I still own neither Twilight, nor Carlisle. Though I had a dream that I was Kristen Stewart's stunt double. It was strange...I didn't even lay myself as an offering in Peter Facinelli's trailer!
To my amazing beta, bananapancakes07: there aren't enough RiffTrax in the world to measure up to your hilarity and magnificence. If I were Carlisle, I would totally want you to be my Esme. You thoroughly rock my socks off, and I am, quite literally, barefoot!
This whole chapter, I struggled with the question: what the hell would possess Carlisle to change Rosalie? It's not even really inferred in the books, like it is for Edward, Esme, and Emmett. But I think I succeeded in answering it. My beta said to warn you to keep the tissues handy.
And a further warning: this chapter contains a fairly graphic depiction of the injuries Rosalie sustains from her rape. I understand that this is a subject of a very sensitive nature, so I will not be offended in the least if you would choose to skip a large portion of it, marked by a double-space in the text on either end, and/or forego this chapter altogether.
Blood. A deathly concentration of human blood.
The scent was drifting on the air, but even without the cool breeze off the lake, it would have been just as potent. It couldn't have been more than two miles from my current location. My hand tightened on the handle of my bag and my body moved without thought, and my senses carried me northwest, toward the source of the spilled life-essence. As always, the fragrance called to me like an urgent siren of distress, composed of the salt, sugars, and hormones in the blood, and weighted with the heavy iron of its hemoglobin.
But it was the distinct flavor of fear laced delicately within the aroma—the alarming combination of adrenaline and cortisol—that pressed me forward with renewed exigency toward the closest residential area of town. The intensity of the stress-induced hormones in the blood left little doubt in my mind as to what type of injuries I would be dealing with. I had seen and smelled it countless times throughout my experience—particularly within the past few years—
Either someone was being brutally attacked…or I was too late.
Subconsciously, I tightened my grip on my bag in renewed determination as voices—only a filtered drone in my mind since I had left the hospital—suddenly became the center of my concentration. Listening intently, I moved into a full run, another part of my mind automatically watching out for any possible witnesses as I focused on the task at hand. I could hear and smell five men near what I could only now assume was the scene—their footsteps were staggered and irregular as they laughed and cavorted their way, incredibly drunk for a mere eight-thirty on a Friday night.
"Shit, it's cold," one of them slurred while the sounds of someone retching and heaving brought on a round of laughter and scuffling. "What month is it, anyways? Janur—Febrery—remind me to keep my clothes on next time…" The same voice continued to stumble over his words while the rest of the group seemed unaware of him, instead maintaining a conversation already in progress.
"I con…concur! It's been fun, boys," someone yelled. "Hey Royce—Frank here thinks we should do this again sometime." A chorus of garbled agreements echoed in the otherwise quiet streets.
Royce? As in, Royce King? I wondered. The name was practically synonymous with the City of Rochester itself; though, I couldn't imagine that a member of the wealthy, prestigious King family would subject himself to public association with such a gang of malefactors.
"Pipe down, you mutts," came the equally loud, slurred reply—from Royce, I assumed. "Just because you all just had the best screw of your lives doesn't mean you hafta go an' share it with the world!"
A hiss flew from my mouth as I heard their raucous objections, and I felt my muscles tighten in anger as my pace quickened again. They had attacked a woman? I shuddered at the thought of what injuries she must have sustained in order to account for such a high volume of blood loss—the very idea caused me to push myself even harder as I ducked between houses and dashed down the abandoned streets. A light snow was beginning to fall and the temperature was dropping by the minute—I would need to get her to the hospital as quickly as I could.
"Aww—you saw me, ol' boy," a new voice answered him, this one with a slight southern drawl. "I may be a mutt, but tonight, I was a purebred stallion!" With a rebel-like yell, I heard the rustle of cloth and scuff of shoes, as though he had leapt from the ground. The sound of a body hitting the pavement followed not half a second later, and an unreserved curse proceeded from the man.
