Gunslinger (aka Welcome to My Motherfucking Life: A Rapture Outtake)

Disclaimer: This outtake contains subject matter that may not be suitable to all audiences. Rated M.

A/N: This outtake takes place immediately following Chapter Three (Need) and in conjunction with Chapter Four (Fury) of Rapture. A huge thank you to the Team Rapture girls (Andy, Erin, Melanie, PK, Shan, and Emily) for being so willing to help get this written and prettied up in the blink of an eye for the FoxyFics collab!

I did not intend to post this outtake, but have come to the conclusion that it probably should be posted. At the least, it may help explain why DEAward was so furious when he confronted Isabella and will certainly provide a little insight in upcoming chapters. It's probably not strictly necessary that it be read, but it won't hurt either. :)

It comes with a smut and graphic images warning.

Edward slipped silently into the penthouse, the key held tightly in his hand so as not to make a single sound. He could feel her inside, her presence calling to him, caressing him, tempting him onward. It was a hum singing along every inch of skin, settling deep and vibrating loose desires both primal and instinctive. She was his to mark, to claim, to fuck…

Tonight, he'd do all three.

His eyes sought her out instantly, as caught and captivated by her presence as the rest of him. He could not have torn them away had he tried. He didn't, not even as his breath caught in his throat and his heart skipped a beat before pumping faster.

She stood in front of the long row of windows, staring out into the night. Thousands of city lights twinkled like stars caught in glass, bright, brilliant in the dimly lit room. They were no match at all for her. She was absolute radiance, a golden, glistening Goddess.

Long, mahogany hair tumbled in waves down her bare back, sweeping gently above the swells of her ass. Pert breasts and peaked nipples reflected back at him from their bed of stars. Her arms hung loosely at her sides. Her bare stomach was soft, perfect. A dark thatch of curls sat between the apex of her thighs, one leg slightly bent… both going on for miles.

His cock hardened in his jeans as he stared at her, drinking her in and memorizing every soft line and gentle swell. They all belonged to him. They had since the first moment he'd touched her.

Her eyes met his in the glass, clear, warm brown blazing with desire for burning, vivid green. "Edward…" His name was a soft exhalation of breath on her lips, faint, and yet the most significant sound he'd ever heard. "You're here."

Her shoulders seemed almost to sag in relief as their eyes tangled together in the glass. They exchanged in one look what could not be adequately put into words. Acceptance of what was to come, confessions of deep-seated, aching need, promises of surrender, challenge… lifetimes.

Edward reached behind him and turned the deadbolt, his eyes still locked on hers. She shivered faintly as the lock clicked into place, and then again as the key clinked solidly upon the marble tabletop.

His shoes were discarded right there in front of the door, each one dropping heavily into the charged atmosphere. Each thud was another profession of what was to come… of what he would demand of her and what she would allow.

Had he asked her, she would have given him anything. Any deed he wanted to perform, whichever way he wanted to perform it… she would have given willingly. He didn't ask though, he didn't need to. As his shirt, socks and belt followed his shoes, he saw those answers, and hundreds of others, burning in her eyes.

She wanted him. Needed him. Belonged to him.

Yes, that primal part of himself crooned in wicked delight. Mine.

"Stay there," Edward commanded softly as she began to turn toward him, her body almost vibrating with her need to touch him. His vibrated with that same need, but he fought it. He knew what that anticipation coursing through them would do, how much better it would make it for the both of them when he did finally capitulate… and he had no intentions of capitulating any time soon.

He wanted her quivering and sobbing in need before he took her… his name a litany on her lips. He knew as well as she did that she would give it to him. She always did, begging, panting and screaming his name as if it were the only thing in the world that held her together while he took her.

Maybe it was.

She was certainly the only thing in the world that kept him grounded when he was buried inside of her.

His eyes locked with hers again in the twinkling glass as he popped the button on his jeans. She whimpered, and shivered again, her entire body shuddering almost convulsively in need.

"Edward…"

"Soon," he promised, and then hissed as his zipper released, freeing his rigid cock from the tight confines.

Her eyes broke from his again, traveling down his reflection in the window, following the path his jeans took over his thighs, down his calves and finally to the floor. He could see the way her body reacted to even that promise. Her nipples tightened visibly, goose-bumps broke out along her skin. The scent of her arousal was thick and heavy in the air, teasing and tempting him even from across the few feet that separated them.

