THE LAST ONE! And it's also my sixth oneshot! :D I'm so proud of myself for that, seriously. I never thought I'd manage to have even three oneshots for a T25, forget about double that.

Lisa and Cherolyn... you both have been amazing help with this. I don't think I'd have finished, and I know I wouldn't be able to be as satisfied with the final pieces, without you two. I'll love y'all forever, I'll like y'all for always.

The Twilight Twenty-Five
thetwilight25 dot com
Prompt: 23 – The road to hell is paved with good intentions.
Pen Name: IcelandGirl812
Pairing/Character(s): Bella/Edward
Rating: M (mostly for situations/themes)

23.

"What are you doing, Isabella?" His voice is low, dark, laced with an edge. Dangerous.

"What?" I am innocent, simple, naïve. Or trying to be.

He looks down at me, my body, at where I have purposely forgotten to put a bra on with my dress, where I'm leaning so close to him that my breast rubs against his arm.

I scoot away, looking down, fidgeting, putting on an air of chagrin and rejection.

This is my only chance, my one shot. I'm not powerful enough to overthrow him alone, forget about the other two. No, other one. Hope burns through me when I remember that the third injured himself, accidentally took himself out and is now unconscious upstairs.

"Isabella," he says again, fingers deftly, nimbly buttoning the cuff of his suit.

I look up at him but don't move my head. The effect my eyes have in this position is, or so I've been told, nearly irresistible. Without taking my gaze off him, I slowly inch closer across the edge of the bed.

If I can distract him, that would leave only the woman guarding my little brother and sister. And I've noticed, since the injury of the other man, that the woman is more distracted, less focused. If I could somehow signal Emily and Garrett, there's a possibility that they could take the woman down on their own.

It's a slim possibility, and I don't really know what all the factors are—if they're trained in hand-to-hand combat, if there are more weapons than what are visible—but it's all I have. And I have to do something before we get to my father's wedding, before there are too many people, too many hostages, too many lives.

Before there's no time left.

I've seen their faces, each of them, and so have Emily and Garrett. I've seen things like this on TV and read about them, but, beyond that, I've overheard enough from my father, his illicit dealings, to know what it means when there are no masks.

And to know what happens in the end when there are no masks.

Which reinforces how little time I have, and that I have to do something.

I'm jolted back to myself when the man's fingers brush my cheek, my jaw, my chin. I don't flinch, but only just barely manage to stop myself from doing it.

His name hasn't been said, either by himself or the others, and I think, if nothing else, perhaps I can get a name out of this. I don't know what good a name might do, but I'm grasping at anything, everything, to keep the hysteria at bay. To keep the fear away.

He leans closer, his eyes just as intense as they've been since the first moment he burst into my home. I try to distract myself by thinking that his eyes are a beautiful shade of green. That his lips are full and his jaw strong. That the suit he's wearing now is perfectly cut and tailored to his body. That his body is nice, fit and lean, with broad shoulders and probably a good seven or eight inches of height on me. That he is attractive.

The thoughts on his body only serve to remind me what a hard time I'll have taking him down. I'm not exactly half his size, but I'm close enough to it that fear, dread, and sadness begin to overshadow my hope.

"Isabella," he repeats, his voice still low but lacking the force, the edge, that it had before.

I shift my eyes away from his mouth, idly thinking that, with all the information he had on us, everything he had to know to be able to pull this off so far, he doesn't even know how much I don't like anyone calling me by my full name.

"Yes," I breathe. Not a question.

His eyes are on mine, his fingers are still on me, under my chin. The feel of his skin against mine is smoother than I'd have thought for someone like him, his hands not callused or hard. It's almost distracting enough.

Almost.

He kisses me—softer than I'd expected, gentle, not rough at all—and I can feel everything but I can't feel anything.

I cultivate a little moaning, whimpering noise as I grab the sides of his suit jacket and pull him closer. He gives in, of course, one hand sliding to the nape of my neck and the other going to the small of my back. He urges me closer with just a little pressure against my back, and angles me open for him with his hand on my neck.

He's a good kisser.

Later, I'll be ashamed and hateful of this fact, but I don't control the moan that escapes me when his tongue touches mine. Nor do I control myself when I push into him, getting my legs onto the bed and straddling him. His hands shift, touching me everywhere but not anywhere for long enough.

My body is reacting, not thinking, and soon I'll hate myself.

I pull away and kiss his jaw, his neck, his throat, listening to his harsh breath as one of his hands slides under the hem of my dress. He takes my mouth again as his other hand cups my breast. His thumb passes over my nipple, and I grind down onto him in reflex. He's hard, his breath stuttering out of him as I make contact.

"Oh jesus, boss!" a female voice interrupts in a screech of surprise, indignation, or irritation—I can't be sure which. "For fuck's sake."

He freezes under me, eyes no longer focused on me or even closed anymore. He's looking over my shoulder, at the woman, I'm presuming. But I can't look, because I know my little brother and sister are likely with her, and I can't bear to see their faces, their horror. Their fear.

Instead, I'm staring at the gun on the bed beside us. His gun.

Oh god. I hate myself.