The drizzle had upgraded to a misty sort of melancholy by the time Bella and Edward stepped outside. The kind of rain that didn't fall so much as cling—soft and persistent, like the universe was trying to stage an emo music video starring moss and existential dread.
Bella paused in the middle of the walkway and tilted her face to the sky, letting the droplets settle onto her cheeks. She closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of wet asphalt and pine.
"If I get sick from this, you're paying my hospital bill," she muttered, without opening her eyes.
Edward, beside her, didn't laugh, but she could hear the smile in his voice. "You do realize your immune system isn't compromised by light precipitation, right?"
She cracked one eye open. "Are you sure? I grew up in Phoenix. Anything colder than a lukewarm bath is basically biological warfare."
He raised an eyebrow, hands tucked in the pockets of his charcoal peacoat, looking disgustingly picturesque, like he belonged in a moody Abercrombie ad. "You're very dramatic."
"And you're very smug," she shot back.
They walked in silence for a few seconds, the gravel crunching beneath their shoes.
"So..." Bella said, drawing the word out. "You thinking about coming to the beach on Saturday?"
His response was slow, careful. "I hadn't decided."
"We're going to First Beach," she added casually, eyes forward. "La Push."
That did something.
She felt it more than saw it—a subtle shift in his posture, the faint tightening of his jaw.
"Then no," Edward said finally. "I don't think I'll make it."
Bella looked at him. "You allergic to saltwater?"
"I just think it's not the best place for me."
Cryptic. Of course.
She arched an eyebrow but let it go. For now.
"Besides," he added, glancing sideways at her, "my presence might test Mike Newton's patience."
Bella snorted. "Mike Newton's patience has the shelf life of a Blockbuster rental."
Edward gave a half-smile, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "Still, I wouldn't want to cause a scene."
"Really? Because causing a scene is kind of your brand."
He stopped walking for half a second, just long enough for her to feel it, then caught up.
"You and I, Bella," he said, voice quiet but weighted. "We tend to attract... attention."
Her breath hitched. Stupid lungs. Stupid brain. Stupid butterflies.
"Right. Sure. Because we're so magnetic together," she deadpanned.
"We are," he said.
And the way he said it?
Made her want to leap out of her own skin and disappear into the nearest tree trunk.
They reached the parking lot.
Her truck, in all its rusty, Frankenstein glory, sat loyally at the far end like a faithful but deeply ugly dog. She made a beeline for it.
She didn't get far.
A firm hand closed around the back of her jacket.
Bella stumbled to a halt, spun around. "Seriously? Are you manhandling me now?"
Edward looked perfectly calm. Which somehow made it worse.
"I promised Ms. Cope I'd take you home," he said.
Bella blinked. "You what?"
"She was very... insistent."
"Edward, I'm not an invalid. I can drive myself."
"I know," he said. "But I'm still taking you."
She glared. "Do you even hear yourself?"
He gestured toward the sleek silver Volvo, gleaming like a smug little spaceship. "Alice will drop off your truck."
"You roped Alice into this?!"
"She was thrilled," he said.
Bella huffed. "I should've faked death instead."
Before she could turn back to her truck, he tugged her coat gently. She bumped into the Volvo.
"Unbelievable," she muttered. "You're kidnapping me."
"It's not kidnapping if I'm rescuing you."
"From what? Gym class?"
"Exactly."
Realizing resistance was both futile and exhausting, she yanked the passenger door open and flopped into the seat. The leather was cool and smelled faintly of expensive cologne and mystery.
Edward slid into the driver's seat.
"This is the part where you pull out a chloroform rag and drive me to your underground crypt, right?"
He laughed. A real, full laugh. It hit her like a jolt.
"No chloroform today," he said. "Just the scenic route."
She crossed her arms. "I swear to God, if you put on Enya..."
"Don't insult me."
The engine purred to life.
Outside, the rain danced harder on the windshield.
Inside, Bella's pulse tried to set a world record.
And in that moment, soaked in the smell of rain and tension and danger wearing a hoodie, Bella Swan realized the worst part wasn't that Edward Cullen might be something inhuman.
It was that part of her wanted him to be.