"Look at me, beautiful," he demanded, slipping his hands into the waistband of his boxers and pausing until her eyes met his in the glass again. They rolled, widened, and rolled again, caught between his commanding gaze and her desire to see his cock spring entirely free. "My eyes, beautiful," he told her when they rolled again, darting away and then back.

Tension crackled across the room, a thick rope banding them together as she ceded to that demand and held his gaze desperately.

"I could feel you," he said. Boxers followed the same trail his jeans had, landing in a heap as he tugged them off. One hand wrapped around his cock, and pumped. Once, twice. His eyes locked on hers through every manipulation of his rigid, aching flesh. He hissed in relief. "All the way across town, I could feel you in here, waiting for me. Could you feel me, Beautiful? Did you know I was coming for you?" His questions were soft, commanding, as he continued to stare into her eyes and pump his cock slowly in one tight fist.

"Oh… God," she whimpered, and shuddered again. Her entire body was on fire, desperate from the knowledge that he held his erection in his hand while her gaze was caught entirely in his. She couldn't see what he did to himself, but she could feel it. He knew she could.

It was in the way her pupils dilated until clear, warm brown was desperate, burning black, and the way her hands clenched into fists and then released, inching closer and closer to her own sex, and a release from the ache settling deep into her core. He knew her body, her responses, as well as he knew her own. She needed him… and the torture would be exquisite.

"Could you feel me, Beautiful?" he asked again, still pumping, commanding, watching… "Could you feel me coming for you?"

"Yes," she whispered. "Oh God, yes."

"Tell me," he demanded, gripping his cock tighter in his fist at her confession that she felt it too, that inexplicable draw that had him half out of his mind to get to her, to claim her again. "Tell me how it felt."

"I…" She shuddered again, a broken, choked sob issuing from her perfect lips. "Please, oh God please…"

"No, Beautiful," Edward smiled darkly, "I want you to tell me how it felt."

"Good," she whimpered, her eyes widening and her chest rising and falling rapidly as her hands continued their dance closer and closer to where she burned for him. "It felt so good. I… ached. Everywhere, Edward. All over. I could feel you coming for me and... waiting. Oh God, waiting hurt. Pain and pleasure and…" She broke off again, her disjointed explanation catching on another mindless, frenzied sob. "Please," she mouthed. "Please, make it stop." A single, frustrated tear rolled down her cheek.

Edward growled low in his throat and was across the room in an instant, unable to torment her, or himself, further with that tear rolling down her flushed cheek. It touched something deep inside, something not even that dominating, primal part of himself dared disobey.

He caught her up in his arms and dragged her to his chest. Electricity compressed between them, and exploded over them, showering them in charged, magnetic, liquefied sparks. As one, they cried out, that simple, gentle touch of lover to lover easing each ache and pain they had both felt as he'd raced across town to her.

His mouth descended upon hers, his lips brushing lightly as she shuddered in his arms. "Turn around, Beautiful," he whispered against her sweet mouth. "Turn around and put your hands on the glass. I'll make it better for you. I'll make it feel good."

He guided her body with his own until she faced the glass once more. He brought each of her hands to his mouth and pressed a single, searing kiss to her knuckles before lifting them over her head and putting her palms to the glass. Fingers trailed down her arms and around to her back, leaving rivers of flame where they touched before sweeping her hair into his fist and placing an open mouthed kiss to the back of her neck.

"Keep your eyes on the glass, Beautiful," he whispered in her ear and nipped once. Her hair tumbled out of his fist and over her shoulder as she whimpered her agreement.

Another sob of pleasure and pain slipped from her lips as his hands dipped to slide along her thighs. "Spread your legs for me, Beautiful."

She spread them without question, taking a step outward and pressing more of her weight into the glass. His lips worked along her neck, licking and sucking, before slipping downward. Teeth raked over shoulder blades, tongue danced across her spine, and then up again until his eyes met hers once more in the sparkling glass.

One hand slid down her side, palmed her ass and slid lower…

He groaned as his fingertips found silky, wet heat trickling down her inner thighs. She was always so wet and ready for him… "Watch me, Beautiful. Watch what I do to you," he whispered… and fingers plunged, embedding themselves deep within her core without warning.

She screamed and bucked against him, against the window, as her walls convulsed, pain melting completely into pleasure.

"Watch me, Beautiful," he demanded, pumping, twisting, fucking her with two fingers as his body pressed into hers, one long line of flesh to flesh.

Her eyes fluttered open again as he worked her, her expression half melting, pleasured woman, half demanding, wanton seductress.

