Author's Note: This chapter was inspired by Hard to Handle by the Black Crowes. Please enjoy and review.

Chapter Eight

Bella knew that he had to die eventually.

She considered this, swinging her legs like a toddler from the high bench she was perched on, as the morning sun touched the faces of the pedestrians milling around her. A languid May breeze, heavy with the signature Seattle twist of salt and sea, ruffled through the copper-bronze hair of one man in particular. Bella's eyes, with apparent absentmindedness, followed him.

Closely.

Even if she was not the one to kill him, Edward Masen was certainly going to die, and soon. The entire world called out for his death. Felix demanded it, settled snugly in his unmarked grave; Aro and the other Vindici expected it, more out of a need for equilibrium than a desire for vengeance; the rest of the world would gladly sign his death warrant, if for no other reason than that he was young, and beautiful, and unreachable.

Bella knew that Edward had to die eventually, and she was sure that she would be the one to enforce the fact. Her family expected it of her, and, even more importantly, she expected it of herself. As she drifted into her mandatory eight hours of sleep every night, the words nagged at her brittle consciousness: Edward's still alive, Edward's still alive. They filled her with an odd, misplaced mixture of elation and fury.

Contemplating Edward Masen's demise often led Bella to the examination of her own. In reality, their fates mirrored eachother almost exactly. There were two options allotted to both of them: either to be killed by one another, or to be killed by someone else. Bella knew exactly what would happen to her after Edward was dead. She would continue with her work as always, and she would burn as brightly as a meteor plummeting through the sky, and eventually, probably before she was twenty-five, someone would shootpoisonstab her and she would be over.

The withered hounds in the business, ones over forty like Aro or Carlisle, were not mocked for their senility but rather applied to for the secret of their success. Because surviving for so long as an assassin was, from any angle, a long-shot. This was a truth that Bella had long acknowledged, one that was acknowledged by assassins everywhere. It counted for almost everyone that she had ever cared about. It counted for Benjamin and Garrett and Embry—for Joe, who would surely drink himself to death if he managed to avoid his bullets—for Emmett and Rosalie, bound to follow eachother quickly—for Jasper—

Especially for Jasper, now.

Bella had known, from the moment Jasper had explained his plans to her, that she would be the hatchet Aro sent after him. She was the obvious choice, after all. She had taught him, she had known him, his weaknesses and his past. No one had been more privy to his thoughts, to his habits…no one had loved him more.

This was the second reason for Aro's assignment, and she'd known it almost as quickly as the first. The twisted bastard was testing her.

He had done this before, too many times to count. All of Aro's assassins at one time experienced a deliberately-placed roadblock, a confounding or painful assignment, a trial of loyalty. Bella wasn't entirely new to these tests, but her competence had been such that Aro usually left her alone.

But since she had begun tracking Edward Masen, the Vindici's attitude as a whole towards her had changed. People seemed to be more nervous around her, unsettled. Not a remarkable occurrence for Bella—she had quite a reputation—but this was different from the half-fearful respect she had been shown before. Now, her peers looked at her as though she was an elegant, dangerous stranger. As if she had been transformed somehow, unbeknownst to herself.

"You're prettier than before—and sadder," Emmett had told her.

Emmett, along with half a dozen others, was an exception to the change of behavior towards her. If her friends noticed a difference, they rarely remarked on it. Carlisle kept his peace, but Bella often found his ice-blue eyes steady on her, as if she was a math problem he had not yet tried to solve.

Most of the time, she didn't understand what the fuss was about. She continued as always, working harder than she was able, pushing herself towards an end she still feared. This had not changed. But sometimes, in quiet half-suppressed moments when she was alone, Bella felt a pull from another direction. She would think of tousled hair and moss-green eyes, and feel such a fever stirring inside herself that it frightened her.

These moments were short-lived. She nearly always waved them away as Jasper-induced loneliness.

Jasper's absence had hurt her more and less than she thought it would. It was less because she could still move along and laugh with her family and be happy. It was more because she could be surrounded people who cared for her and still ache and be lonely…because she would sometimes go to meet him at the Attic's staircase, or look up to tell him something, and then pause in bewildered bitterness.

She had not been in love Jasper—no—but she had loved him, and now it hurt.

Bella was sprawled out comfortably on the bench as she watched Edward Masen seat himself at the outdoor café across from her. She was sure he had seen her, of course he had, but he made no move to leave. She thought of the last time she'd seen him, when they hadn't even shot at eachother once.