—
Inside the car, Edward reached forward and cranked up the heat. Warm air rushed from the vents, immediately fogging up the edges of the windshield like the car was sighing around them. Then he turned the stereo down with deliberate care, like every motion mattered.
Bella blinked. The music drifting from the speakers was soft and shimmering, almost otherworldly.
"Is that... Debussy?" she asked, squinting slightly, her voice suspicious—as if classical piano had no business sounding that good.
Edward's fingers tapped the steering wheel in time with the notes. "Clair de Lune."
Her brows rose. "I love this song."
He glanced at her, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips. "So do I."
They sat in silence, but it wasn't awkward. It was quiet in that rare way that made the space between them feel full instead of empty. The piano notes floated through the car like tiny ghosts. Mist swirled on the windshield.
For once, the silence didn't feel like tension.
It felt like possibility.
Edward's eyes stayed focused on the road ahead as they curved past the tree-lined edges of town.
"What's your mom like?" he asked.
Bella blinked. "My mom?"
"Yeah." He glanced at her briefly, then back at the road. "You talk about her like she's your best friend."
Bella smiled, a real one. Soft and a little sad. "She kind of is. She's... beautiful. Wild. Scatterbrained, in the best way. Like a wind chime in a hurricane—never still, never boring. But she's got this... glow, you know? Like the world's always about to surprise her."
Edward nodded slowly. "And she let you come here? To live with your dad?"
Bella shrugged, fingers fiddling with the sleeve of her hoodie. "It was my idea. She didn't love it. But she got it. She wanted me to be happy, even if she didn't totally understand what that meant."
He was quiet for a beat. Then, "How old are you, Bella?"
She looked over at him, arching an eyebrow. "Seriously? You forgot my age already? I'm wounded."
He smirked. "Seventeen. I know. It's just... you don't sound like it."
Bella huffed a laugh. "Yeah, well, my mom says I skipped the fun parts of childhood and went straight to 'grumpy old man.' She calls me Benjamin Button."
"Fitting," Edward said, amused.
She tilted her head. "You're not exactly giving off teen movie vibes either. No offense."
"None taken."
She gave him a long look. "So what's your excuse?"
Edward smiled, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Let's just say... I've had time to grow up."
Bella narrowed her eyes. "Cryptic. Cute. Vaguely threatening. You're hitting all your brand notes today."
"I try."
He turned slightly, just enough to catch her expression. "Would your mom let you make your own decisions about relationships?"
Bella blinked. "Uh, yeah? I mean, she'd definitely have opinions. But she trusts me not to bring home anyone who belongs in a 'Cops' episode."
Edward grinned. "And what if he had... tattoos?"
Bella shrugged, feigning casual. "Depends where they are."
That startled a laugh out of him—real and rich.
He turned back to the road, still smiling. Then, after a moment: "Do I seem scary to you?"
Bella didn't answer immediately. She watched the rain slide down the glass, each droplet a miniature meteor.
"You could be," she said quietly. "But I'm not afraid of you."
The silence that followed wasn't soft.
It was charged.
Like static before lightning.
And sitting in a Volvo with the boy who shouldn't be real, Bella Swan knew one thing for sure:
Whatever Edward Cullen was—
She didn't want to run away.
She wanted to lean in.
—
Bella exhaled slowly, her breath fogging the window. The rain still clung to everything like the sky had commitment issues and just couldn't let go.
To break the electric weight hanging in the car like a fog machine set to "moody indie drama," she cleared her throat.
"So," she said, trying to sound casual and failing miserably. "You've heard me ramble about my mom. What about your family?"
Edward's fingers froze on the steering wheel, the classical music humming faintly in the background like it knew better than to interrupt. His jaw tensed.
"They adopted me," he said finally. The words came clipped, each one polished and sharp like they'd been practiced in a mirror. "After my parents died."
Bella blinked. "Oh."
She wanted to ask more. Like how? When? What happened? But something about the stillness in his face—or maybe the fact that he hadn't blinked in, like, twenty seconds—made her swallow the questions.
"They're good people," Edward added, softer this time. "Carlisle and Esme. Better than most."
Bella nodded slowly. "Your father seemed nice. At the hospital. Carlisle had that whole 'handsome TV doctor with a tragic backstory' thing going for him."
