a right at the next light. Two blocks down and you'll see it."

"I know this area." He shifts into gear and gums along to some song on the radio. "This is Colombo territory."

"Who's Colombo?"

The guy gives me an "are you kidding" look. "Colombo. As in the Colombo family. Masen Colombo."

"Are they, like, famous or something?"

"Or something." He studies me. "No wonder he likes you. You have no clue who he is."

"I honestly have no idea what you're talking about."

"Masen. He's into you. And he's never into any girls."

"Because he's a raging homosexual or something?"

The guy bursts into laughter. "Oh God. Can I tell him you said that? Please? Wait, never mind. I value my life too much." Whistling happily, he cuts a right at the red light.

"Are you also one of the infamous Colombos?"

"A cousin. Name's Emmett McCarty. Masen's father, Carlisle, and my mom are siblings."

"McCarty's not very Italian."

The jovial expression on Emmett's face disappears, morphing into one of sadness. He says nothing, and I find myself surprisingly regretful for inadvertently killing the mood.

Emmett parks the car, cutting the engine. "My parents married out of obligation. It was arranged. He was Irish and she Italian. Their union fortified two powerful families."

"That sounds very … mob-esque," I joke, my laughter dying at his solemn expression. "Oh my God. That's it, right? You're mafia? Masen's mafia?"

"That's not a term anyone really uses anymore." Emmett points at the post office. "You going inside or …"

"Uh, yeah."

"I'll be waiting. And, Bella …" He slides his glasses down his nose, peering at me over the lenses. "Don't run."

I consider asking the clerk at the desk if they have a back entrance I can sneak out of but the line is fairly long for being in the middle of a quarantine and I was ready to get out of there before I even went in since I don't have a mask.

Emmett's waiting with the passenger side door open for me when I get back outside. I slide in beside him, startling when he practically flicks open a pocket knife in my face. I think this is it. This is when I'm going to die. But instead of stabbing me repeatedly with it he grabs the package from my hands then slices the tape open before passing it back.

"Thanks," I say, keeping an eye on him until the knife is tucked back into his pocket and out of sight.

"No problem." His smirk is a lot like Masen's except for that huge dimple in his cheek. It does a lot to endear him to me and I relax back into the seat to open the mystery package.

"So, what is it you got?" he asks as he pulls away from the curb.

"I don't know. I haven't ordered anything. I don't know anybody that would send me anything. Your guess is as good as mine." My voice drifts off as I free the contents from layer upon layer of bubble wrap and realize what I'm looking at.

"Hm. It's a phone."

"A phone? You don't remember ordering yourself a phone?"

I glance over at him with an annoyed expression on my face. "Of course I'd remember. But I didn't …" Then it hits me.

Masen.

I sigh. "Do me a favor and give this back to your boss." I drop the package between us. "Make sure he understands I don't want or need anything from him. Especially something he's most likely tampered with. I don't need that kind of trouble in my life."

Emmett lets out a laugh. "Trouble. The minute my cuz set his eyes on you you were in trouble. And if you got his attention you can be damn sure you got the attention of others that are bound to give you more trouble than he would ever give you. Guaranteed. Besides, the way I hear it you're an awful lot of trouble all on your own." He smiles out the windshield a little too proud of himself for making some kind of sense. I get the feeling it doesn't happen all that often. "Anyway, the phone's prepackaged. No way he'd be able to tamper with it unless he'd had it delivered to himself then gave it to you or had me or Jasper give it to you. He knows you're not stupid. I know you're not stupid and that's why you're going to take that phone. Consider it an apology. The only one you're likely to get."

I occasionally eye the package as we drive, taking a turn here and there. A war wages within me. I don't want to accept anything from Masen even if it's something he owes me. It seems too risky. Then again I do need a phone. And with no income coming in I can't afford one on my own. I can't even afford groceries. That bottle of wine Ang and I had that fateful night had taken the last of my money. To put it short, until unemployment comes through, I'm fucked. And not in the good way.

Thinking about being fucked gets me thinking about sex and thinking about sex gets me thinking about Masen.

I resist the urge to squirm in my seat and reach for the package I was so hell bent on not accepting. After turning it over a few times in my hands, I finally pull out the phone and begin to download all my previous apps and program it to identify my face. Once I've had my fill of playing with it I look up at my surroundings.

"Hey, this isn't Brooklyn."

"Again, not so observant."