Bella stood with her hands resting lightly on the railing of the private balcony she had reserved. She looked out over the well-buffed, professional looking buildings of Olympia. Carlisle had arranged a dinner meeting with her, Rosalie, and a potential sponsor named Amun who presumably favored the company of women. Amun and Rosalie weren't late, but Bella was early.

Just as she was turning to go inside, Bella felt a whisper of unease travel down her back. The small gun in her purse was out in a moment. Carefully, she assessed the surrounding buildings.

It didn't take her too long to spot him…the hair gave him away. He stood from behind the open window of an ordinary looking building diagonal to hers. The setting sun glinted off of the other windows surrounding him. Slowly, lazily, he was leveling his long-range at her.

He leaned down to check the scope, and Bella tried to picture what he must be seeing: herself in a dusky green evening gown, dark hair pulled back and spilling over one shoulder, eyes hard, her gun raised and pointing directly at him.

His head jerked up in surprise. They stared at eachother for a solid minute, and Bella found herself relaxing despite herself as her eyes traced his already well-known features. Even fifty yards away, the sight of him made her muscles loose and excited. She could feel him taking in her appearance, and made sure to keep her gun steady.

Finally, after many painful heartbeats, she smiled at him.

After a moment, he smiled back.

The smile they shared wasn't one of mockery, or even of promise. It was a brief, rueful out flash of camaraderie, a smile that said, All in good fun, right? Maybe I'll kill you next time.

With an amused half-smile still curling his lips, Edward backed away from the window and shut it, disappearing behind the tinted glass.

Bella sensed Rosalie behind her, and turned. She was stunning, dressed in scarlet with her golden tresses piled atop her head, light to Bella's dark. Her violet eyes looked not at Bella but past her, at the window that Edward had closed moments ago.

"So that's Edward Masen," she said.

"Not for long," Bella replied.

Rosalie laughed.

Bella stared at Edward in mild consternation as he placed his order. Her eyes traced him with a guilty sort of satisfaction. He was dressed simply, in the muted garb of an assassin: easy-to-move-in black jeans and dark blue sweater, fitting snug on the lovely deadly chest and arm muscles.

His head was tilted nonchalantly upwards as he spoke, exposing his neck indifferently. The waiter left, and still he did not look at her, though he had placed himself in the perfect position to do so. He flipped through his newspaper, ignoring her, casual as a cat on the hunt.

Remembering herself, she glanced down at the crossword puzzle she had brought and fully intended to solve. As she glanced down at the untouched page, her irritation rose: along with her head, Masen was fucking with her very rare free time.

She glanced halfheartedly at the first clue, her mind racing all the while. What was Edward doing here? He had obviously followed her. If he'd wanted to go on a morning stroll he could have done it at home in Bellevue. But why, then, if he wanted another shot at her, had he arranged the tête-à-tête in public? The most important rule of an assassin, even higher up than 'Protect your family', was 'Don't get caught'. It was a necessity for an assassin to be able to dodge the law, to remain inconspicuous—a necessity that would be quickly blown to shit when she and Edward decided to have a showdown in the middle of Pike Place.

It almost seemed as if he had chosen a public spot deliberately. A safe zone. Which, seeing as they had eachother locked in an ongoing death-spiral, made no sense whatsoever.

She looked up, involuntarily, the way children do when their names are called. His eyes were on her, finally, the vibrant earthy eyes that occasionally haunted her, and they seemed wickedly amused. His expression was polite and detached, very suitable for the passerby that he was trying to appear as, but his eyes said Come here.

She looked at him.

He tapped the place next to him, smiling, the devil, irresistible.

Shocked and half-disbelieving, she glared exclamation points at him; he elegantly raised an eyebrow at her, a dare, a question mark.

According to every single one of the regulations she'd created around herself over three years ago, she should walk away without looking back. That was the smart decision, the safe one. The one she was going to make. Absolutely.

When he looked down and resumed reading his paper, she knew it was all useless.

Bella checked her watch, sighed, and crossed the street to the café like she'd meant to do it all along. As she approached him, she saw, with a mixture of wariness and amusement, that there were two drinks on the table.

