"I can't believe we have to deal with another sickening couple," Jack snorted.
"Ugh!" they groaned.
Chapter Fifteen
Isabelle knew he was gone the minute she woke up. A crushing sense of loss descended on her as a dull ache bloomed in her chest. She scrunched her eyes closed as she tried to shove the suffering away. It was what she wanted, after all —what she longed for since he arrived. She should be happy he was gone; she was going to be happy he was gone. She opened her eyes and blinked against the harsh light filling the living room.
"You're awake." She turned to find her mother sitting on the other couch; her hands clasped before her as she worriedly scanned Isabelle's face. "How do you feel?"
"He's gone." It wasn't what she meant to say, but the words popped out anyway.
Her mother's eyes darkened as she nodded briskly. "He left after he brought you home."
Isabelle closed her eyes against the sorrow in her chest. She was going to be happy, she told herself. Tears filled her eyes, but she refused to shed them. "Why?" she whispered.
"I don't know. He left before any of us could talk to him."
"I hurt," she murmured, not sure if she was talking about her longing for Stefan or the discomfort in her body.
"What hurts?" her mother asked.
'Everything!' she wanted to cry in anguish. "My body," she lied. "I'm sore."
"It will get better." Her mother moved over to kneel before her. Isabelle opened her eyes to meet her violet-blue gaze. "About Stefan—"
"I'm glad he's gone," she said forcefully. "Now my life will get back to normal."
Her mother's eyes searched her face. "Yes, I'm sure it will." Isabelle closed her eyes firmly; she refused to see the pity in her mother's gaze. "Are you hungry?"
"Yes."
"I'll be right back."
Isabelle listened as her mother moved away. The annoying tears were threatening to come again, and she refused to shed them. Not for him. He didn't deserve her tears. This was what she wanted, and she was going to rejoice in it. She was going to get her life back, and she was going to forget he ever existed.
Even as she told herself this, the pressure in her chest intensified, and a single tear slid free.
The next two days passed by in a blur of melancholy. Isabelle found herself disjointed and exceptionally moody. She yelled at everyone, cried for no reason, and every part of her body felt like a dozen men had beat her. Her heart became a constricted lump of muscle blazing agony through her with every beat. There were times she thought she would die from the pain racking her.
She saw the looks everyone gave her, heard their whispered comments, but she couldn't bring herself to care about any of it. A foggy mess, her mind didn't want to function. She couldn't bring herself to eat, and sleep was the only solitude she found. She would curl up in her bed, drag the comforters over her head, and cry. When she was completely exhausted, sleep would finally claim her.
Then, she would dream of him, and in her dreams, everything was right again. When she woke, the sorrow instantly reclaimed her body and shook her until she broke out in a cold sweat. She would curl into a ball and cry until she was too weak to cry anymore. Then, she would fall back asleep, and the whole process would start again.
On the third day, her need to feed got to her. She made her way upstairs, every step an act of sheer willpower. She felt horrible, she looked terrible, and it was his fault. It didn't matter she’d wanted him to leave, that she’d gotten what she wanted, because she could no longer recall why she wanted it.
She only wanted him to come back, but he’d abandoned her and left her to feel like this. Left her here to suffer while he went off gallivanting, doing whatever he wanted. That thought only made the pain worse, and she tried desperately not to allow herself to think about what he could be doing —and with whom.
The pain didn't ease with every day as she hoped, it only got worse. Much worse. She was beginning to worry if it didn't ease, she would die from it. She never imagined anything could hurt like this, not even when they drained her blood was it this painful. A permanent black cloud of despair hung over her, making it difficult to breathe and live. She felt as if she was missing a piece of herself, the piece making it possible for her to exist.
Ethan was in the kitchen when she made it upstairs. He was always her rock, her best friend, the one person she turned to in times of comfort and need, but she didn't speak to him. She couldn't talk to him.
"Isabelle," he said.
She shook her head, unable to deal with him right now. He took her arm and settled her onto one of the stools before grabbing a bag of blood and opening it for her. She accepted it and gulped it down before tossing it aside.
"That's the first time I've seen you feed since you were eight," he remarked.
Isabelle looked into his warm, worried green eyes and burst into tears. Ethan stood in stunned silence before wrapping his arms around her and pulling her against him. He rocked her as she gripped his shirt and buried her head in his solid chest. The comfort she always found in him was nowhere to be found now. She was suffering too much. She cried herself out but still clung to him, unable to move for fear she'd fall off the stool.
"It will be all right," he soothed.
"No it won't," she whispered. "I want to go to bed."
"You can't spend the rest of your life asleep, Issy."
She started crying again, but she was so exhausted only dry sobs racked her.
