Author's Note: Hey Twilight fans! This is my first story so go easy on me, but give me lots of reviews and let me know what you think. I have to thank Kobe Grace, my super awesome beta for helping me review my chapters and Leiaaa who has given me constant support, encouragement, and wonderful ideas. Thank you both so very much.

"Love is as much of an object as an obsession, everybody wants it everybody seeks it, but few ever achieve it, those who do, will cherish it, be lost in it, and among all, will never...never forget it."--- Curtis Judalet

Prologue

*

Sam

Nothing had prepared him for this.

He had composed himself on the ride over here, fixed his face to show absolutely no emotion, but this efforts dissipated into nothingness the instant that he saw her. His heart plummeted: there she lay, pale and motionless underneath thin, yellow sheets, covered in so much plaster and gauze that he barely recognized her. But he didn't have to see her face to know who it was. He could've been in a room full of people and still have been able to pick her out from the crowd. Whenever she was nearby, his heart clenched, stricken with the urge to — to just touch her, to smell her, to taste her. Even now, after all these years, after all of the ways they had come to be separated, that was her effect on him.

These days, however, it wasn't as if she was ever in the same room as he was anymore. In fact, these days, she went out of her way to avoid him. Without missing a beat, he knew that it had been exactly three months, twelve days and eight hours since he'd last seen her. And every second that had passed since then was branded mercilessly onto his heart.

In horrified silence, he surveyed her body. Hot, bitter anger coursed though his veins as he noted the bruises and scratches that hadn't been obscured by bandage or brace. From what he'd learned, it was a miracle that she was even alive — hell, it was only because of her werewolf strength and regenerating abilities that she was still breathing. In all, she had four broken ribs, twelve different fractures in her left leg; her right arm was completely crushed, and her spine and brain had suffered several contusions. Yet despite her current state, those didn't even come close to being the worst of the injuries.

The son of a bitch had bitten her.

It was that thought that gnawed at him, and the guilt ate at him like a parasite on rotted flesh. He should have kept a better eye on her. If he had, then maybe she would never have ended up here. The Leech Doctor had said that the best way to get rid of the poisonous venom was to give her several transfusions; nearly every able-bodied person in Forks had shown up to the Cullens' to donate. So had many from La Push, the superstitions and prejudices they'd grown up with pushed to the backs of their minds — there were other, more important things to deal with right now. One of their own was dying. The official story was that it was a car accident, the result of a drunk driver and a semi. The Cullens had even set up a crash site, complete with a MAC truck, an Audi Coup and the Clearwaters' minivan, to corroborate it. Those who'd seen the site said it looked like the worst car accident in the history of the entire Olympic Peninsula. And she was at the center of it.

Slowly, he made his way towards her, ignoring the glances that were sent his way. He wasn't welcome here —no one knew better than he did but he would not be deterred. The chairs at her bedside were taken up by her brother and mother, so when he approached, he knelt on the floor — an appropriate move, given his penitence and his reverence for her. Then, ignoring the growl coming from her brother's direction, he gently took her cold hand into his own warmers ones, careful of the gauze and tubes attached to her.

You say you love her, a nagging voice in his mind accused. But look: all you've done is hurt her. Normally, whenever he heard that voice, he paid it no mind, or he'd just tell it to shut up. Right now, though, he listened to it eagerly, finding an odd sense of comfort in its claims and accusations. That voice: for all it berated him, it was nonetheless tangible evidence — that his love for her was there; that it hadn't faded. That nothing, not even an imprint, could ever sway the hold she had on his heart.

But still…

What good was love, tangible or otherwise, if she was dying? And it was all his fault. Sure, everyone — her family, their friends, his pack — would blame her injuries on the bloodsucker that had bitten her, but no one knew about his mistake. They didn't know that the strongest, most beautiful woman in La Push was now lying in a hospital bed, fighting for her life, because of his lack of judgment. They didn't know how he had let his pride get in the way of saving the woman that he had loved— the woman that he still loved, and always would. No, they didn't know a goddamned thing.

They didn't know how he had killed Leah Clearwater.