She sat gracefully, and delivered her line. "So, you're turning yourself in after all. A little anticlimactic, I'll admit, after all these weeks, but I'm not complaining." As she said it, she adjusted the sheath of the dagger tucked into her left sleeve. Just in case. She noticed that both of his hands were placed conspicuously on top of the table.

Edward smiled at her, his green eyes startling. "I didn't plan on surrendering," he said simply. "I'll be sure to give you notice if that happens, though."

It was the first time she had ever heard his voice. Bella hadn't expected it to be so deep, so warm. He had a soothing voice…a lying voice. One that would comfort you even as he tightened the noose around your neck, she thought.

She stared at him, waiting, expectant.

He took his cue. "So," he began, "I'm guessing you didn't plan on this particular kind of lunch date when you woke up this morning. You're probably wondering what the hell I'm doing."

"If you mean that I'm probably considering whether or not you're clinically insane, then yeah, you've got me pegged."

"I appreciate the concern you have for my welfare," he approved, laughter in his eyes. She smiled along with him this time, acknowledging the irony, and the delicious surreal fact that they were sitting across from eachother and talking politely.

The air around them was thick and loud. The purposeful bustle of buyers and sellers, each of them carrying a sausage or flowers or jewelry or produce or caramel corn or wind chimes, girdled their table. Low music issued from a desperate sax somewhere behind them. Bitter cries blended with giddy laughter and the tossing of fish.

Little children tread the cobblestone path carefully, holding Mommy or Daddy's hand in a death grip, eyes wide with a mixture of panic and exhilaration.

One of them caught Bella's eye in particular. She was tiny and gorgeous, a dainty little milkmaid with blond hair, overalls, and out-of-season Wellington boots. Dainty, chubby fingers tried and failed to wrap around her father's wrist as he approached a wizened flower lady. Her young dark eyes appraised Bella carefully, taking in the muted clothing, perfect features and hard expression. The perfect features seemed to decide her: she broke out in a wide, conspirational smile.

Bella, despite herself, allowed her mouth to curve a little at the edges before looking away quickly.

Her eyes returned to Edward, who was now gazing at her with an inscrutable expression. Unnerved, she said, "I'm still waiting for an explanation. Preferably before I kill the shit out of you."

Edward pursed his lips speculatively, idly tracing the rim of his lemonade glass. He seemed to think seriously about his next choice of words. "I've come to the conclusion," he said slowly, "that you and I are almost evenly matched in skill. Which means that we could quite possibly both end up dead."

He paused, assessing her expression. "You don't have to look at me like that, Bella. Any other assassin would take it as a compliment."

Bella stared at him, fighting the tingle that had run down her back at the way he had said her name, musically, confidently, like it was his own. His words caught up to her, though, and she agreed coldly, "Any other assassin would."

"And I was thinking," he continued, "that, no matter what the outcome, this job is going to be a long haul."

"Sweet of you to think so," she replied, surprised into laughter. The statement was so blandly, consciously ridiculous. She still had no idea what possible justification he could have for arranging this meeting, though, or what he planned on getting out of it. Her life? A chat?

Edward's voice, tinged with annoyance, interrupted her thoughts. "For someone so eager to know why I'm here, you're awfully good at interrupting."

"For someone who set up this lunch date, you're awfully good at beating around the bush," she retorted.

It was his turn to chuckle. She found herself listening closely to the sound; it had a deep timbre, but it wasn't gravelly like Emmett's or menacing like Aro's. His laugh dissolved eventually into a professional expression, and he raised his eyebrows slightly, asking permission to continue.

"Go ahead," she sighed.

"Alright. So I also thought," said Edward, "since at least one of us is going to die, and since that process will take up a substantial period of time for both of us, we might as well make it an experience to remember. We might as well drink lemonade and get to know eachother."

He looked down at her drink, and pushed back a frown when he saw that it was untouched. "Hmm." He leaned forward across the table, too close for comfort—her fingers curled tighter around her weapon as her heart stuttered strangely—and took a drink from the straw.

Edward leaned back, looking at her with an openness she wouldn't let herself trust. She saw the reassurance he had infused in the gesture, but hard training and harder experience refused to accept it. The look she gave him was not unfriendly, but she refused to touch the drink.

"So, that's what you want out of this," she said dubiously, half to herself. "A friend. It's not a bad idea, really. You've just missed this one little problem…"

"I never said I wanted to be your friend," he interjected. "Friends protect eachother. Maybe 'acquaintances' would be a better word—no strings, just talking. You intrigue me, Bella, I'll admit it. I have questions."