Edward's mouth twitched. "That's... disturbingly accurate."
The car hummed beneath them. Debussy played on. The misty rain streaked down the windows like lazy ghosts.
Then Edward glanced at the clock on the dash. "I should go," he said. "I have to pick up my siblings."
Bella squinted. "Are they all skipping class? Rebel behavior, if I'm not mistaken."
He smirked. "So am I. Emmett, Hadrian and I are hiking tomorrow. Early."
"Hiking," she echoed. "That's a very... PNW sentence."
He turned into her driveway with the confidence of someone who definitely knew exactly how long it took to get from the school to her house. Which, now that she thought about it, was a bit unsettling.
Bella reached for the door handle. The handle was cool beneath her fingertips.
"Bella."
She froze and turned, halfway out the door.
Edward was looking at her like she was something fragile and flammable at the same time.
"Be careful," he said.
She blinked. "Of what? My locker door? Because that thing does have murder vibes."
His eyes didn't waver. "You seem like the kind of person who... attracts accidents."
Bella stared at him. "Wow. Thank you. That's exactly what a girl wants to hear on a rainy Thursday. Can I use that as my MySpace headline?"
"I'm serious," he said quietly.
"So am I," she shot back. "It's just not super flattering being labeled the human equivalent of a Final Destination plotline."
His lips curved—just slightly. But the rest of his face stayed maddeningly unreadable. "Just… promise me you'll be careful this weekend."
Bella narrowed her eyes. "Is this because of the beach trip?"
"I just have a bad feeling," he said simply.
"And you thought the best way to communicate that was to insult my coordination?"
"If the Converse fits…"
She rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle she didn't sprain something. "Goodbye, Edward."
He didn't stop her this time. Just watched as she climbed out and shut the door. Not slammed—she wasn't giving him that satisfaction—but firm enough that he'd know she was done.
As she walked up the steps to the house, soaked in mist and confusion and the aftershock of whatever that had been, she could still feel his gaze on her.
She didn't look back.
But she couldn't stop thinking about the way he'd said it.
Not like a joke.
Not even like a warning.
Like a promise he already knew he'd have to keep.
And she hated how much that thrilled her.
—
Later that evening, Bella stood in the kitchen, stirring the spaghetti sauce like it owed her rent.
The rain outside had downgraded to a lazy drizzle, the kind that just hung around like a clinger ex-boyfriend who didn't understand boundaries. Inside, the warmth of the kitchen wrapped around her like a blanket, but her brain was pacing like it had Red Bull for blood.
She stole a glance through the window above the sink.
Her truck was parked exactly where it should be.
Innocent.
Comfortable.
Suspiciously smug.
And completely impossible.
"I didn't give him the keys," she muttered, narrowing her eyes. "I didn't even see the keys. My bag was zipped. My bag was next to me."
She stared harder, as if the sheer force of her will could coax the truth out of her very inanimate, very rusty vehicle. The truck, like usual, remained unfazed. Maybe even a little amused.
"Unless he picked the lock," she whispered to herself, tapping the spoon against the pot. "Hotwired it? Or maybe Alice did. She's probably got a closet full of carjacker couture and a Pinterest board titled 'Chic Grand Theft Auto.'"
She turned back to the sauce and gave it an aggressive stir, muttering, "God, I need a lobotomy."
The front door creaked open just as she was imagining Alice Cullen in leather gloves and a ski mask.
"Bella?" came her dad's voice—low, gravelly, and tinged with the kind of confusion that suggested he'd spent the day asking radios to behave or wrestling trout with paperwork.
"In here," she called, grabbing the towel to wipe her hands like she hadn't just been interrogating pasta sauce.
Boots thudded against the floor. A jacket rustled. Then Charlie appeared, looking like the dictionary definition of weathered but soft-hearted cop. His hair was damp, his belt hung heavy with gear, and his expression was one of perpetual surprise, like he couldn't believe he was still a character in his own life.
"Smells good," he said, sniffing the air and peering at the stovetop like it might bite him.
"Don't act so shocked," Bella said, turning the heat down. "It's spaghetti. Not defusing a bomb."