"Does it feel good, Beautiful?" he asked, voice thick as desire, need, want, the feel of her tight heat wrapped around his fingers, drove him mad. His cock jumped against her back, twitched, screamed to replace his fingers and ride her hard. "I can feel you around my fingers, so tight…" Dear God, so tight. "Come for me, Beautiful. Come for me," he demanded, pleaded, knowing he had to give in soon and replace fingers with cock before he was torn apart at the seams, consumed entirely by raging, frantic need, harsh pants and the wild rush of blood through his veins.

"Edward… oh God," she cried out for him… and came hard. Walls spasmed. Warm honey gushed. Her head thrashed. His own reared back as he snarled a string of pleased curses, loving the feel of her coming for him, coming because of him, coming on him.

"Fuck me," she begged, walls still convulsing tightly around pumping fingers. "Please, please…"

He gave her what she wanted, jerking his fingers from her body and lining his cock up with her entrance in a frenzy of hazy, desirous thoughts and molten, raging desires. "Hold on," he commanded through gritted teeth, grasping her hips in his hands… and slamming himself fully, deeply, completely inside of her.

Again, they cried out as one. He held still, adjusting, marveling, drowning… and then he was moving again. His fingers curled around her hips, holding her in place as he grunted and thrust, taking her hard and fast from behind.

"Open your eyes, Beautiful," he groaned, his own gaze caught between the twinkle of lights far below and the rise and fall of her chest.

Her eyes fluttered… opened.

"Look out," he whispered, and leaned forward, biting lightly into her neck and sucking once before letting go. "Look down," he whispered as she did as he commanded and looked out. He gripped her tighter, hips slamming into hers as harsh pants and the slide of skin on skin sounded throughout the room.

She looked down into the street far below, gasping and whimpering, rocking back to meet his thrusts, as frenzied as he was.

"All those people out there, Beautiful. Driving along, walking along… staring out their own windows. All they have to do is look up, look over here. What would they see, Beautiful?" he groaned the question as she pressed back into him, bending at the waist and changing the angle at which he entered her. Deeper, harder, faster…

"You," she gasped as her inner walls clenched once. "You… and me. Oh God, Edward."

"That's right," he crooned his approval of her answer. "You and me. Me fucking you. Me... claiming you, pleasuring you. Say it," he demanded harshly when she sobbed in wordless agreement and his balls began to tighten. "Say it, Isabella!"

"Yours," she screamed. "Fuck, I'm yours."

Yes, that same primal part that wanted her to watch him fuck her, that wanted her to know that anyone below could look up and see him taking and marking her too, screamed its pleasure at her answer.

She was his. She. Was. Fucking. His.

"Mine," he panted harshly, and released one hip as her body began to tremble around his cock. He fisted her hair again, tugging lightly until her head came up and back to rest against his shoulder. His eyes met hers in the glass again… desperate, melting warm brown to possessive, burning green.

"Say it," he whispered… not a command this time, but a request… a plea as helpless and desperate as his name upon her lips had been. "Say it, baby. Please…" He groaned as his orgasm rolled closer, threatening to barrel down upon him at any moment. He fought it, needing to prolong this feeling for as long as possible.

"Mine," she cried out, and he plunged deep again. "You're mine. Only mine."

Edward roared, his head lashing back and then forward, that simple, true statement driving him into an erotic, rabid frenzy. His teeth sank into the side of her neck, biting and sucking, marking her as she screamed and exploded around him. He fucked her relentlessly through her orgasm, his pace frenetic, desperate, as she continued to scream his name and convulse, one orgasm bleeding immediately into another as she forced her eyes open and saw him marking her again. Cock, teeth, and city below… she belonged to him… and he to her.

His own orgasm hit him like a Mack truck, slamming through him so intensely, he screamed from the fiery, consuming pleasure.

"Isabella!"

Neither stopped crying out for a long, long time as his seed spurted deep inside, painting her walls with his essence just as she painted his cock with her own. When they finally collapsed into a sated, panting pile, Edward catching her before she could fall and harm herself, they were both exhausted, and both indelibly marked by the other… just as they always were.

"Isabella," he breathed her name softly, reverently, as he brushed her hair back from her flushed face, his heart thrumming madly in his chest for her.

Sleepy, warm brown eyes opened slowly, focused on him… and disappeared, the warm, radiant body in his arms vanishing entirely between one heartbeat and the next.

Edward jerked upright, her name an alarmed cry on his lips, his erect cock in his hand, and the shrill ring of telephone ripping through the darkened room.

A dream…

Jesus fucking Christ, it was a dream.

