Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns everything in the Twiverse. But this plot is mine :)

Edward and Rosalie need to talk. Let's see what happens when they try…

Chapter 10: Unfinished Business

Edward's POV

The click of the front door sounds in my ears like a thunderclap.

At last, we are alone.

Dr. and Mrs. Cullen turn their attention toward the night's festivities with scarcely a thought spared for those they left behind.

All well and good. The less they consider us, the better.

Rosalie has yet to set foot on the stairs.

I would have heard the creak.

Her thoughts fly toward me at an alarming rate, and I try without success to stay out of them.

She is confused, annoyed, embarrassed, and aroused.

But it is the latter feeling which vexes her most.

An affliction at which I cannot scoff, for I am equally as trapped and thrice as dismayed.

But my resolve is fixed and my reasons are sure.

Tonight I shall talk.

Not covet.

Not dream.

Not touch.

Not even if she asks me to...

'Okay. I can do this. I shall go upstairs and... And what? What could possibly come after that shameless display in his room that would not mortify me completely? Would that I had accompanied the Cullens to their soiree.'

I drag a weary palm down my face and pull out of her mind.

It is shameful to invade her privacy this way, even if my intentions are noble.

But I need to know what she wants so I can give it to her.

And I really need to work on my phrasing.

With deliberation, she proceeds up the staircase and turns on the second floor landing. Entering her mistress's bedroom, she goes about dropping hairpins into their satchel on the vanity and returning discarded dresses to their place in the chifforobe.

Her thoughtfulness touches some forgotten recess of my heart. But I shrug it off, needing no additional reasons for admiration.

Putting out the lamp, she turns toward the third floor with an audible sigh. The sound is layered with gorgeous complexity, and I bite my lip to keep from responding in kind.

How is it that she undoes me so easily?

Are her allurements so potent or is it her novelty that woos me?

Dr. Cullen spoke fondly of his future bride prior to her descent on our lives, so she was his upon arrival and of no interest to me either way.

But Miss Hale is different.

She is the only woman I have ever looked at more than once.

The only one I have ever touched.

The first and only I have wanted to touch.

Though a fortnight has passed since I released her hand, I can still feel her gentle heat pressed against my palm. My fingers tingle with the memory of their proximity to the curve of her back.

And none of these musings will keep me on task.

Focus, boy.

Perhaps you can start by not using her favorite moniker for you.

Damnable creature.

She has reached the top floor and idles there.

My body twists in distress as I wait.

Will she come to me?

Shall I meet her in the hall?

It would take but a quick peek to learn her preference, but I do not wish to rely on my gifts.

I want to approach this as an average immortal.

Although if the stories from my maker are to be believed, the average immortal would have bedded her two weeks ago.

Another sigh from the hall brings me out of my reverie.

She is retreating to her room.

But she leaves her door open.

What does that mean?

Does it mean anything?

Confound it all!

Why must everything concerning this woman be so complex?

I do not recall Dr. Cullen experiencing such difficulties when his wife awoke from her mortal life. She was eager to please him, relieved to see his face.

But Rosalie...

She was comforted by my presence, initially.

Beseeching me with her words and eyes.

Until she chose to blame me for her immortality.

Does she feel that way still?

Or is this a temporary truce?

I come to my feet, staring at my bedroom door.

The distance between us now is laughable.

Even at human speed, it would take less than ten seconds for me to reach the threshold of her room.

Another precious few to enter her sanctuary, take her by the hand, look into her eyes, and...

And what?

I curse my inexperience as I realize I would have expectations to meet.

Perceptions of what a man should be and do.

But what could she think after her first brush with lust?

Surely nothing good.

Because of him...him and his band of bastards...she can only associate passion with pain.

She knows only the dark side of physicality.

And I...

I know nothing at all.

Stalking toward the window once more, the shadow of impotence darkens my mood.

I lean closer toward the ledge, heedless of the harmless glass littered across its edge.

It is not too late.

I may yet take my leave.

'I am so ashamed that I can hardly face him. What must he think of me?'

Her thoughts are impossible to ignore when they shout at me thus.

She has not voiced them, so I could feign ignorance upon my departure.

But to knowingly desert her in such a state...

I cannot do it.

'Mother warned me against being too artful with my beauty. Did I lead him into temptation?'

Your beauty does lead me there, and I am ever too happy to follow.

'I was always shy around men. Is this wantonness a result of the change? Could it truly be that simple?'

From the tenor of her thoughts, her education on this aspect of our nature is sorely lacking.

Perhaps I could teach her.

Another barrage of insinuating images floods my mind.

I am unfit to exist.

'Perhaps my fianc- perhaps Royc- perhaps he was right. Maybe it was my fault.'

Do not believe so, sweet Rose.

'Maybe I deserved what they did and worse.'

Lies, lovely one. Lies, all.

'Maybe I am just a common slut in ladies' clothes.'