"Still. You didn't burn the house down." He gave her a small, approving nod. "Progress."
She raised an eyebrow. "That was one grilled cheese. And I was twelve."
"You almost set the microwave on fire."
"I didn't know you couldn't put foil in it! It was shiny!"
Charlie held up his hands in mock surrender, his mouth twitching at the edges. "I'm not here to relitigate past crimes. Just... offering appreciation."
Bella rolled her eyes but let the corners of her mouth soften. "You want garlic bread or just the spaghetti?"
"Spaghetti's fine," he said, then added in the way of a man trying to be thoughtful, "You look tired."
"Thanks, Dad," she deadpanned. "Really needed that ego boost."
He blinked. "That wasn't—I mean—just long day?"
She sighed, leaning against the counter. "Yeah. Something like that."
There was a beat of silence, filled only by the hiss of the sauce and the low patter of rain against the windows.
Charlie leaned one hip against the doorway, arms folded, and watched her carefully—like she was a suspect and a daughter at the same time. "Did something happen? At school?"
Bella hesitated. It wasn't that she didn't want to tell him. It's just... what was she supposed to say?
Hey, Dad, I think the weirdly beautiful boy with cheekbones that could cut steel possibly teleported my truck home without keys and maybe also reads minds or rearranges molecules or moonlights as a ghost.
Instead, she went with, "Just... weird vibes. You know. Teen stuff."
Charlie nodded slowly, which probably meant he had no idea what that meant but wasn't about to admit it.
He reached for the cutlery drawer and pulled out a fork. "Well. As long as it's not drugs or cults, I can deal."
"Wow," Bella said, half-smirking. "That's a low bar."
"I'm a small-town cop," he replied dryly. "Low bars keep expectations realistic."
She laughed—quiet but genuine. Charlie set the table while she plated the spaghetti. They ate in near silence, the comfortable kind that only comes from people who love each other but have no idea how to express it out loud.
Halfway through his plate, Charlie paused mid-chew. "By the way... your truck's back."
Bella nearly choked on a noodle.
"Yeah," she said, casually. Too casually. Like, guilty teenager in a Disney Channel episode casually. "Noticed that."
He gave her a dad-look. "You leave school early or something?"
She shook her head and stabbed at her spaghetti. "Nope. Edward Cullen drove me home."
Charlie raised a bushy brow. "The Cullen kid?"
Bella chewed slowly, swallowed. "Yeah."
"Huh," he said. Then, after a beat, "He drive that shiny car?"
"Volvo," she said.
"Looks like something a spy would drive," Charlie muttered.
Bella's lips twitched. "Maybe he is."
Charlie gave her another look, then went back to eating.
Bella tried to follow suit, but her appetite had evaporated somewhere around your truck's back. Her thoughts kept circling, looping like a scratched CD—how had he done it? Why hadn't he said anything? And how annoying was it that he was probably just sitting somewhere right now, reading a hundred-year-old novel and smirking to himself?
Ugh.
She excused herself as soon as her plate was clean and fled upstairs, muttering about needing to do homework.
But really?
She needed space.
She needed air.
She needed to lie on her bed, stare at the ceiling, and figure out how the hell she'd fallen face-first into the most confusing crush of her very short life.
One that might involve magic.
Or murder.
Or, possibly, both.
—
The woods outside the Swan residence were quiet. That particular kind of deep, mossy silence that only came after a long rain — like the forest was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen.
Edward stood beneath the canopy, hands shoved into the pockets of his peacoat, bronze hair damp and curling slightly at the ends. His jaw was tight, his posture too still to be human. He wasn't blinking. He rarely did, unless he remembered to.
His gaze was locked on the glow of the kitchen window.
She was in there. Still stirring sauce. Still humming under her breath. Still human.
Still... Bella.
The shift above him was subtle — a whisper of friction and momentum. But he felt it.
Then, a second later, Hadrian landed beside him.
Graceful as ever. Taller than Edward. Shoulders broader. Darker curls, tousled but never messy, and a coat that looked like it had once belonged to a 19th-century nobleman who also knew kung fu. His emerald eyes caught the faintest moonlight, flickering like distant stars.
