Taming the Bitch (COMPLETED)

Chapter L - VERONICA DOMINIQUE DAVIS

Vincent lingered outside the door, each heartbeat hammering against his ribs. His hand hovered over the doorbell, hesitating, breath caught in his throat. Then, a low creak from the doorframe stopped him altogether.

The door inched open.

There she was—the woman he had sought for two and a half years.

"Bella..." His voice was barely a whisper, fragile with longing. Their eyes met, and the air between them seemed to shiver. His gaze, full of desperate yearning. Hers... wide with shock.

And fear.

Her hand clutched the doorknob, trembling violently, and the sight of it made his chest tighten. He rested a hand on the heavy wooden door to keep it from slamming in his face.

"Bella, please..." he murmured, one cautious step forward. She took a tiny step back, eyes darting left and right. The grip on the door tightened.

"I just want to talk," he continued softly, as though speaking louder would shatter her entirely. "I'm not here to hurt you... please."

She exhaled sharply through her lips, releasing the doorknob as if letting go of it might keep her safe.

Vincent froze, studying her. She was trembling, small and fragile in the doorway, yet so impossibly defiant. He could feel the ache of three years of absence reflected in her fear.

Tears pricked his eyes. How had it come to this? The beautiful woman in front of him—unaged, unbroken in appearance—yet scarred, wounded, her spirit still echoing that night. That night he had destroyed her world.

He recalled every agonising memory: the accusations, the rage, the despair. The body he had possessed, yes—but never the soul he had shattered. And now, finally, after years of searching... here she was.

He stared at her, letting himself drown in her beauty, every line of her delicate features, the curve of her lips, the depth of her eyes, even as they still shimmered with fear. But it wasn't just the same beauty he remembered—time had teased it into something richer, something almost unbearably striking. Her hair was the first thing he noticed: once just brushing her shoulders, now cascading down past her waist in long, brunette curls, thick and luminous, framing her face with a softness that made his chest ache. She looked like she had stepped straight out of a bygone portrait—tragic, elegant, untouchable—and for an instant he thought of Kate Croy from The Wings of the Dove, that same delicate, haunted grace etched into every line of her. Even her sorrow seemed to refine her, to give her a quiet, devastating poise he had never fully appreciated before.

She hadn't simply remained beautiful. She had become more so—profoundly, achingly more so—and it crushed him to realize she had done all of it without him.

A voice inside him whispered: She is still afraid of me.

"G-get out..." she whispered, voice trembling, body recoiling.

"I mean no harm, Bella. I just need to talk." He reached for her hands.

"No! There's nothing to talk about! You made that clear that night!" She yanked her hands free, her voice cracking with a mixture of anger and terror.

"Leave me alone!" She spun away, but Vincent did not relent. His hand found her wrist; her eyes squeezed shut as his arms enveloped her tiny frame. Tears spilled freely.

"Please..." he whispered, his voice shaking as he held her close.

"Let me go!" she cried, struggling, pushing against him with all her strength. Pain, anger, fear—each emotion a searing blade in her chest.