Chapter 4

It's twilight when he hears the rumble of a motor in the distance. It's coming closer, narrowing in on the general direction of the Swan house in an increasing hum turned roar, but he's not paying it any attention, because why would he? He can easily decipher the subtle whine of a single cylinder intertwining with the pitch of the accelerator, and he knows the noise belongs to a motorbike. And why would Bella be returning home on a motorbike?

The idea is laughable.

And then it rounds the corner, inky black in the low light of the evening, and his heart, had it been beating, would have stopped as swiftly as the old Harley Sprint that now screeches to a halt in the driveway. Because a boy—and not just any boy—is cutting the engine and Bella is sliding off the back of the bike as naturally as though she did this every day.

Edward watches as she automatically lifts one hand to her head to smooth the tangle of her hair then turns back toward her companion—he can't make himself form the name on his tongue—with a laugh. Why is she laughing? The kid just practically dumped her at her doorstep from the back of a deathtrap. Edward stares, taking in much more than he wishes he would: the boy is grinning back at her, and thinking—thinking things that hit Edward like a sucker punch. His thoughts are in no way vile but certainly not pure; they're strong and sure and saturate his every word to Bella in a caress. They echo painfully in Edward's head and instinctively, he fights back with his mind as though he's been physically assaulted, as if he can actually force the intensity of these feelings back, back, back into that black mind they came from.

Jacob Black's.

Bella's smile is for him—Jacob—and her hand is on his arm as though this too happens every day. She's talking, answering some question about Charlie and his work schedule—surely Charlie does not approve of this mode of transportation then?—and it's not until she turns, peeling off a pair of oversized gloves as she does so, that she finally sees, and then her entire body tightens with a sharp, short jolt of…

what? Shock? Pain?

Joy?

Her mouth opens with a startled gasp, and then closes as the corner of her lips turn upward in a bewildering show of what is almost wonder but not quite happiness. Almost…misery.

"Oh, wow," she whispers.

Jacob doesn't hear her. He's staring in the same direction, and somewhat like Bella, his entire body is rigid. But unlike Bella, the taut muscles of his torso are nearly rippling with intensity as his eyes lock with Edward's. A shimmer of aggression emits from him as he sniffs the air and recoils. Edward draws a deep breath of his own and nearly staggers backward as an unexpected scent hits his nostrils in turn.

Werewolf.

Could it be…that the Black kid…has transformed? Amazing.

Horrifying.

*****

It's hands-down the best hallucination she's had yet.

For one thing, it's in 3-D. It truly feels like Edward is here in her driveway, three feet from her, his eyes dark and his face tight with anxiety. He hasn't spoken—he usually speaks—but even without the aid of his voice, he's never felt this real to her since the previous September.

She's so caught up in her delusion that she fails to see the fury on Jacob's face until he's grabbing her arm roughly, pulling her against him. He literally growls, low in his chest, and she finally tears her eyes from the image of Edward to look at him in alarm. "Jake?"

"Vampire." The single word is a harsh curse; he spits it as though it's foul in his mouth, and she stares at him in confusion. Surely Jacob doesn't see Edward too?

But his face has darkened; he's shaking. He's staring at the ghost of Edward and…impossibly, the Edward ghost is staring back at him as if…as if he can see him, too. As if they're the only two people in the driveway, actually. "No, Jake," she breathes. "It's just…"

She trails off helplessly, because what can she say? It's just pretend? It's just in my imagination? But if that is so, how is it in Jacob's imagination as well?

It seems to take a long, long time for the truth to sink in. It chips at her brain like slowly cracking ice across a deeply frozen surface, one powerful gouge followed by another. She begins to shake as well, her legs suddenly losing all ability to hold her, and she feels Jake's arm catch and tighten around her waist. Vying emotions sluice through her now liquid body like an assault: disbelief, chased by elation, chased again by a surprisingly swift kick of hope. Dangerous hope. Finally, self preservation, an instinct Edward once told her she lacked, floods her being, and she says the first thing to come to mind.

"Don't hurt me," she whispers.

*****

Don't…what? When Edward finds his voice, it's rough with terror and despair even as he emulates her near-inaudible tone. "I'd never," he breathes. She knows he'd never.

But that isn't, apparently, what she'd meant, because as he watches, she takes a hesitant step forward. The action seems to loosen Jacob's tongue and his voice rumbles with unsuppressed challenge. "He won't, Bella. I won't let him!"

But she's shaking her head, then attempting to shake his arm off of her. He does not concede to her; his arm stays stubbornly in place. He's still visibly trembling, his mind a churning vortex of inexpressible anger and perceived threat, and his tenuous grip on control momentarily consumes Edward. Get away from her! he wants to shout. Bella, he's dangerous! But impossibly, he doesn't. Instead, he stands mute, his usual authority inexplicably absent. He's startled to realize that sometime in the last long minute, he's raised his arms unconsciously, palms up.

Easy. Eeeeeasy. Jacob continues to quiver with rage.

The kid might as well have a gun pressed to Bella's head.

*****

Edward. Here. Edward, Edward, Edward. Bella repeats the word like a mantra in her head, but if she's hoping it will become more real with repetition, she's obviously in for disappointment. She settles for digging her fingernails forcefully into the heels of her palms, clenched into fists by her sides. The sharp prick of pain may be the only thing keeping her standing.

A single question screams at her from the lone segment of her brain not consumed with ensuring her she's not dreaming: why? Why is he back, when he doesn't care? Why does he bother, if she doesn't matter?

"Bella." His voice is the same: honeyed velvet, the smoothest satin even as it cracks with suppressed emotion. The sound is akin to the tinkling of crystal or the shattering of thinnest glass.

He reaches for her. Two, maybe three steps, and she'd be within his grasp. Her hand would find his, and she knows exactly how it would feel: cool, hard, and strong, her fingers molding to the stone form of his like flesh over bone.

But she can't.

She stands frozen, because to touch him would be to strip herself of every defense she's built up in his absence. It would be to return to her previously petrified state when—inevitably—he left her again. If there's one thing she knows, it's that he will, without doubt, be the death of her.

But no. Scratch that. They both will. Because as she retreats with the slightest of steps, she feels Jacob's solid bulk at her back, and to touch ihim/i is to melt like butter in a pan. Malleable. Defenseless.

Panic creeps under her skin and sends her pulse into a sprint. Protected, hunted, sought…it doesn't matter.

Either way, she's the prey.