This story takes place fifteen years after Bella was changed. It's about how Quil and Claire's relationship growing, but then, Claire gets bitten by a rogue vampire. Will the imprinting prove strong enough to bond mortal enemies? Or will they end up destroying each other, mind, body, and soul? Stay tuned to find out!

The day Quil told me what he was is one of the most vivid of my memories.

It was the day before I started high school. He'd taken me on a walk, like we were doing now, and talked to me before settling us on a half-rotten log. He pulled me onto his oversized lap and asked,

"What would you think if I told you the Quileute legends were real?"

I'd shrugged, because I'd always had a feeling there was more to them than met the eye.

"What if I said that I was one?"

Still naïve, I'd hugged him tightly and said, "It wouldn't matter to me, Quil. I don't care what you are. You're too nice to be a monster; you're a protector, a defender of the young and helpless."

He smiled at me, then told me he was a werewolf, and that he was my protector. He said he'd always be there for me when I needed him, and wanted him. He'd be there even when I didn't want him.

Then, he'd told me of imprinting. He explained it in great detail, and then said he'd imprinted on me. He would gladly take and become whatever I wanted him to be.

Until my junior year of high school, he was my big brother and best friend. That's when I realized I'd fallen in love with Quil.

Now, graduation was a week away, and we were walking casually through the woods in the back of the reservation, heading back to my aunt Emily's house. As usual, Quil made no sound beside me, and I could tell he was shortening his strides so I could keep up.

We broke through the thick trees in back of her home. Soft rain dripped on my face and neck. I welcomed the feeling, my hands shoved deep in my pockets.

The back door opened just as we reached the stoop, and Sam stepped out, closing the door. His face was grave; a jolt of alarm raced through me as my breath caught.

Emily had gone into labor with her and Sam's second child earlier that day – that was why me and Quil had gone on a walk – and the sight of his face told me something was wrong.

"Sam… wh-what happened to Emily?" I couldn't manage more than a whisper. "Tell me!"

My uncle cleared his throat twice before speaking in an agonized rasp. "Still born," Then my great hulk of an uncle bowed his head, jaw working, fighting his grief for me . . . and perhaps for himself, too. I touched his arm, and his head jerked up to look me in the eyes. He smiled sadly, then returned to the house.

I watched him, unsettled. My eyes overflowed with tears as a lightning bolt of grief ripped through me. Not another one.

See, Sam and Emily had conceived a total of six children. Four out of the six, including this last one, had been either been miscarried or they were born dead. Out of the two that survived pregnancy and childbirth, one of them, a little girl named Megan, drowned at the age of five, six years ago. Her older brother Scott, now thirteen, was Sam and Emily's only remaining child.

Scott now walked out of the shadows beside the house, hands deep in his jean pockets, head bent and shoulders hunched against the now-pelting rain.

I reached out to him, and he came to me, shoving his face against my shoulder. He was shaking as hard as I was as we clung to each other for support.

Quil's big hands dropped on each of our shoulders, comforting without words.

After a few silent minutes, Scott pulled back, and I let him go. He offered a watery smile before he turned and walked back into the woods. Then, I turned to Quil, looking up at his face in disbelief.

"Why, Quil?" I choked out before he crushed me against him. I could feel his almost overpowering ache to take my pain away and to shelter me from all of life's trials. I sobbed my heart out into his chest, clutching at his shirt so tightly I left creases.

When finally I'd cried myself out, I pulled a Kleenex out of my jacket pocket and blew my nose. I sniffed, "I've ruined your shirt."

He shook his head, brushing my hair back from my face with a hand so gentle it could've been the hand of a child. "It's not the first time, Claire, and it won't be the final time, either."

Now he tapped my chin with a large finger. "Smile, please. It's heartbreaking to see you so miserable."

I offered my best, watery, just-cried-every-tear-I-had smile. He laughed quietly. "Wish I had a camera. That was priceless."

My back stiffened, and I felt defensive. "How so? Is it wrong to be sad?"

He looked confused, then, comprehension spread across his features as he moved his hands to my shoulders.

"No, no, Claire, that's not it at all!" he smoothed my hair, traced my lips. I remained stoic, even though I was melting at his careful, loving touch.

"I just meant that you seemed to be trying so hard to smile, and the result was funny. I'm touched you put forth such effort to satisfy me." Quil's thumb traced my cheekbone as he cupped my face. "Are you still mad?"

I sighed and shook my head. "No, it's hard to stay mad when you're the most understanding guy in the world. That, and when I'm being silly."

His wide grin lit up his whole face. "Really?" Quil ran a hand through his hair, messing it up further. I fought the urge to fix it.

"Careful, your head will swell, and you'll never be able to get through my front door again!"

He nodded, smiling. "And that would be bad,"

I sighed, my mind returning to other, not so pleasant topics. Quil took my hand.

"It'll all be okay eventually, Claire. I'll help all I can, promise." Quil's voice had such intensity to its tone that my eyes filled again.

I swallowed. "I know. But they've been through so much already, Quil." I shivered as a wind came up, blowing right through my wet clothes.