A roar of laughter went up as the group turned south and began walking in my direction—they were just rounding the corner in front of me, and we would soon cross paths if I didn't move west in my journey, and come out on the street behind them, as they left. If I had any chance of attending this poor woman with whatever help I could offer, I couldn't allow myself to be seen by them. Large numbers of men were known to organize in such cases and testify that someone else was to blame; for lack of clear evidence, they would be acquitted. And I was in no position to testify—I couldn't afford to draw attention to myself.
Yet as they came into view, I closed my mouth tightly against a snarl that threatened to escape, my lips fighting to curl up and expose my now venom-coated teeth when my senses detected far more than the normal, acidic effects of alcohol upon their scents.
Each one was covered in that fearthat was painting the air with panic; blood was clinging in varied amounts to each of their clothing in soaked, darkened patches on their pants, and streaked across their shirts and jackets as though written with jagged, crimson claws. But beyond that was the scent of sweet-and-salty tang of male ejaculate—not one of them was clean of it.
Fighting the rising anger within me at the heinous crime I knew they had committed, I turned left, ducking between two houses, slinking easily through the yards towards the epicenter of the bloodshed. However, even as I drew within feet of my critical destination, the next words to reach my ears—uttered by yet another of the revolting, inebriated gang—nearly made me pause in horror.
"But maybe we shouldn'ta killed her, Royce—I mean, where'n hell are you gonna find a new bride so fast?"
Everyone in town knew of Royce King's son's soon-to-be royal wedding, and almost everyone in town had been invited to the spectacle; though, thankfully, we had been overlooked. But I didn't allow myself to pause to think about the now-known identity of the woman—or body—I was about to attend, for fear of allowing the already raging emotions within me to cloud my sober judgment.
Shooting through a final yard, I emerged to see most of the intoxicated group off to my right, careening around the corner of the dimly-lit street while a couple of them somberly navigated the apparently uneven sidewalk. I fought the urge to go after them, the outrage at their opprobrious revelry close to consuming me, but the delectable, yet grievous scent that had drawn me to this place overwhelmed the emotion, staying my feet and turning my gaze to the left.
There, in the gutter beneath a broken and burned-out streetlamp, lay what could only be described as the remnants of a woman, crumpled and motionless. I hesitated for only a moment, realizing instantly that the men had been wrong—she was most certainly not dead.
As I raced to her side, I realized that my initial suspicions had been most dreadfully confirmed—that, indeed, hadbeen Royce King the Second, which meant that the woman before me was his intended—
Rosalie Hale.
We had only been in each others' company perhaps once or twice, but there were few in town who did not know of the illustrious Hales. No more than perhaps the upper-middle class, the family was seen as thinking better of themselves than they ought; their own fortunate escape from the hard times of the economic depression seemed to have brought about this irreverently haughty attitude, and it earned them no small amount of disparaging contempt from the majority of the population with whom they had contact.
As with every town in which I had lived, my family and I remained as discreet and uninvolved as possible, and we had never even formally been introduced to Rosalie—her father had once pointed her out to us across the room at an informal medical scholarship fundraiser. She had noticed us and stared, as per usual, though immediately regarded us with an unnaturally pointed indifference.
Edward had noticed my observation and remarked with almost rehearsed casualty, "She's of the most typical mindset, of those whom society deems the most beautiful: wholly devoted to her own welfare; intelligent, but chooses naïveté for popularity and convenience. She clings with strangled desperation to that which will find her the most favor in the eyes of others, foolishly disregarding her true potential for the decaying, fleeting prizes and trappings of this world."
--
But all this information was entirely useless to me as I knelt to examine her, checking her vitals and responsiveness while doing a visual speculation as to the severity of her injuries. Here there was no selfish ambitions or narcissistic involvement—she was just another fragile life in desperate need of my aid. Her eyes were shut tightly, but they snapped open to dart about frantically at my cold touch on her cheek; matted and tangled hair splayed around her head, and nearly every inch of her naked form was covered with blood, dirt, and semen—except her face. Apart from the blood trickling from the side of her mouth and down from her hairline, as large portions of hair had been seemingly ripped out from the roots, her features were entirely untouched.