"Truck's parked," Hadrian said, casually dusting a fleck of moss from his sleeve. "I had to coax it like an old mule with arthritis and abandonment issues."
Edward's expression didn't change, but his voice was dry. "You hotwired it?"
Hadrian gave a smug little shrug. "Magic. A whisper here, a spark there. No circuits were harmed in the making of this miracle. Might've reawakened the truck's sense of purpose."
Edward sighed, folding his arms across his chest. "Thanks."
"You're welcome," Hadrian said, then arched a brow. "Though I gotta say, I'm concerned. You forgot the keys, Eddie. You. The guy who can quote every word Bella's ever mumbled, up to and including the time she called a pigeon 'suspicious.'"
Edward's mouth twitched, almost a smile. Almost. "I got distracted."
"Yeah, I gathered," Hadrian replied. "You had your Brooding Soulmate face on."
"She was asking questions," Edward said, voice quieter now. "Real ones. Not the usual small talk. She's... different."
"She's a hurricane in slow motion," Hadrian said. "And Alice? Alice says she's going to be her best friend."
Edward turned his head slightly. "Alice saw that?"
Hadrian nodded. "Clear as crystal. Best friends forever. Bracelets and everything. Dany agrees, by the way. Says she likes Bella's spark."
Edward's jaw clenched. "Daenerys met her?"
"Nope. Just heard Alice's rants. But she said Bella's the kind of girl who doesn't just survive the storm — she argues with it about fashion choices."
Edward said nothing.
Hadrian leaned back against a tree, eyes tilted up toward the house. "You owe me. You know that, right?"
"I said thank you," Edward muttered.
"Uh-huh. But this favor's not transactional. It's strategic."
Edward narrowed his eyes. "How so?"
"I want you to let Alice and Dany meet her," Hadrian said, tone deceptively light. "Properly. Not as shadowy side characters in your personal Greek tragedy. Let them in."
Edward looked away. His fingers twitched inside his coat pocket. "She's not ready."
"You sure about that?" Hadrian asked. "Because from where I'm standing, she's already asking the right questions. About the truck. About you. About why everything around her feels slightly too cinematic."
Edward didn't respond.
Hadrian smiled. Not smug, not mocking — just... knowing. "You think you're protecting her. I get it. But maybe, just maybe, she deserves the truth before she has to pry it out of the ruins."
Edward's eyes flicked up to the window again, just in time to see Bella move past it, brushing her hair back with the kind of distracted grace that made him forget what century he was in.
"I'll think about it," he said quietly.
Hadrian gave a theatrical gasp. "Oh my God. That's practically a declaration of war in Cullen language."
He straightened up, brushing invisible dust from his coat.
"Anyway," he said, already half-turned. "I'll leave you to your nightly round of morally gray voyeurism."
Edward rolled his eyes. "I'm not stalking her."
Hadrian snorted. "Right. You just happen to know exactly what pajamas she wears and which side of the bed she sleeps on."
"I don't—" Edward started.
Hadrian held up a hand. "Don't even bother. Just... try not to fall out of the tree again. It's embarrassing."
Then, without warning, he blurred and vanished — one flicker of motion, one gust of disturbed leaves, and he was gone.
Edward stayed where he was, hands buried deep in his pockets, jaw tight.
He looked back up.
The light in Bella's bedroom was on now.
She was getting ready for bed.
And he... was exactly where he'd been for the past three nights. Watching. Waiting. Wanting.
He didn't know what scared him more:
What she might uncover about him.
Or what she was slowly unearthing in him.
He was in deeper than he'd thought.
And the worst part?
He didn't want to climb out.
—
The forest blurred past Hadrian like a dream unraveling. Rain-slick branches arched above him, the scent of pine and damp moss thick in the air. Every step was a whisper. Every movement a ghost. He ran faster than sound, faster than memory—his emerald eyes narrowed against the mist.
He didn't stop until the trees thinned and the world stilled.
There, just beyond the ridge, the land opened up into the overlook above the old sawmill. The town's distant glow barely touched it. The place felt forgotten. Untouched. Like it belonged to a different time.
His phone buzzed in his coat pocket before he could check the horizon.
He fished it out.