If his previous words hadn't alarmed her, that last sentence certainly did. CarlisleEmmettRosalieJasper flashed through her mind. She recoiled sharply, into her seat; Edward leaned forward, eager, his emerald eyes flashing with some unnamable emotion.

"If it's information that you want, you've asked the wrong girl. You won't get it from me." She could feel her body straightening, blazing at him. Protective, determined, furious.

Something in him seemed to spark in response. He leaned even closer, his gaze tracing her, seeing her. "No, it's not information that I want," Edward murmured.

His proximity was changing her. Through her panic and the knowledge that she was five seconds away from killing him, she felt something shift and lock inside her. Images of her own fingers running through his hair, his lips brushing her eyelids, rose unbidden before her. For the first time in her life, she thought to herself that she was too young, quite too young, to be experiencing an ache like this.

She knew that she had no choice. She knew that she had no choice.

Painfully, icily, she spoke. "If you don't move away from me right now, I'm going to kill you. I swear to god, I'll shoot you in front of everyone." Her voice, thankfully, was steady.

Edward nodded, his face thoughtful, and pulled away slowly. She noticed that he actually pulled his chair back a little as he sat down. Giving her space. He did it with an almost contrite air, as if he had broken one of his own rules.

She watched him warily as he took another drink of lemonade. Her own sat on the table, still untouched by her; the ice was beginning to melt.

"I don't want to know about anyone that's close to you," he said. "You're the target, remember? I'm not asking any dangerous questions. I guess I just want your side of the story. You've got to admit it's going to be a good one—two young assassins, both assigned to eachother, and both with hidden incentive."

Incentive, he said. Hers was obvious: Felix. His—? She raised an eyebrow with interest.

He didn't resume speaking, silently dismissing her unasked question. She frowned, irritated at him, irritated at herself. "Even if I did understand why you'd ever want to talk to a target, which I don't," she began, "I still don't see how you can justify doing so. Your rules can't be so unlike mine."

"Which ones?" he asked, seeming pleased that she was no longer threatening him with immediate death.

"Well, hatchets aren't exactly pleasure seekers, for one thing."

This was true. Aro and Carlisle kept their assassins under a strict regimen. Any activity that was destructive to the body, thus impairing killing potential, was prohibited. Especially those activities that could become addictive. Smoking, the use of drugs, alcohol, and even coffee were heavily punished. Joe, the famous drunkard of the Vindici bunch, was alive only because Aro didn't care about him enough to have him killed. Bella herself, being much less stupid and much more valuable, had never touched a drop.

These restrictions meant that an assassin's recreational activities were limited. Sex was allowed, even encouraged, since it did nothing but improve fitness and stamina. Rosalie was taken, however, and Bella was rare, so the devastating male majority had nothing but to seek out the gentle, inferior touch of the female healers.

Bella looked at Edward and thought that he, being insanely attractive and one of the few men available in Scopo Finale, probably didn't have any problems getting women. The idea was a distasteful one.

"No, we're not," he agreed. "But honestly, are we pleasure-seeking right now? Look at it as a momentary truce. You ask your questions, I ask mine, and we both live another day."

Live another day.

She looked around them. Lunchtime had caused the walking crowd to thin enough that the sunlight glimmered off of the pavestones. Beside their table, the wind swept across the floor like a dancer. What would the terms of this meeting be like if neither of them had ever met an assassin—if they were here on an awkward first date, perhaps, or as comfortable family friends? Bella thought that, in this alternate universe, she would feel like it was a beautiful day to be alive in.

She had met Emmett, though, and there was no use in imagining otherwise. The innocent, quiet, simple-pleasures Bella had long since been buried and replaced by the woman she was now: hard, determined, and bloody. Her pleasures were much stronger and more primal now. She was too well trained to be brave or cowardly. This meant that living another day, while immeasurably precious to a regular person, was a rather low glory for her.

"Your lemonade is getting watery," Edward observed.

"It is," she agreed, still thinking.

Was there any way she could turn this to her advantage? She refused to admit that some part of her wanted to know this man; she tried to look at it as a business transaction. The Vindici had the upper hand in the feud with Scopo Finale, ever since they'd killed Maggie O' Hanley. Could she further this now? If there was any way they could become close enough for him to trust her…Esme's son…

His jewel-like eyes pulled hers up to meet his, as they had before. They shattered her concentration entirely, making her doubt any reason she could ever have to hurt him.