Her heart rate was rapid but thready, a pulse deficit indicating that the organ was not beating strongly enough to pump blood effectively to her extremities; her respiration was shallow and quickened, and her body's temperature was subnormal. It was difficult to tell the cause of her dilated pupils, as it could have been from either the frigid nighttime or a blatant indication of shock, yet her eyes followed mine with great interest. She seemed alert and responsive, though unable or unwilling to communicate. Still in the early stages, she was undeniably going into shock—hypovolemic, from the amount of blood flowing from between her thighs.
"Miss Hale," I began, gently feeling along her neck for any possible fractures. True to most crimes of this nature, the hyoid bone in her trachea had been posteriorly fractured, hand-sized bruises already forming around her neck from an attempted strangulation—or an attempted silencing. Similar bruises marred her upper body and limbs, consistent with having been forced into various positions. Carefully tilting her head back while supporting her vertebrae, her breathing eased slightly as her airway was opened further, reducing the strain caused by the fractured bone. Slight whimpers began to form with the action, and I knew she was at least partially cognizant.
"Rosalie," I appealed, taking her hand, the tips of her fingers raw and bleeding. "I'm Dr. Carlisle Cullen, and I want to help you—but I need you to somehow tell me if you can hear me." As I spoke, I used what bandages I had in my bag for the deeper teeth and nail punctures along her arms and breasts. She squeezed my hand almost imperceptibly, and I did my best to comfort her as I moved quickly into light palpitation of her ribs and abdomen, and continued down until I reached her pubic bone. At this she let out a strangled cry, her eyes audibly snapping shut.
"Miss Hale, I need to examine…the extent of your injuries." I chose my words carefully. The immediate reaction to pressure on the organs of her lower abdomen was expected, but the inflammation and fluid I had felt surrounding her organs was absolutely abnormal, even with the assault she had sustained. She was once again watching my every move, the smallest hint of fear creeping into in her gaze, and I needed to keep her calm. "I assure you this will take no time at all, and I will be as gentle as possible."
I was shocked to find her watching me with...an almost irritated visage as I worked. Although it was not unusual to see expressions of agony or terror in the patients eyes before the dull listlessness of shock took over, the look of annoyance clear in her stare was something I had never come across. With words of consolation as she weakly tensed, I rapidly, but carefully, spread her legs further apart, grabbing a roll of gauze from my bag and wiping the excess blood, urine, and semen from between her thighs—but it was useless, as more blood and fluid was seeping from internal hemorrhages of her vagina, cervix, and rectum through the severely lacerated vaginal orifice and external anal sphincter. I couldn't properly examine her without the aid of anesthesia, for she was already in enough discomfort and fading quickly into shock. Even with my surgical expertise, there was little to be done to salvage her reproductive organs—all I could do was find a way to stem the bleeding until I could get her to the hospital.
But there was more here—an injury deeper than anything I could speculate by gentle touch or even smell. I closed my eyes, listening closely to the movement of her organs within her lower abdomen, as slight as it was with how little her diaphragm distended with her shallow breaths. There was the tinest, almost inaudible noise with each of her inhalations, almost like blood flowing from a wound, but closer to the consistency of water…
My eyes snapped open, and a brief feeling of surprise swept over me as I met Rosalie's almost skeptical gaze. I didn't think it possible. I had only seen such an occurrence once in all my years of surgery, and only in a young girl, but the signs were unmistakable—
The men had somehow managed to tear through the posterior wall of her vagina, puncturing the perineum and entering her peritoneal cavity, forcing blood and whatever else was present into the space with their violent thrusting, and causing irreparable damage to her internal organs. The previously unidentified substance mixed with the blood and semen that was flowing from her was peritoneal fluid.
There was no way to save her. Even if I did manage to get her to the hospital and perform a successful transfusion while removing or repairing her hemorrhaging organs—which, in and of itself would be a feat of impossible measure—the damage to her perineum was irreversible, and the amount of shock induced by her injuries would undoubtedly claim her before I could prep for surgery. I would lose patient number twelve tonight.