"Motherfucker!" Edward swore violently, his heart pounding in his chest, and her sweet taste still in the back of his throat. Not even the vodka he'd drank at Jasper's, or the rum he'd added to it when he'd got home had succeeded in burning out her taste, and he wasn't sure if he was cursing because the more erotic parts were just a dream or because he didn't want to be dreaming of her at all.

Christ, he was an idiot. She worked for the Volturi, and probably wanted him dead. And he dreamed of her? Still wanted her? Still felt his heart racing when she called him hers?

Another shrill ring ripped through the room and he cursed again before flipping on the bedside lamp and grabbing the telephone from the receiver.

His leg brushed across something wet, sticky.

What in the…?

He glanced down, and barely kept from throwing the phone in frustration as his eyes landed on a wet spot spread across the sheet.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me," he ranted to himself at the sticky evidence that his cock had apparently found its way into his hand more than once during the few short hours he'd been asleep. He'd come. At some point, he'd come. And since his cock was as rock hard as it'd been when he'd had his tongue buried between Isabella's thighs… "Son of a bitch!"

The phone rang again.

"What?" He demanded harshly as he pushed the button and lifted it to his ear before swinging around to sit on the side of the bed, a string of curses bouncing around in his head all over again. He was a grown man, not some untried teenage boy in the throes of his first wet dream. Jesus Christ.

And that dream… fuck.

Murdering, lying, beautiful…

His cock twitched, jerking against his leg as her screams for him reverberated in his head.

"Agent Cullen?"

"What?" He demanded again, his harsh tone not in the least moderated by the almost timid sounding question from whoever was calling him. It was four o'clock in the morning. If the guy wanted a happy greeting, he should have called at a decent hour… not that he was likely to get said greeting then either.

"This is Brady Nagual with the King County Medical Examiner's Office…"

Edward's stomach turned as soon as Brady identified himself, his irritation at dreams and being called so early evaporating in a roiling cloud of defeat. He didn't even wait for an explanation. It wasn't one he needed, and it wouldn't change anything. Fuck, he hated this.

"How long ago?" He asked quietly, raking his hand through his hair as frustration, anger and more defeat rolled through him in a great, big wave.

"Uh, the call came in about two and a half hours ago, sir," Brady supplied nervously. "Dr. Sawanna met them here. She requested that you and the Assistant SAC, Jasper Whitlock, be notified as soon as the preliminary was complete?"

Dr. Sawanna.

Her name was all the confirmation Edward needed that things had just gotten that much fucking worse. Marita, the ME, wouldn't have had Brady call him if she wasn't sure.

Eight. The number of dead had just risen to eight.

Fuck.

He took a deep breath as Brady provided him what information he could over the phone. Edward didn't even bother to write it down, he didn't need to any more than he needed to open the case file in his safe to remember the name, rank and social of the other seven. It was all branded into his brain and would be until the Volturi were in prison or all hope of that happening was gone.

He no longer knew which it would be, thanks to Isabella.

"Yeah," he muttered roughly to Brady, completely checked out on whatever he was saying. "I'll be there… eventually." He clicked the End button while Brady was still talking and dropped the phone to the floor before hanging his head, images from his dream flickering through his mind on a loop.

A tear rolling down her cheek…

Her eyes meeting his in the glass…

Her head thrown back as she screamed his name…

Her body moving against his as she said she belonged to him…

Other dreams, and other faces poured into his mind in a great big parade of death. Cold, hard skin over still, lifeless forms.

"Son of a bitch," Edward swore, grabbing the glass of water off the bedside table and launching it across the room. Water and glass rained down in turns, coating the white wall while fury ripped through him, leaving a stinging pain somewhere damn near his heart.

None of it, not a fucking thing he'd dreamed about doing with her, and not a fucking thing he had actually done with her was real. She was a murderer… and he'd been too fucking blinded by her to even consider the possibility. And now, some 18 year old kid would join that parade of faces because of it. Because, instead of doing his job, he'd had his tongue buried between Isabella's thighs in the lounge while that kid was somewhere inside the club, being slipped the fucking pill or syringe that ended her life.

The really sorry thing about it, though, was the fact that, even knowing that maybe he could have stopped it had he just paid a little fucking attention to something other than Isabella last night, he would have done exactly the same thing if he had it to do all over again.

Isabella was poison… pure fucking poison.

x-o-x-o-x-o-x

"Probable overdose, and you're late," Marita said by way of greeting as soon as Edward stepped through the autopsy suite and into her office a good five hours later. She glanced up from the computer and smiled that vivacious smile of hers. She looked exhausted, but that had never slowed her down before. "Jasper came and went hours ago. Rough night?"