"So, what say you?" He tilted his head, charming, devastating. Bella wondered idly if he had rehearsed all of his lines and gestures beforehand, and chosen them specifically to confuse her. Her own face throughout the past minutes had been carefully blank: hiding.

"Well," she began, slowly tracing the rim of her own lemonade, a silent mockery of his previous actions. She felt a little gush of triumph when his eyes flickered downward to watch, despite himself. "It's utterly ridiculous, but I don't see any harm in it. As long as this is a one time thing, and we both go back to killing eachother tomorrow."

"Yes, you're perfectly free to kill me tomorrow."

"I could make it good for you," she offered.

He stretched his shoulders back and sighed, the lazy grin on his face making him look much younger. "I'm sure you could. Am I allowed to ask my questions now?"

"Yes." Her posture, which had been relaxing moments ago, straightened and stiffened.

"Okay." He steepled his long fingers together, observing them for a moment before speaking. "Why didn't you just let them shoot Demetri?"

The look she leveled at him was thick with meaning. Felix is dead. Why didn't you return the favor?

He winced, but waited.

She decided that it wouldn't hurt to be honest this time. "I didn't think an assassin should die on his knees."

Edward stared at her.

"My mistake, obviously," she said quickly, almost defensive.

He looked over her head, at the shuffling of people behind her. "You know what, Bella? I think that, in a backwards way, you might have a moral compass."

She laughed. "Don't be insulting."

"I'm not. I don't know many other hatchets that would have done what you did. You were going to have him killed anyway, I'll give you that, but you wanted to do it…honorably."

She glared at him, definitely defensive now. "If I'd known that I would be subjected to an inquisition for doing it, I'd have just lodged a bullet in his head."

"He's very grateful you didn't, by the way."

"Oh, I'm sure." She thought of Felix, and the taste in her mouth was bitter.

Edward looked at her thoughtfully. "You don't like the idea of being a good person, do you?"

"It's an occupational hazard. What, do you have a moral compass?"

He shrugged. "I sometimes like to think so." His gaze sharpened on her expression. "What is it now?"

She shifted a strand of hair that had been blowing in her face, tucked it behind her ear. "I find it a little funny that the man who claims to have morals is the one who got his kill that night." She didn't know what she looked like at that moment, she had no control of her expression.

His jaw clenched, as if he was in pain, as he looked at her. "I'm sorry. Really. And your shoulder…"

Bella blinked, surprised. "Don't be. You're doing your job." After a moment, she realized that he had just apologized for killing Felix, that he regretted killing him, and she felt that she would never be closer to hating Edward Masen than she was now.

"Tell me what you're thinking," he ordered, cutting off her thoughts.

Her lips curled humorlessly, and she once again told the truth. "I was thinking that I could hate you."

Edward's hair was a little tousled by the wind, like hers. His muscled arms were at his sides, his green eyes looked down at her steadily. "That's a stroke of good luck for you, given the circumstances."

He's beautiful, she thought suddenly, totally out of place. He had killed Felix and she was going to kill him back, but at that moment the sight of him was so magnetic that her breath halted. From across the little table, she could easily smell the attractive masculine scent of him, a mixture of grass and spice and sunshine.

"Assassins shouldn't mix emotions with work," she finally ground out. "And how do you expect me to feel? That's two in the past three months…" she trailed off, realizing that in her second of weakness she had made a mistake. Edward had no idea that Jasper had left. No one should have an idea that Jasper had left. But there was no way she could backtrack, or recant what she had just said. It lay there heavy in the air between them, and suddenly Edward had information that he could use. She stared at him for a moment in honest chagrin, discarding the usual defiance like a worn-out toy.

When he spoke, Edward's voice was different, detached. "Did you love him?" He obviously wasn't talking about Felix.

She looked down at the table, not wanting to be distracted by the sight of him as she spoke carefully. "In a way, I did."

He was silent for so long that she finally looked up. The look he gave her was almost sympathetic. "I lost someone like that, too, not long ago."

Her lips parted in shock. He had just openly volunteered serious information, the kind he knew that she could use against him. It evened the playing field, making them equals in vulnerability—but no assassin she'd ever met had cared about fairness before.

"Loneliness is a big part of this business," he continued. "Losing someone never helps."