--
No, not another! my mind screamed. There must be something else you can do. There has to be another way.
And in an instant, there was. Before my mind was completely made up, I had her wrapped in my coat and in my arms, her head carefully cradled against my chest as I rushed with all haste toward home.
All at once, Rosalie Hale became more than just another patient I had to save—more than just another woman fading into the quiet death of shock and blood loss. I may never have known her personally, but public and family opinion aside, she didn't deserve to die this way. No one deserved to die in such a way. Even if there had been some hope for her recovery, she would have, most likely, lost a court case against her attackers, ending up ruined and alone. Even Edward had commented on her unique potential, though the point was made through the theory that she was far too self-absorbed. Still, such promise in this young woman was far too rare to be wasted because of the wanton, greedy actions of others.
Rosalie whimpered in my arms, and I quickly ensured that she wasn't being jostled by our flight. She wasn't, but her vitals were weakening, and I felt a burst of energy as I neared our home. I knew why I had brought her here—I couldn't bring yet another person into our lives without my family's consent; it had nearly destroyed my relationship with Edward the last time such a split-second decision had been made. I was looking forward to having their support in it this time, to know that my decision was the right one.
But as I entered the back door, I realized that my focus had been so centered on Rosalie that I hadn't picked up on an important observation.
Esme and Edward were not here.
Since his return, Esme had taken often him on weekend hunts, serving the dual purpose of helping him curb his bloodlust from weekly classes, which were packed with humans, and allowing them to become better acquainted with each other. She secretly referred to them as bonding weekends, claiming that I already had a three-year head start on her and she wished to catch up as quickly as possible. Of course, it did not remain a secret to Edward of her intentions with their hunts, but he agreed with little reluctance. His animosity toward her had softened immeasurably since his return from his...absence, now seeming more than willing to spend ample amounts of time in Esme's company.
This was undoubtedly the cause of their vacancy, and I found myself at a loss for what was to be done. I must have been quite the sight, standing as a statue in the kitchen with Rosalie's failing body in my arms, her blood and various other substances covering us both and dripping onto the floor. I knew what I was being called to do, somehow, though unsure if I could do it without my wife and son's presence.
Even as my heart and mind continued to debate the proper course of action, I brought her into our room upstairs, turning on the lights for her sake, and laying her down upon the mattress. Her eyes cracked open a bit and she moaned as the light hit her fully dilated eyes, causing her to promptly squeeze them shut again. I looked around the room in utter helplessness, as though an unconscious part of me was pleading for the companionship and support of Esme and Edward.
The thought of my son suddenly sparked a somewhat dormant memory, causing a conversation I'd recently had with Esme to replay in my mind. It was last week, after a grueling shift at the hospital in which victim after victim had been brought into my care, dozens of life-saving surgeries ordered and performed. I knew my deep agony over the heartless tragedies, coupled with the discouragement at Edward's seemingly endless, brooding melancholy was written plainly on my face as I arrived home. Esme was quick to wrap her arms around me and silently relieve some of my weariness with the touch of her soothing, curative lips; even as I lifted her, wrapping her more securely around me as I walked us to our room, she whispered nothing but affirmations of her love and encouraging hopes for the future.
My deepest, most devoted love had known without words that I needed her—to be lost in her body and melded with her mind, to make and share in our ever-increasing love that was a safe harbor from a world of strife and pain. Hours passed as my wife and I forgot all but the refuge we found in each other, never speaking a word except to renew our oaths of love, and worship each other in our passion.
It had been over six hours later, in the few moments of serenity and clarity that came with having briefly sated our almost endless need for each other that Esme finally broke our comfortable, secluded reality. She was curled up in my arms on the floor of our room as I sat leaning against the bed, her head resting on my left shoulder as she nuzzled and occasionally licked at my neck, hand drawing intricate patterns—perhaps her next project, I thought with amusement—across my chest.