I glare at Emmett's stupid smirk. "You didn't say anything about taking me to Manhattan, let alone the upper East Side."

"Yeah, but it's not like you were planning on going back to your place, right?"

"No. I was planning on staying at my friend's for a while and she sure as shit doesn't live over here." Nobody I know does. They couldn't afford it.

"This will be safer than your friend's and safer for your friend. You want to keep her out of this, keep her safe, don't you?"

I can't argue with him there.

"Okay, so where are you taking me then?"

Pulling up to the curb, he comes to a complete stop then points out the passenger side window. "Benvenuti a casa di Colombo."

I look up. And up, and up. The tall, slate-gray building climbs the sky for miles. Silvery windows gap blankly at me from each floor. The entire architectural monstrosity looks like an icy tower jutting proudly above older brown, tan, and ivory buildings. A doorman stands out front, wearing a fancy-ass face mask that looks like it's made by Versace, I shit you not. When he opens the door, I look around the lobby. It looks vaguely familiar.

"Oh my God. I think Mariah Carey lives in this building," I whisper a little too loudly behind a barely cupped hand.

A willowy man standing behind a sparkling desk raises his nose and perfectly trimmed eyebrows. "Mariah Carey wishes she lived in this building."

Beside me Emmett snorts. "Like she could afford this place."

While the willowy man calls up to Masen's condo, I scope out the rest of my surroundings. A handful of men are scattered precariously throughout the lobby, some on laptops, others reading newspapers or on their cell phones. They sit on plush chairs with their bulging muscles straining at their tailored suits. Tenants or undercover security guards, I'm not sure. From the monumental amount of security camera screens recording behind Willowy's desk, I'd say security.

"You can go on up," Willow informs us, gesturing to an elevator nearby. I follow Emmett, who still has to scan his freaking hand before the thing will even open.

"He's like the freaking president or something," I complain, entering the elevator behind Emmett.

Emmett snorts. "The president has less security."

I'm not a fan of heights. The higher the elevator climbs the tighter my fingers twist together. Sweat accumulates everywhere. Face, hands, underboob, ass. Emmett notices.

"Fall out of your high chair or something when you were a kid?"

"Or something." The elevator slows to a stop, the doors slide open, and suddenly I'm transported into Masen's space.

Nothing about the condo reminds me of the battered and bruised man I found on the street. The ceilings are higher than normal, probably twenty-three feet or so. The walls are made of glass. Exposed brick in some areas. Everything is eggshell white, airy, and clean. Simplistic artwork adorns the walls. I walk over to the softly lit floating stairs near one wall and tilt my head back. They go on and on.

Emmett answers my unspoken question. "Five stories. Nineteen thousand square feet. He's got a theater, gym, spa, wine room …"

The longer Emmett prattles on the sicker I feel. Memories of my bare feet treading across matted carpet inside mildewed mobile homes flicker in the back of my mind. My apartment alone could fit into this condo at least a dozen times.

"What a waste," I mumble, interrupting Emmett's boasting.

Masen chooses that moment to pad barefoot into the room. "Most women find it impressive."

"Most women are idiots."

Emmett beams at the banter between us, a weirdly smug expression on his face. I barely resist the urge to lick my lips at the sight of Masen shirtless, low-slung grey sweatpants hanging on his hips. A tie-dyed collection of various shades of bruises cover his flat abdomen and ribs.

"On that we can agree," Masen says, dismissing Emmett with a jut of his chin.

Emmett leaves us alone standing in the center of the astronomical living space. To keep from staring at Masen's bare chest I take another look around.

"So, this is some place you got here."

He hums out a laugh. "Yeah well, my sister Alice picked it out, decorated it. Personally, I couldn't give a shit." He moves closer to the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city and comes into my view. The way he places his palms against the glass causes the muscles in his back to flex.

Goddamn, he really needs to put on a shirt.

"I like your place," he says after a moment.

So wrapped up in the way his backside looks I'm not sure I've heard him right. "I'm sorry, what? You like my place? Is that some kind of jab or something?"

Lowering his arms, he turns to face me and crosses them over his chest. While incredibly difficult, my gaze stays locked with his.

"No jab. That place has character. Makes you feel part of the city." He twists slightly at the waist to glance out the window again and every single one of his muscles moves with him. "Not like you're outside lookin' in. Or inside lookin' out." He shrugs. "However you wanna look at it." He smirks, proud of himself for sounding all philosophical and shit.