"No, I suppose not," she murmured, still reeling in surprise and their proximity. "So…you have any other questions? Don't expect me to ask any. You're leading this marching band."

He laughed, then thought. "Umm, what was the happiest year of your life?"

Again, he surprised her. Another question that was technically harmless, but one that sliced her. A flood of memories assaulted her, ones that she had repressed for years.

Renée tinkering at the piano in the living room, laughing at her own mistakes—neon twisty-tie shoelaces—the cool shelter of dark trees—Charlie's hesitant, earnest smile—

No—Stop—

She closed her eyes, shoving the memories away, and opened them to meet Edward's curious expression. "I don't know whether I'm old enough to tell you," she hedged. "I'm still pretty young." At least, by regular standards; in assassin's world, twenty was almost over-the-hill.

He frowned incredulously at her, "It's not like your happiest year will be in the future."

She frowned back, confused. "Why not?"

His lip curled in disbelief and the beginnings of distaste. "Don't tell me you enjoy your job."

"Of course I do!" She snapped. "Maybe they don't have any sense of purpose on your side of the line, but that's not true for mine. You don't care about the innocent lives you save?" She assessed him, remembering his apology earlier. "Or maybe all the killing is too heavy on your conscience. Well, that's life, Edward. You—"

"This is not life," he snapped back at her, cutting her off. His jade eyes glittered, angry and glorious. "You think this is life? They took away our lives."

Her own face heated; for the first time in years, she could feel a blush rising in her pale cheeks. "If you want to throw a pity-party, go ahead, but don't you invite me."

Her words didn't even seem to register with him; his gaze was intently focused on her face. "You're blushing," he mused, his ire seeming to fade beneath fascination.

"I'm aware," she replied, trying and failing to regain her cold, professional tone.

Edward smiled at her like her flustered state gave him joy, like he wanted to take her face in his hands. She jerked away from his stare sharply, looking instead at the towering buildings that congregated a few blocks away. Irritation and confusion warred in her mind as she surveyed the Needle. What was wrong with her?

She noticed that her awareness of him had heightened, so that even while looking away, his presence was like a physical touch on her skin. A pulling, insistent reminder that he was here, two feet away from her, and perfect.

"Your happiest year?" Edward reminded her.

"Ah…nine," she replied, accepting the distraction. "You?"

His smile faded. "Fourteen, for me."

She nodded, unsurprised. As she usually did with her bigger targets, she had memorized his history. It was common knowledge that Edward had joined Scopo Finale just before he turned sixteen. Two years younger than she had been.

"Favorite color?" he rejoined, a little playfully.

She snorted. "Next question."

"Author?"

Easy. "Bronte."

He raised an eyebrow, surprised. "Which one?"

"It's pretty close, but Emily." She laughed at the ridiculousness of his question, and the even more ridiculous fact that she had answered it. Her gun was still in her lap, but her fingers curled loosely around it. "What about you? Miguel Cervantes? Nora Roberts?"

He grinned, and leaned forward conspirationally. "Lately, it's been Shakespeare," he whispered. "Don't broadcast that, though." His eyes gleamed at some remembered joke.

She scoffed at his choice. "Assassins, forsooth."

Edward chuckled. Bella looked around, and realized that they were attracting a bit of attention from the other café patrons. The people were drawn by their beauty—they probably didn't see couples like them every day—and by the up-and-down intensity of their conversation. She wondered if they could sense the electricity that hummed between Edward and her across the table.

Edward noticed, as well, and lowered his voice. "If you could back and change everything," he asked quietly, his meaning clear, "would you do it?"

More images flashed through her mind: Carlisle kneeling in prayer, Garrett stroking her hair, Emmett teaching her how to shoot, Aro's quiet cunning smile, Rosalie lying next to her in bed, Jasper's hand curling around hers.

"No," she answered, "I wouldn't." She didn't speak out loud, but her eyebrows posed the question: Would you?

Once again, she felt Edward's eyes tracing her, uncovering her. She felt the magnetic pull stronger than ever, and carefully restrained herself from leaning forward. The whole length of her body tingled under his gaze. Her dark eyes were bright, the skin of her cheeks fighting a blush.

"No," he said simply.

Edward Masen has to die eventually, she reminded herself.

Easily, naturally, she reached for the lemonade—sniffed the liquid carefully—and took a sip.