"Maybe this is what Edward needs," she sighed. "He needs to be completed; and there's only so much that the things of this world can offer."
I turned my head, tightening my arms around her and caressing her forehead with my lips. She did have a point, but I also knew how much Edward would reject the idea. Even as he knew the inexplicable perfection Esme and I had in each other, he refused to even attempt to hope for it in himself. In his eyes, he had committed the most unforgivable sins, and would seek the rest of his existence to rectify it—and was resolute that he would never deserve happiness. I reminded Esme of as much, but she was unshakable in her resolve.
"I know that nothing you or I could say would ever change his mind, stubborn as he is, but maybe…" she brought her head from my shoulder, lifting it so she could look me in the eyes. The unwavering optimism in her gaze set her already molten, gold orbs on fire. "Just maybe there is someone out there who can. And will." As usual, her confidence was irresistibly contagious, and I found myself taken in, though immediately distracted as she proceeded to attack me in her joy.
The sound of Rosalie whimpering brought me back to the present, the sound so weak that it would have been inaudible to a human's ears. Her body was shaking lightly now, heart rate dropping to a dangerous level as she continued to bleed out, her shock escalating. She was losing consciousness, and I didn't have much time to deliberate the issue. Edward aside, I knew Esme would welcome her as a daughter, if she chose to stay with us.
He needs to be completed, Esme's words echoed in my thoughts.
It didn't escape my notice how, once again, someone had been placed into my path almost by fate. If she had been attacked at any other time, I wouldn't have found her. The timing was inescapably providential.
Could it be that Rosalie was meant for Edward?
I shook the thought aside as I sat down beside her, realizing that if Edward ever knew that to be one of the deciding factors, he would never, in any way, accept her into our company. But I had decided at last, beyond any doubt what I was about to do. I prayed for forgiveness, from whomever would give it, as my teeth sank into Rosalie's neck, piercing the carotid artery and jugular vein in simultaneous incisions.
She screamed, predictably, though her voice was horse, undoubtedly from having been used in a similar fashion over the past few hours. I allowed the venom to flow freely from me, clinging to the quieting thoughts of my dear family as the taste of human blood coated my tongue, igniting my throat in burning flames and tempting me with the promise of satiation. But it was focusing on calculation that kept me grounded this time, working around Rosalie's injuries in my mind to determine if the amount of venom that had been given to both Edward and Esme would be adequate, considering the extent of her blood loss.
After about thirty seconds, I pulled away and ensured the wound was closed, having heard her heart strengthen in its contractions as expected. However, due to the inadequate volume of blood in her body, I suddenly became fearful that the venom may not spread throughout her system efficiently enough to both instigate the change and heal her nearly fatal injuries. Even as she shrieked and her midsection convulsed with the venom's effects, her extremities were still a dull blue in color, having been deprived of sufficient oxygenated blood for over fifteen minutes.
In less than two seconds, I had made my way to her wrists, slicing my teeth through to her radial and ulnar arteries and delivering a small, but significant dose of venom to the almost latant vessels before licking the incision and sealing it.
She cried out, trying in vain to move her arms from my grasp. "Please, no! No!"
Ignoring her cries for now, I moved quickly to do the likewise at her ankles, including both the posterior tibial artery and great saphenous vein in my efforts, praying all the while that it would be enough to save her. While my knowledge of the physiological processes of the transformation was limited, I knew, logically, that an insufficient amount of venom would, in fact, have lethal consequences. I couldn't imagine that too much venom would have any adverse effects.
The entire process had taken no more than ten seconds as I utilized my inhuman speed, and I was now sitting beside her head once more as she shrieked and pleaded for me to stop.
"Kill me! Just make it stop!" she sobbed. I softly stroked the hair away from her face and held her hand; the blood and emissions from before were now dried and flaking from her skin.
"I'm sorry," I sighed. "There was nothing else I could do."