1 New Message – Carlisle
Morgue. Another "animal attack." Forks. Fourth in two month. You know what that means. -C
Hadrian's jaw flexed.
He didn't need to be reminded. Forks wasn't exactly a bustling metropolis. Four vampire kills in two months was asking for trouble. Exposure. Questions.
Bella's face flickered across his thoughts—wide brown eyes, reckless curiosity, the way her presence made his brother forget a century's worth of restraint.
She was already too close to all this.
And now someone else was hunting in their territory.
The phone buzzed again.
1 New Message – Daenerys
Carlisle called me too. I'm bringing your Mustang. Try not to panic, it still purrs like a dragon. Where do you want me to scoop you up, Lord Brood.
Hadrian exhaled—half sigh, half grin—and texted back.
Hadrian ➤ Daenerys
West ridge. Overlook above the sawmill. And don't scratch the paint.
Instant reply.
Daenerys ➤ Hadrian
Rude. I drive it better than you. Be there in five. Try not to broodingly glower the trees into catching fire.
He shook his head with a soft laugh, pocketing the phone.
Then—like lightning between breaths—he blurred across the trail, boots kicking up wet leaves, breath fogging in the cool night as he reached the overlook just in time to see her headlights cut through the woods like a blade of silver.
The Mustang roared like a wild thing, engine low and growling. It curved up the hill like it owned the place.
And behind the wheel, of course—was her.
Daenerys Targaryen.
Even in the low light, she looked like myth carved into moonlight. Violet eyes glowing faintly beneath windswept silver-blonde hair, leather jacket zipped up just enough to make him forget every coherent thought he'd ever had. Her mouth curled into a smirk as the car slid to a stop, gravel crunching like applause.
The window rolled down.
"Well?" she called. "You gonna stand there being dramatic, or are we late to investigate a body?"
Hadrian approached the passenger side, boots splashing in a puddle. He opened the door but didn't get in.
"You're in my seat," he said flatly.
Daenerys tilted her head, teasing. "You said five minutes. I beat that. That makes it my Mustang now."
"You drive it once and suddenly it's yours?"
"I look better in it."
She did. And she knew it.
He sighed and got in anyway, the leather still warm from her. The interior smelled like rain and her perfume — vanilla and something sharper, almost like ozone.
She didn't wait. The moment the door shut, the Mustang purred to life and tore down the ridge, headlights slicing through the fog.
For a while, they didn't speak. Trees flashed past like secrets, the road coiling beneath them in dark ribbons.
Then:
"I take it you got Carlisle's text?" she asked, one hand casually resting on the gearshift, the other loose on the wheel.
"I did."
"Fourth one," she murmured, serious now. "This isn't random. Someone's staking out Forks like it's a blood buffet."
His jaw tightened. "Sloppy. Reckless. They're not local."
"Or they're desperate."
She glanced at him. "You're thinking newborn?"
"Or someone covering their tracks."
Daenerys nodded once, eyes narrowing at the road ahead.
A beat passed. Then her voice softened, barely above the engine's hum.
"You're worried about Bella."
Hadrian didn't answer right away. His gaze was fixed on the road, but his thoughts were elsewhere. On brown eyes. A heartbeat that shouldn't matter as much as it did.
"She's not built for this world," he said quietly.
Daenerys gave him a look. "Neither were we."
"You were reborn in fire."
"So will she as well," Daenerys replied. "Just... a different kind."
He turned to her.
"You like her."
"I get her," she corrected. "She's lost and stubborn and tired of pretending to be less than she is. Sound familiar?"
His lips twitched. "That's dangerously insightful."
She smirked. "I contain multitudes."
They reached the town limits. The lights of Forks shimmered faintly through the mist like a distant constellation, and the hospital's silhouette rose ahead—familiar and ominous.
Daenerys downshifted smoothly, eyes gleaming.
"Ready to do some corpse-hunting, Mr. Brooding Mystery?"
Hadrian rolled his eyes. "Only if you behave."
"No promises," she said, and the Mustang slid into the hospital's back lot like a shadow on wheels.
They parked. The morgue waited.
And somewhere, in the dark, something was watching.
Something hungry.
Something that hadn't come for answers.
Only blood.