"In rags or finery, you are heaven-incarnate."

Her self-talk ceases as she processes my outburst.

Damn it all.

'Was he talking to me? About me? Why, how did he do that? Have I spoken aloud?'

As the questions mount in her mind, I face two choices.

I can say nothing and allow her to believe a lie.

Or I can be the person she thinks I am.

For all of my apprehension, it seems I am too stupid to choose the former.

"You did not speak aloud."

She knows I am addressing her. "I didn't?"

"No."

Her incredulous mind races ahead, seeking possibilities. "Then how did you do that?"

I swallow the lump of fear threatening to choke me. "I can read your mind."

She laughs. "What?"

"I am a gifted vampire." Please don't hate me. "And I can read your mind."

Her hand clamps over her mouth, muffling her reply. "I don't believe it."

I sigh, wishing she would relent this once. "Think of an absurd question."

"An absurd question?"

"Yes."

She mentally stumbles, unable to settle on one thought. 'How can I tell if a question is absurd enough?'

"Because the answer will confound more than the question itself."

She gasps, the sound cutting through me. "Oh my go-"

"Rosalie, please let me..."

Before I can finish the sentence, she is in my room with her face inches from mine.

But I am not tempted to kiss her this time.

"How dare you invade my privacy?" she screeches. "Have you no shame? No sense of decorum? Or are you wholly unable to play the part of a gentleman?"

"Rosalie..."

"Don't you dare speak my name!" She turns abruptly away, running an elegant hand through her hair. The gesture is so raw I close my eyes against it.

She is an effortless temptress.

"How long?" she grinds out at length.

"Since my change."

"No." Her exasperation forces me to meet her eyes, their red-hot fire burning a hole in my defenses. "How long have you been reading my mind?"

"It's complicated."

She folds impatient arms beneath her bosom. "Un-complicate it."

"I do not mean to hear your thoughts." I rise from the couch, our eyes still locked. "And since the moment you awoke to this life, I have made every possible effort to stay out of your mind."

I recite the Magna Carta in French to muffle her mental reply.

But the shifting of weight from her left foot to her right speaks loudly enough.

"You say you have tried not to listen since I woke up." Her voice beacons me despite its frost, and I move blindly toward it.

"Yes."

"So you stalked my thoughts while death scorched me alive?"

I pause mid-stride, dismayed by her diction. "'Stalked' is an ugly word."

Her gaze hardens. "Eavesdropping is an ugly habit."

"I was not..." I close my eyes and bite my bottom lip to quarantine my response.

Raising my voice will not help my cause.

Nor will it quell the feckless flames that her presence inspires.

With better control, I reach again for the truth.

"I first heard your voice during your change." I continue my journey toward her. "I had decided to ignore your existence altogether and had fled the room accordingly."

She neither gloats nor interrupts, her eyes guarded.

"Just as I reached my room, I heard your mind for the first time. You said, 'Make it stop.'" My mouth curls around the words, remembering how they penetrated my indifference. "Again and again, you pleaded. With God or with me, I didn't know. But I was powerless to ignore you."

The confession defuses her anger, and she unfolds herself. "What do you mean?"

"You were suffering so much."

I am moving closer still, my better judgment now forgotten.

"Tormented with agonies of all kinds."

We are but an arm's length apart.

"I couldn't let that stand."

She huffs, the perfumed air brushing my face like an accidental kiss. "But what could you do?"

My hand reaches for hers on its own accord. "I could do this."

She looks down and up again, her breaths quickening as our fingers entwine. "You held my hand."

"Yes."

"And you didn't let go."

My other hand makes its way to her cheek. "I couldn't let go."

I cannot tell where the shiver begins, if she or I is to blame.

But as my fingers glide across her silky skin, there is a shifting of earth and sky.

And we feel it together.

She clears her throat, and I take reluctant leave from her face. "But you read my mind."

"I didn't mean to."

She shakes her head, a frown toying with her mouth. "I can only imagine what you heard."

"Does it matter?"

"Yes, it matters if you..." She tries to turn away and notices our other hands are still joined.

And she halts in her escape.

Her eyes fly to mine, searching for relief.

And what she finds instead steals her breath.

I should free her from this.

I should let her retreat and abandon this foolishness.

But I seem incapable of rational behavior tonight.

"Don't."

Her eyes widen and her voice deepens. "Edward..."

"Don't let go of my hand."

She sighs but does not release me. "Please, Edward..."

"Please, what?"

Her eyes meet mine, and I am struck dumb by their longing.

I am dumb in every sense of the word.

The air between us thickens, and she trembles as I pull her closer.

"Edward, I need..."

"Tell me, Rose." The sobriquet slips off my tongue, darkening her eyes. "What do you need?"

She licks her lips, and I watch the words as she forms them. "I need you to help me kill my fiancé."

Rosalie's POV is next.

Thanks for reading! xo