Meanwhile I'm over here brain dead 'cause I can see the outline of his dick.

I'm pretty sure he notices when he points in the direction of the kitchen and asks, "You thirsty?" That smirk of his slightly grows. "I got plenty to drink."

"I'm good, thanks."

"Okay, well, help yourself if you change your mind. I'm gonna go hop in the shower, get ready for dinner. You like lamb chops, right?"

I cock a brow at him.

"I just wanna make sure you're not no vegetarian or nothin'. 'Cause if so my Ma's gonna have a shit."

Did I hear him right? Did he say his Ma?

"Hold up." I lift a hand to stop him. "You're expecting me to go have dinner with your mom?"

He looks at me as if to ask "what's the problem?" Like it isn't a huge problem. "Yeah, but no worries, it's not just gonna be my ma. I'll be there." He points to his bare chest. "Pops, my sister, Nonna, maybe a few others." He makes it sound as if this information should make me feel better, not worse.

"I'm sorry, you expect me to go meet your family looking like this?" I point down at the monstrosity I'm wearing: a pair of skin-tight jeans that are in slits all the way up the front of my legs and a cropped, black, long sleeve T-shirt that reads PLAYBOY in blaring white letters across my tits.

Masen's eyes appraise my outfit and more before landing back on my face. "Yeah, why not? You look perfect." His compliment seems genuine, sending my heart straight to my stomach. Without another word he heads back in the direction he appeared from. By the time he's showered and ready I've moseyed my way across the room to stare out the window.

My nerves are only somewhat soothed when he comes out wearing a black hoodie and a pair of lightly distressed jeans. If it's the same black hoodie he wore the night he showed up bloody and beaten outside my complex, there's no way to tell. It's not stained or anything. Just super casual. At least I won't be the only one looking like a bum at this surprise family gathering.

He leads me out to the parking garage, his hand never leaving the small of my back. The heat of his palm makes my spine vibrate with a warm energy that lingers long after he opens the passenger side door to his car and the touch is gone. The sensation is as unnerving as the silence that fills the ride to his parents' place. It doesn't help that Masen's car is basically sex on wheels. It's all black and chrome and hard angles. He keeps his hand protectively draped over the bulbous stick in front of the center console, tendons straining with each shift. The only thing distracting me from going completely insane is the soft music flowing out of the stereo. That is until Masen speaks.

"You ever drive a stick before?"

I look up to catch his chiseled profile just before he glances over at me. The look in his eye is playful yet dangerous. A cool sensation rushes through my body, causing me to break into a cold sweat. I look away.

"I haven't driven anything unless you count a four wheeler. The last fa—" I catch myself almost blabbing some sensitive information about my past. Not many people know I grew up in foster care and I like to keep it that way. The less they know, the less questions they ask, the less pity I receive. "I never got my license. Didn't feel the need." I leave it at that. For all he knows I grew up here with an abundance of public transportation or a nice family to give me rides wherever I needed to go.

"Didn't feel the need?" he asks, like it's the craziest thing he's ever heard.

I automatically jump on the defensive. "Yeah, so?"

"So, everybody needs to be able to drive a car."

"Is that right?"

"Of course it's right. Driving's the ultimate escape. The open road, blaring good music, the wind in your hair."

"It's too cold for wind this time of year."

I see him shake his head out of the corner of my eye. "You know what I mean. Freedom, power, control." Taking my hand off my lap, he places it on the stick shift then covers it with his. The warmth from his palm and the vibration of the engine runs all the way up my arm to spread throughout my body and settle between my legs. The combination of his touch and heady scent is nearly enough to make me internally combust.

His strength overpowers me when he shifts into another gear and presses down on the accelerator. I grip the side of the seat with my free hand and press my thighs together as hard as I possibly can, almost certain that if I concentrated long and hard enough I could orgasm just from these sensations alone.

I chance another glance at Masen and find him focusing between the road and my chest, how it's heaving. And no matter how hard I try I can't get it to stop. My tongue flicks out to wet my dry lips and his eyes flicker up to catch mine. His face is void of emotion. All except his eyes. They're dark, lustful. It makes me feel like I've never been so wanted. Never wanted so much.