—
Forks General Hospital — Sublevel Morgue
11:42 PM
The air in the morgue always felt colder than it needed to be. Sterile. Heavy. Like even the walls were holding their breath.
Carlisle Cullen stood at the steel examination table, sleeves rolled, gloved hands folded neatly in front of him. His golden eyes were steady behind his wire-rimmed glasses, but even Hadrian could read the flicker of concern tightening his mouth.
Daenerys stepped in first, her boots clicking softly against the tile, violet eyes scanning the room with the calm detachment of someone who had seen far worse.
Hadrian followed, shoulders tense, emerald gaze already on the zipped-up body bag lying still on the slab.
Carlisle gave them both a brief nod.
"Thanks for coming so quickly."
"Not like we had plans," Hadrian muttered.
Daenerys shot him a sidelong look. "Speak for yourself. I was about to win an argument with the Mustang's CD player."
Carlisle managed a faint smile. "You two haven't changed."
"Just show us," Hadrian said, the humor gone as fast as it came.
Carlisle pulled down the zipper with a steady hand. The smell hit them first — faintly metallic, dulled by refrigeration and antiseptics, but still unmistakably blood and finality.
The victim was a man, early thirties, with a slashed throat and torn chest. The kind of damage no bear or cougar would inflict — not unless the wildlife around Forks had developed a taste for surgical dismemberment.
"Same as the others," Carlisle said. "Minimal blood left in the body. Broken bones from impact. Bite marks. Torn flesh, no attempt to hide the evidence. Whoever's doing this isn't trying to cover their tracks."
Daenerys stepped closer, eyes narrowing. "The angle of the wounds… this wasn't a struggle. It was over fast. He didn't even scream."
Hadrian's voice was low. "Someone skilled. Or someone enhanced."
Carlisle glanced at him. "If Alice could see them—"
"She can't," Hadrian cut in. "Not unless she knows them. Or they've made a decision that affects someone she does know."
Carlisle exhaled through his nose. "I know. I just… wish it worked differently."
"Don't we all," Hadrian murmured, eyes scanning the body again.
Daenerys looked up. "You said this is the fourth?"
Carlisle nodded. "Two hikers. One park ranger. Now this."
"All in the same radius?" Hadrian asked.
Carlisle turned to a clipboard on the side table, flipping through the notes. "More or less. All within twenty miles. Mostly secluded areas—places someone would assume a bear attack."
"But too clean," Daenerys said. "Too… chosen."
Hadrian folded his arms, jaw tight. "This isn't a newborn. Not with this kind of precision. This feels like a nomad. Maybe more than one."
Carlisle's brow furrowed. "A coven?"
"Or a trio. Maybe a pair. Doesn't take many to create chaos," Hadrian said. "And if even one of them has a gift—"
"—they'll know how to stay hidden," Daenerys finished.
Carlisle was silent for a beat. "So we're dealing with someone clever. Possibly gifted. And definitely unafraid of crossing into marked territory."
Hadrian nodded. "They're not worried about breaking the rules. Or they don't think anyone here's strong enough to enforce them."
Carlisle met his eyes. "And are we?"
Hadrian's expression didn't change. But his answer was quiet. Certain.
"We will be."
Daenerys walked back to the table, studying the wound again, a thoughtful line between her brows.
"This wasn't just about feeding," she said softly. "There's something else here. A pattern we're not seeing yet."
Carlisle looked at her. "You think it's targeted?"
She didn't answer right away.
Instead, she reached into her coat and pulled out a notepad — old habit from her field work in Europe — flipping it open and scanning her own scribbles from past incidents.
"I think it's building to something," she said finally. "And if it is… we're already behind."
Hadrian's hand brushed hers briefly as he passed her the victim's file from the counter. Their fingers lingered a second too long.
Carlisle pretended not to notice.
He returned the body to the cold drawer and sealed the door with a soft metallic click.
"I'll keep it quiet," he said. "But we need to act soon. Before the Volturi catch wind."
Daenerys's eyes flicked toward the door. "Or before someone else stumbles into this… mess."
Hadrian said nothing.
But he was already thinking of Bella.
Of her heartbeat.
Of how fragile everything suddenly felt.
And how close the danger really was.
---
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