"Something like that," Edward mumbled and leaned back against the door-jam. His head was pounding, and his stomach was in much the same sorry state. Too much alcohol and too little sleep. It was becoming the story of his life, and had little to do with why he hadn't come in earlier.

There just hadn't been a point to his coming, as Marita well knew. He wasn't sure he wouldn't have gone bat-shit crazy if he had to witness another autopsy. He'd hit up his informants again instead, and that had been a big fucking bust. They still knew absolutely nothing of any value to his investigation. Nothing but the same damn rumors they already had.

"What do you have for me, doc?" he asked instead of dwelling on that infuriating fact. He was pissed off enough without adding fuel to an already raging fire.

"You look like hell," Marita observed instead of answering his question.

"And you're as gorgeous as ever," Edward shot her a half-hearted smirk, though it was true enough. The good doctor was gorgeous with those bright eyes and stunning smile. He'd considered convincing her to let him bend her over her desk more than a few times, but had never actually followed through on it. The way he figured it, she'd either shoot him some snarky ass comment and laugh in his face… or agree. Quite frankly, he wasn't sure which would have been worse.

He liked her, and she kept him up to date on what he needed to know, when he needed to know it without giving him too much shit about it. No sense messing with a good thing.

Right then though, had she stripped out of that lab coat and business suit…

No, not even had Marita stripped right then and there would he have actually been able to do it. He was too fucking frustrated, and she wasn't the brunette running through his mind endlessly. That was a damn shame because his hand wasn't doing the trick lately, and what he really wanted, he couldn't have.

Fucking Isabella.

Christ, he had to stop fucking thinking about her as anything other than a suspect. She worked for the Volturi, for God's sake. As far as he was concerned, she was responsible for the kid Marita had just spent the morning taking apart and stitching back together.

Marita laughed lightly and turned back to the computer. "Still as charming as ever. Jasper requested that you call your sister when you're finished here."

Yeah, that wasn't going to happen. Alice knew him too well, and his mind was already made up. He didn't need Alice meddling because she was bored or what the fuck ever reason she'd have, and she would have a reason. She always did.

"Smirk elsewhere, love," Marita said as she clicked a couple of keys. "I'm just the messenger."

"You also wield the bone-saw," Edward retorted without heat. "What do you have?"

Marita glanced up from the computer screen again and eyed him critically before sighing heavily. "Same thing, different day. Bree Tanner, age 18. SPD found her about six blocks from the club, propped against a doorway. They thought she was just passed out, but she was already dead. They took her to Northwest anyway and the attending called it on the spot; nothing he could for her. Warner notified the family, and they've already come by to identify the body, said she had no significant medical history, which autopsy confirmed. Time of death was somewhere around 11pm. I've sent tissues and blood samples for toxicology, but," she shrugged a shoulder and slipped an evidence baggie off the desk to hold it up. Inside were two familiar pressed pills and an empty, used syringe.

"Fuck," Edward swore, not sure where the contents of that bag left them. If the girl had been popping pills and shooting up, they'd never be able to prove it wasn't just a straightforward overdose. If they were luck, the best they could do was reckless homicide under Len Bias… and that was un-fucking-likely now, wasn't it?

The time of death made him sick to his stomach.

Fury rolled through him again as images threatened to flicker. He pushed them away, mentally slapping up walls to keep them back long enough for him to focus on what was important. He could beat himself to death with those damning images later.

"I figured your guys would want to test these." Marita dropped the bag back on the desk and tapped a finger against it. "I can send it to the crime lab if you'd rather do it that way, but I'm going to guess that whatever was in that needle is what she OD'd on. If your guys can find that out for us, we can get those results back a hell of a lot faster."

"Yeah," Edward nodded. Toxicology tests took for-fucking-ever to come back. When you knew what you were looking for, though, it could save a whole hell of a lot of time. And that was definitely of the essence. Thank God for the DEA and in-house testing.

"She scratched her arms up pretty good," Marita continued giving him the rundown. "We found tissue and blood under the nails of both hands and the polish chips in the scratches matched what she had on her nails as well. I've sent samples to get a definitive match, but I'm willing to go out on a limb now and say it'll all come back as hers."

Yeah, Edward would too. The fourth victim had done a similar job on herself when the candy-trip started heading south. So had more than a few that had done the psych hold bit. God only knew what the fuck they'd been trying to get off… spiders, monkeys, fire-ants, bats, little carnivorous pink elephants. It all amounted to the same fucking thing; shit that was only there in their drugged delusions.