I realize he's been staring at me for way too long when he hits the brakes. His grip stays solid over my hand. In the chaos he's in complete control, shifting while simultaneously twisting the steering wheel. The force sends us both into a far lean to the left until he straightens the wheel to fly down a hidden, paved driveway. My eyes are glued to his profile, the hard set of his jaw. He doesn't look over at me again. Not really. Not until we're parked. Even then his gaze only goes where he returns my hand to my thigh and I'm left wondering what the fuck just happened.

When he gets out of the car I'm tempted to scream at the top of my lungs, but then he opens my door. The opportunity's passed and I'm freaking out again because I don't want to be here. Especially without the familiarity of his hand. I'm bothered that he's keeping them to himself. And that bothers me even more.

Stepping out of the car and onto the curved drive, I half expect armed guards standing post behind a closed gate, fifteen-foot walls fortified with metal spikes jutting skyward from the stone, or at least a few protective mutts prowling around the grassy lawn. And let's not forget the castle-esque home housing a family of mobsters.

Instead, I find a beautiful, sprawling, one-story home sitting atop a gently sloping low hill, a regular-sized stone wall. No spikes. No guards. No dogs. From the eaves of the roof a few cameras follow us as we approach the house.

Masen walks right in, with me trailing behind him on high alert, still not fully trusting him or my surroundings. The smells wafting from the kitchen somewhat take the edge off. It's kind of hard to remain observant when all I can focus on is how my stomach is growling and my mouth is watering.

Masen greets his family with a stretch of his arms in an unspoken announcement that he's finally made it, then turns to pull me against his side to introduce me. Going around the table he spouts off a bunch of names, most of which I'll never remember. I smile and wave like the awkward idiot I am before noticing the deep frown on a pair of lips that look alarmingly similar to Masen's.

"L'unica ragazza che porta a casa e lei è un vagabondo come tutti gli altri."

"Ma …" Masen warns, and I blanch at the classily-dressed lady with the lone streak of gray in her auburn hair who was introduced as Esme. She clearly hates me. "Basta cosi'. Non assomiglia affatto agli altri."

She shrugs, reaching for her glass of red wine. "Eh, vedremo a riguardo."

Masen's hardened face softens when a much older woman addresses him. He bends down to kiss his grandma on the cheek then pulls out the chair directly beside her and gestures for me to sit. "Nonna insists you sit beside her. Seems I'm no longer the favorite."

Hesitantly, I settle in beside Nonna who immediately takes me hand. "Così bella." She pats my face lovingly. "Ignora il toporagno." Her voice fills with contempt as she turns to address Masen's mother. "Lei brama solo la tua pelle impeccabile e il fatto che tu le abbia rubato l'affetto di mio nipote."

Esme glares at her mother-in-law from across the table before turning her attention back to her wine, and dinner proceeds with no explanation of what just went down. I pick at the food on my plate. Not because the food isn't delicious. It is. I'm just not used to the atmosphere. How everyone's eating and laughing while simultaneously speaking over one another. I'm used to the noise but not the calm chaos. Growing up it was always just chaos chaos. But here in this house their boisterous voices collide with happiness instead of anger.

The only people not joining in on the conversation are Masen's father Carlisle and me. I catch him staring occasionally. Not in a creepy way but in a curious way, as if he's trying to figure something out.

In the middle of a friendly debate with his sister Alice, Masen's hand finds its way to my thigh. Instead of clamming up even more, I relax enough to actually enjoy the rest of my food.

Once we've all had our fill, Masen's father suggests we move into the living room for conversation. What more they could talk about is beyond me. So far they've covered everything from the weather to politics to where I shop since Alice seems to be in love with my style. If you can even call secondhand finds a style. Alice and I both get the stink-eye from her mother when we mention that.

Relief runs through me when Masen's father suggests we wrap it up for the night since he has an early morning the next day. Of doing what, I don't know. I don't want to know.

When I go to stand, Masen places his hand on my knee to keep me seated. My heart is pounding by the time the last guest leaves, Masen's mother and grandmother disappear upstairs, and I'm left alone with these two intimidating men who seem to be having a silent conversation with one another.

Carlisle's gaze slides to mine. "So, you're the girl who took my injured son off the street, brought him into your home, took care of him, and didn't report the incident to the police. Is that correct?"

Hesitantly, I nod.

Masen's father jerks his head. Masen stands, taking my hand to pull me up with him. We walk silently back through the kitchen where Carlisle unlocks a padded door that leads down into a basement.