"C'mon, let's get you inside. You need to dry off before you get sick." He led me by the hand into my aunt's house. I sat at the table in the dining nook, water pooling beneath my chair on the linoleum. I could see Scott sacked out on the couch in the living room, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling with a blank expression.

I freed my feet from my soaked sneakers, then pulled off my socks and stuck them inside, under the tongue, hidden from view. I pulled my jacket off and threw it to the hook beside the back door. It missed, hitting the floor with a wet smack. I grumbled, hauling myself out of the chair to restore it to the hook.

Shivering still, I trudged to my room.

Oh. I guess I forgot to mention I live with my aunt and uncle. Oh well, you know now.

I shut my door and stepped out of my wet clothes. Grabbing the towel off my closet's doorknob, I dried off as best I could before slipping into a tee shirt and sweatpants.

I padded quietly past my aunt's bedroom door; I could hear crying from inside as I continued to the kitchen.

I grabbed a towel from the laundry nook and knelt, mopping up the puddles on the floor. I looked up as I finished, finding myself staring into Quil's face.

"Oh!" I was so startled I fell back on my butt.

Another grin spread across his face. He reached down and scooped me up effortlessly, then placed me in a chair.

"Are you okay? I'd examine you, but me staring at your butt might be a bit awkward." Mischief twinkled in his eyes.

I arched an eyebrow. "Yet you still want to."

He blushed handsomely. "Eh . . ." Quil scratched his face, looking sheepish. "Most guys' do have physical temptations . . . they're mainly the same in that way."

Sam came in at that moment. "I would beg to differ, Quil. We all have differing personalities, physical attributes – although with us, they're not so different – face shape, eye color. Oh yes, we're very different."

Quil looked slightly embarrassed. "Actually, I was talking about sexual appeal for a guy. It's all the same."

"Ah. Yes, well, that would be one characteristic where we are very similar. But not always the same."

"I think the only difference is that some have more morals than others," I commented.

Both Sam and Quil's eyes snapped to me, and I blushed. "What? It's true!"

Finally, Sam smiled softly. "Perhaps," He nodded to the both of us. "Excuse me, I'm going to go check on Emily."

After he left the room, I walked to the fridge and began pulling out what I needed to make dinner. Ham, eggs, cheese . . .

Several minutes later, Quil's quiet voice in my ear startled me, making me drop the spatula.

"What are we having for dinner?"

I plucked the utensil from the floor and smacked him across the shoulder with it. "I am making ham and cheese omelets for everyone who happens to stop by, except you."

He looked hurt. "What did I do?"

"You startled me." I stated. Inwardly, I cringed. I sounded like a two year old.

Quil's strong, wide arms wrapped around my waist and pulled me to him. He kissed my neck, erupting chill bumps. "What if I said I was very, very sorry?" he whispered. I thought I could hear a seductive tone, but couldn't be sure. He was very distracting.

"I would still make you eat leftovers, if we had any." My retort was weak, however, and breathless.

His nose gently trailed up my neck to my ear, where he breathed, "No, you wouldn't." He gently touched his lips to my temple.

I folded. "Alright," Then, I turned to kiss him. "Now let me get back to the omelets, they're burning!"

He released me. "Wouldn't want that."

I laughed with him as I flipped eggs over. Right as I was putting the platter of omelets (I honestly have no clue how many I made . . . I just mixed up as many eggs as there was in the fridge), I set to work on waffles.

On cue, the front door opened.

"I thought I smelled food!"

"Wow, I can't believe Emily's up and cookin' already."

"Man, I am so hungry!"

I stepped out of the kitchen into the living room and stood in the doorway with my arms crossed.

Jacob, Embry, and Seth stood on the rug, dripping. They stopped talking when they saw me.

"First off, be quiet. Emily is still in bed. I don't want to bother her any more than necessary." I raised an eyebrow, moving a hand to my hip. "Second, if you want food, you will have to eat silently, or not at all. And third, wash up. It's getting cold."

With that said, I stalked into the kitchen and continued mixing batter. I jumped, startled, when I saw Scott on the counter. I acted like he hadn't spooked me, and tried to be gentle with him.

"Hey, Scott." I said quietly. "Want some dinner?"

"No." He offered me a crooked smile and hopped off the counter. "I'm goin' outside for awhile, okay?"

"Okay, just don't go too far." I reached out and ruffled his hair, unable to return his smile.

My eyes followed him as he left the house, concern filling me. I started the waffles, sprinkling blueberries in some, chocolate shavings or strawberry chunks in others.

I carried out the platter of waffles and took the now empty omelet plate back to the kitchen. I picked up a fork and began to eat the food I'd set aside for myself. After a few bites, I gave up. It all tasted like sawdust to me.

I heard a quiet, but eager, voice pipe up behind me. "You gonna finish that?"

Turning to find Jacob, I held out my plate. He took it, strutting proudly back into the dining nook, to cries of discontent.

"No fair! Why do you get more?"

"Aw, man! I was gonna ask!"

"Give me some!"

I rolled my eyes and turned to do the dishes. Standing at the sink, up to my elbows in hot water and suds, I stared out the window while I scrubbed at a plate. The woods behind the house seemed so peaceful.

As I put the last dish away, my eyes turned again with longing to the window. No one would notice if I stepped out for a few minutes.