Here it is guys, the newest story, and one that I'm quite proud of. If you've happened to stumble upon this, I think you're in for a bit of a ride. There will be adventure, romance, and a lot of mystery. Not to mention, it isn't ANYTHING like "You Found Me."
I can't wait to see what you think!
Big thanks goes to to those who helped me through this first part: xshear, Karlotita09 and of course, per usual, the amazing zgirl21. You guys really helped me hash this out and I couldn't have done it without you!
And now... On to the story.
Disclaimer: I do not own Twilight or any of the recognizable characters. I just like to take their names and mannerisms and play with them a bit.
Jumping Off the Page
I wasn't certain how much longer I would be standing upright. My body ached; the physical exhaustion finally yelling at me to slow down, to rest and let it recover. It was possible now; now that he was sitting right there in front of me, safe and alive. One whole month I had spent chasing him, searching him out, scouring the globe with only the map dictated in the manuscript, trying to find him before it was too late, before the words truly became real as I was suspecting they would. But, if I knew anything for sure, it was that I was exhausted, dirty, hungry, and pretty positive that it wasn't supposed to happen like this.
He raises his gun from the corner balcony, his target in clear view, free from the agents who might block the shot. The man is unoffending; a picture of perfect poise and grace, no doubt acquired from twenty years of political rallying. Below him, Madama Butterfly sings Con Onor Muore, her hand grips the knife, her knuckles white. The soprano voice vibrates through the building and Martin can feel his fingers shake; a feat that has never happened before. This wasn't his first assassination. This was, however, the first assassination that he had ever questioned.
Anthony Volpato has done nothing wrong and yet the United States government wants him dead.
Arotrosy Volturi was still alive and like the man before me, hiding. I found the details hazy, only able to piece together the major points. Volturi wanted to release classified information regarding certain US interest in the wars waging in the Middle East, information that would destroy the morale and heart of the country, information that was worthy of starting WWIII. Anthony Masen, alias of course, officially named Edward Cullen, was the agent assigned to take out Arotrosy. He obviously couldn't pull the trigger. What Masen didn't know, what his superiors had failed to inform him of, was that he wasn't the only one on the job and when the shot shook the opera house where the assassination was to take place, it was him they spotted with the gun, and him running for his life. Edward Cullen was CIA no longer. He was black listed, a rogue. And only I, Bella Swan knew the truth and the critical piece of information that would eventually, if we were lucky, save his life.
His hand reached out, his fingers weaving with my own, his grasp tentative, curious, afraid even. He didn't have to trust me, in fact, if the experiences that I was convinced he had gone through were at all true, I'm not sure I would have believed me either: the crazy girl who told the tale of a novel that spoke the details of his own life. No, if I were him, I would have screamed and done everything in my power to get me committed into the nearest psychiatric ward. But he didn't; he merely looked up at me, hooked his arm around my shoulders and let me support him as we hobbled through the crowded streets of Rome, ducking down alleys and doing our best to go unnoticed.
"You're shaking," I whispered, my voice echoing through the small, silent room. Locked away on the eighth floor of the hotel not far from the Pantheon, I knew that we were safe, even if it could only be for one night. We would have to move tomorrow. It was crucial that we keep them guessing. I needed more time. My eyes glanced at the tattered paper, bound with a cheap black plastic spine; the month of traveling had worn it quickly. I prayed it would hold up, that the already tearing pages would remain intact, at least, until I could read through it once more. I didn't know what would happen now; this situation was not written on the pages, I was not written on the pages. Could I have ultimately made it worse? Or would fate, our destiny, change?
He didn't speak much and if I wasn't already sure that he was American, I might have questioned his understanding of English. I imagine it was strange to be around someone again, having spent a month in hiding, a month on his own and away from any kind of human contact, words might be difficult for him to find. Then again, his silence could have been more than that. If what I read was any inclination to what he had been through, I wouldn't have been surprised if he was in shock or suffering some kind of post traumatic stress. I didn't mind the silence however. Never being one to speak much, it was oddly comforting and though I had only known him for a few hours, I felt contented with him. I knew this man, his past and his present. What I didn't know was the future that would reveal from this point forward and how my interaction was disrupting the natural order. He was a stranger, yes, but I knew that I didn't have to worry about him, didn't have to concern myself with the notion that he could hurt me because I knew he wouldn't. His heart was too big and he was not a killer. The news might have been claiming that he was guilty of espionage, but I knew that wasn't true. They were lies: intricate tales the government fed to the media outlets telling the story they wanted the public to know. If the public ever found out what had truly transpired… The thought alone seemed to leave me struggling to comprehend what was happening in my present.
His gaze had been cast down to the ground studying what I assumed could only have been the horrendous red and blue carpet, but when I spoke, his eyes lifted and every clear sense seemed to be knocked right out of me. His eyes were green; the deepest shade of green that I had ever seen outside of the Olympic Mountains. They were like the densest forest; the dark green of the old growth combined with the lighter shades of the new. They shone brightly through his thick onyx lashes, flecks of gold catching the soft light that hung from the ceiling. He was beautiful, in every sense of the word and he probably hadn't even bathed in weeks. What would he look like after I stripped him of the dirt and blood caked clothing? Of the beard that covered his cheeks and chin? What would come of washing the hair that lay matted and sticking up at all angles on his head?
"I know how strange this situation is," I began, my fingers taking on a life of their own as I rubbed his cracked knuckles. His skin, though dirty and chapped, was warm under my fingertips and sent thrills throughout my body. Never before had such a simple act caused such pleasure for me. If I knew he wouldn't be startled and terrified, I would have wrapped my arms around him and held him tight. There was nothing else in the world that I wanted more than to feel his body wrapped around mine and I had only known him for six hours.
"In fact," I continued, "I'm still surprised you believe me at all. I don't know what is going to happen now but I'll figure it out. I'll keep you safe. I'll keep us both safe."
His mouth opened before shutting again, a slightly strangled noise emanating from his throat. I watched as his eyes transformed, narrowing into smaller slits while the brightness that once lay there darkened to what I could only describe as burning charcoal. His entire body went rigid and stiff and all my attempts to get him to relax seemed to mean nothing anymore. Dark eyes met my own and for the first time, I was afraid. Not because I thought he would hurt me, but because I knew that he was plotting to hurt someone else, someone greater than what existed in this room. The person who had started this. The only person who could end this.
Well? I'd love to hear what you think about it!