Masen goes to follow, tugging on my hand when I don't move. "Don't worry. No one's going to hurt you. There's nothing you need to be afraid of down here."

To be honest, his words mean shit in the scheme of things. Fact is I don't know him. I don't know all that he's capable of and it would be really stupid of me to willfully walk down into this basement with him and his father. Either of whom alone are big and strong enough to detain me against my will. Despite common sense screaming at me to run, I let Masen lead me down the steps to what looks like your everyday, unfinished, cement block basement. The only thing peculiar is the person who's tied to a chair and the plastic tarp that's spread out underneath him.

Stepping up to the guy, Carlisle rips the black sack off his head then turns to address his son. "Just make sure you clean up when you're done."

Masen nods once. Without another word Carlisle heads upstairs, shutting the door behind him.

Turning to face Masen, I grab his forearm. "What is this? What are you doing?" I try to keep my voice level but I sound on the verge of hysterics. I can hear it.

"Taking care of a problem. You want to feel safe in your apartment again then he needs to go."

"Who … who is he?"

"Nobody you need to worry about. Not anymore." Masen reaches behind his back and pulls out his gun from the waist of his jeans. Raising the clunky piece of metal, he cocks it.

I grab his arm. "Wait." I lick my lips and Masen's eyes dart down to them. "You're just gonna kill this guy? For me?" I ask, a strange sensation sitting in my lower stomach. My breathing speeds along with my heart. I know it's beyond wrong but I can't help but to be turned on by this.

"Of fucking course I would. I'd do anything to keep you safe."

His words warm me. But I can't help but wonder, "Why?"

Masen looks at me for a long moment, a contemplative look pinching his face before finally saying, "I just would," and pulling the trigger.

I barely hear the gun pop off. I'm too focused on Masen, his mouth. How it just said the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to me.

Fisting the front of his hoodie, I pull his lips down onto mine. His arms wrap around my waist, the hot metal of his gun making contact with my bare back. A surprised sound escapes me, my back bending and pushing my body harder into his. It only urges him on. His mouth opens wider. His tongue probes deeper, bending me back even further. My hands find their way under his hoodie, over his hard stomach and up to his strong shoulders. He lifts his arms so I can get it over his head and off of him. My shirt is next to go, my bare breasts distracting him while I undo my pants. I've barely gotten them off before his lips are back on mine and he's pushing me up against the wall. The cool cement takes my breath away but I don't care. All I care about right now is getting to what's behind the fly of his jeans. I'm tearing at the material, shoving my hands down the back to expose his ass and his cock springs free.

The cement blocks scratch my back as he hoists me up the wall. I wrap my legs around his waist, a pained cry escaping my throat when he slams into me. We're a fury of violent thrusts and grunts. I'm so overwhelmed. In a near state of shock when my orgasm hits me. Masen doesn't stop to ride me through it. Instead he fucks me harder, faster, chasing his release just as quickly as he's building another one of mine. This second orgasm is blinding. Closing my eyes, I throw my head back, knocking it against the hard cement. It seems to rip through both of us at the same time. The slapping of skin stuttering, our moans growing louder until Masen stills, letting out a final grunt as he finishes inside of me.

He holds me up against the wall while we catch our breath and come to our senses. Letting me down, he bends to give me a sweet kiss that's in complete contrast to what we just experienced.

I only realize how fucked up this all is when he hands me the black sack that was over the dead guy's head to clean up with.

As if he can sense me pulling away, he refuses to let me by slipping my shirt over my head and handing me my jeans. As soon as we're both dressed he cups my face in his hands. "As long as you're with me you're safe," Masen says, then places a chaste kiss to my lips. "You feel me?"

I really do.

I feel his hands and his warmth. I feel how heavy this all is. But it's too much.

"I need to go home." Masen gives me a look like he's about to argue. "Right now."

Instead he nods, shoving his gun behind his back. He pulls out his phone then grabs my hand to lead me up the stairs. I make a conscious effort not to look at the slumped-over body in the center of the room while Masen orders someone on the other line to come clean up his mess.

The ride back to my place is filled with silence and regret. He doesn't touch me again, not until we're back in my apartment and I'm on the verge of a nervous breakdown because I'm right back where I never wanted to be. Not again. I swore.

"Talk to me. Tell me what you're thinkin'. I ain't a mind reader." Patient for the time being, he follows me to the couch and sits just far enough away for me to still feel the heat radiating off of him.