"How are you calling it?" Edward demanded, lifting his eyes from that baggie to Marita.

"Pending investigation," she answered without hesitation. "Once we get the results back, we'll go from there." The "But what else can I do?" was left unsaid, but Edward heard it anyway. She couldn't keep it pending forever. Once toxicology results were back, she'd have to classify it as an accident since there was no evidence of homicide.

The rules ME's were forced to play by were just as stringent as those that governed Edward's own actions. Just because he thought it was homicide didn't mean she could rule it as such. As with everything else, she had to have proof to amend the death certificate to homicide… and proof was sorely lacking all around.

If Marita rushed toxicology after they confirmed what she was looking for, they'd have the results back in a matter of days and Bree Tanner, as with the seven before her, would be classified as another fucking accident. Thanks to Isabella Swan, that might never change.

Edward closed his eyes and raked a hand roughly through his hair again, fighting for calm that was getting harder and harder to find.

"Talk to me, Edward," Marita encouraged quietly. "What's going on in that pretty little head of yours?"

For a minute, Edward considered telling her just how badly he'd fucked the case up. Considered looking into her eyes and telling her that the eight people she'd taken apart in the last three weeks would permanently be classified as accidents because he'd recently taken to thinking with his lower head. He even opened his mouth to say it, but he couldn't.

She'd been up for God knew how long working this case as a priority because she liked him enough to start it in the wee hours of the morning when anyone else would have waited. No need to tell her that he'd wasted her time and blown the case until he had to. "Nothing," he lied instead and popped his eyes open. "I want to see her."

"Edward…" Marita shook her head, a frown forming. "You've got to stop doing this to yourself. It doesn't help anything, love."

Edward shrugged a shoulder, knowing damn well what she was talking about, and knowing damn well he wouldn't. Especially not now, when Bree Tanner, age 18, was in that freezer because of him. If he couldn't get justice for her, the very fucking least he could do was open that freezer and let her join the parade of chalky, grey faces that ran through his mind. He owed her that much and then some.

That some was barreling down on him like a hurricane headed toward the coast.

Marita frowned across the desk at him for a long time before shaking her head again almost sadly and waving him on. "She's in freezer three." She tossed him the little evidence baggie, which he put in his pocket, and slid across an evidence slip, which he signed meticulously. "I'll call Jasper when we get the results back. Don't take this the wrong way, but I hope I don't see you in here again anytime soon."

"Yeah," Edward nodded his agreement to that sentiment, though he didn't believe it anymore than she did, and retraced his path back into the autopsy suite. He ignored the table and cabinets filled with a whole host of equipment to take apart the dead, slipped on a pair of gloves and walked right up to the freezers. He didn't even bother preparing himself mentally. It wouldn't make a difference anyway.

He was right about that.

As soon as he unzipped the body bag and flipped back the sheet to reveal the girl's face, it hit him hard. Everything that had rolled through him when Brady called. Everything that had been building, building, building since Jasper confirmed that Isabella was in the system. Everything that'd had him dancing on the edge of frustration and outright anger since he walked into that club the first time and saw what was going on.

They were the cause of this. Aro, Marcus, Caius… Isabella.

This little brown haired girl fresh out of high school was dead, her life over before it ever even began… and the people responsible were going to walk free. She was overdosing and dying on a fucking sidewalk alone while he had his tongue buried in one of them, lapping her up as if his life depended on it. A murderer. A whore. A manipulative, cold-hearted bitch.

Rage and defeat broiled like lava through his veins, through his mind as he stared down at the girl, memorizing ever line of her face, and making promises he'd find a way to keep.

"I'm sorry," he whispered quietly to what was left of Bree Tanner before covering her up again and returning her to the freezer. When he was done, he walked out, one thought running through his mind again and again.

Isabella.

She was going to pay… for him and dreams and as much as for the little dead girl in the freezer.

As soon as night fell, that hurricane was hitting the coast… and he couldn't fucking wait to let it rage.

E/N: Just a little insight into a very angry DEAward. I hoped you enjoyed it, my loves! :)

Notes of Reference:

*Len Bias- a series of federal and state laws allowing for drug-dealers to be charged with reckless homicide.

*As per the National Association of Medical Examiners': manner of death classifications may not be made in an attempt to facilitate prosecution. If evidence of homicide is later found, a death certificate may be amended, but manner of death may not be deemed a homicide without justifiable evidence in order to encourage prosecution.