It's damn near impossible for me to think about this, let alone say it out loud. I've always been drunk when I talked about it before. Except for with my court-appointed therapist. She had been adamant she didn't tolerate bullshit. After tonight I was probably gonna have to go back to her.

"I was a fire station baby. You know what that means, right? Whoever my parents are, they didn't want me." I chance a glance at him, sure I'll find pity like I always do. Instead he looks indifferent. I go on. "My first memory is of my second foster family. The woman worked and the guy stayed home. As long as I was quiet and didn't bother him for anything everything was fine. He left me alone. I'm not sure how old I was. Not quite strong enough to lift a gallon of milk. Anyway, I know this because I tried that day." An ache shoots through my wrist. I absentmindedly rub it, continuing. "As you can probably guess I dropped the whole thing. It busted and splattered milk all over the floor. He heard it, came stomping in. When he saw the mess he grabbed my wrist and yanked me up. The force fractured my wrist and pulled my arm out of the socket. My shoulder still clicks." I demonstrate. "I spent the rest of the day locked in the closet until the woman came home. I left the ER back in the custody of Children's Services."

Masen stays silent, listening intently.

"Things didn't get much better from there. I had no upbringing. No woman in my life to teach me what it meant to be a woman. Each and every house I was placed in was filled with boys. All I knew was what they taught me. I mean shit, I lost my virginity at thirteen to my fifth foster parents' eighteen-year-old son." I don't know why I'm telling him this. Maybe to make myself feel better for fucking someone I barely knew. Again. I thought I was done with that.

"That's not the first dead body I've seen," I say, and again Masen looks indifferent, like he's not surprised. It almost makes me feel … normal. "One of the foster mothers had a boyfriend on the side. The day her husband came home early from work he caught them, shot them, then left. I heard the whole thing, was the one who found them and called 911. I spent the rest of my time at a group home until I turned eighteen, then I was out on my own. The couple who own Banner Books below my apartment building took pity on me and gave me a job, encouraged me to go to college. As far as I'm concerned they saved my life. If anyone should have been foster parents, it's them." Laying my head back against the couch cushion, I contemplate what life would have been like if the Banners fostered or had been my parents. But they didn't and they weren't. "Even if they had been my foster parents I wouldn't have belonged. I don't belong anywhere."

"That's not true." Glancing over, I find the indifference morphed into intention. "You belong with me."

I stare at him a moment before huffing out a laugh. "Yeah, I'm not sure your mother would agree."

"You understood her?"

"Reading people is easier than learning a different language. No, I didn't understand the words, but I could tell she wasn't happy seeing me on your arm."

Masen's eyes dart away. He rubs his chin, sighing in exasperation as he leans back against the couch. Instead of arguing he takes my hand in his and plays with my fingers. "Don't worry about my ma. She'll come around. As soon as she realizes how much you mean to me, how serious I am about you."

"But that's just it." Pulling my hand from his, I shift on the couch to face him. "I mean, how can I mean that much to you? We just met a few days ago. You don't know me."

"But I do know you."

"Then what did I major in? What's my favorite color? My all-time fav movie pick? When's my birthday? How old am I? What about you? How old are you?"

"Semantics," he says with a shrug. "It doesn't matter if I don't know these things now. I'll learn them. What matters is I know your soul. I've seen it. I've felt it. I always feel it. Ever since that night."

His words are pretty like the paintings of Leonid Afremov. They make me feel the same way I did the first time I saw one and every time I've seen one since. Sad but hopeful. Not so alone.

"This all feels a little … deep." An awkward laugh threatens its way past my lips.

"Look around. You see the shit that's going on in the world? People dying left and right." Masen shakes his head. "I ain't got time to fuck around and wait on feelings. Especially when they're already there. You hear what I'm saying?"

I hear him. I really do but it doesn't make what he's suggesting any less crazy. However, it doesn't feel crazy. It feels like all the chaos is controlled when Masen is around.

"I hear you."

Standing, Masen reaches for my hand. I offer it up and let him lead me to my bedroom where he undresses us both. When he guides me to the bed I go willingly, more than okay with him climbing in behind me and draping his arm over my waist.

Pulling me closer against him, he says, "So tell me, Bella. What's your favorite color?"

A smile cracks across my face. Lacing my fingers with his I bring our entangled hands against my chest.

"Blue."

Expelling a breath against the shell of my ear, he whispers, "Mine too."