After a few hours, she seemed to give up on screaming, though her voice had not yet been exhausted. She continued to beg for death, and each time, I whispered my apologies, promising her that it wouldn't last forever—that soon, she would be practically invincible.
Rosalie continued to drift in and out of consciousness over the next two days. I quickly learned to recognize the ebb and flow of her mind and its subtle, yet clear effects on her body—her breathing and heart rate increased and muscles tensed as she came into awareness, soft whimpers and pleas issuing soon thereafter. I often attempted to explain what and who I was, and what she was becoming, but it was difficult to know how much she understood. She never responded to anything except with cries of "No!" and "Please…" and I frequently found myself crying with her, unable to not empathize with her agony.
The venom had indeed been sufficient to induce the transformation, and the physical changes began with an alarming rapidity within the first few hours alone. The hemorrhaging had stopped altogether, her various injuries having already healed completely by the time midnight broke on the second day. Her bone structure was already changing, and I could tell that the young woman, who had already been unquestionably beautiful, was going to be nothing short of exquisite. Hair was already re-growing in large, flaxen patches atop her head. I couldn't help but speculate that if I'd ever had a daughter, she may very well have had hair much like Rosalie's, though hers was a much lighter blond than my own. The thought made me smile, despite myself, and even as she woke shortly thereafter, gasping through her pain, I found myself feeling stronger and more determined than ever before to help her.
My would-be daughter.
She was stronger than Edward or Esme had been during their transformations, and I felt unabashed pride at her resiliency. She had been through nothing short of hell at the hands of those men, and I couldn't stop the remorse I felt at making her anguish worse. But she deserved a chance to start anew and come into an existence of which she had never before been able to even dream.
Yes, but will she accept it, as Esme did? Or, like Edward, will she come to see her new life as nothing short of damned?
Hours passed on Sunday, and night fell as we approached the beginning of third day of her change. I had only left her side once throughout the weekend, to make my excuse at work and ensure that I would not be needed for another week. As I watched the dying, crepuscular rays of sunset linger over the western horizon, I sat beside her with a hand protectively encircling one of hers, while my other gently cradled her head.
And that was when I heard them first. They were about a mile and a half northwest of the house, apparently in the middle of a race home. I could distinguish their footfalls easily, and it appeared that Edward was letting my wife win. Everyone knew of his matchless speed, even for a vampire, and it warmed my heart to think that he was humoring Esme.
"What, you're suddenly going easy on me down the backstretch?" came Esme's teasing voice. So he hadn't been letting her win?
"No," replied Edward in a low growl. "I just—I can't believe it."
Their paces both slowed momentarily before Edward's increased, Esme's pursuing not a fraction of a second later. Her voice was frantic. "Edward? What's wrong?"
I knew immediately what was wrong. He had finally come within his range of hearing, and had seen Rosalie through my eyes.
"What," he snarled back, "you can't smell it?" A few moments of silence proceeded as they drew ever-nearer, and I measured their steps in seconds to their arrival. A gasp flew from Esme's lips as she recognized the human blood.
Twenty, nineteen, eighteen…they were closer still. Rosalie was beginning to stir, her breathing becoming staccato as the pain drew her from the depths of her mind.
Meanwhile, the speed of my wife and son increased, my estimation shifting likewise. Ten, nine, eight…
Edward sprinted far ahead of Esme, leaping over a hundred yards onto the porch and nearly ripping the door off its hinges in his haste to enter. Before an eighth of a second had passed, he was in the doorway to our room, seemingly frozen, and Esme's footsteps were echoing across the yard as she ran to catch up.
My back was to him as I sat in a chair beside the bed, but I could hear the low growl rumbling in Edward's chest and the quickened, unnecessary breaths he took in his anger. Esme's light footfalls on the steps were the next sound to grace my ears before Edward stalked forward to stand beside, and face me.
I raised my hand, requesting his continued silence and leaned forward, hearing Rosalie's conscious vitals. "Rosalie, my wife Esme and Edward…" I hesitated at how to introduce him, as those in the town knew him to be Esme's brother. I decided to stick with the truth. "…my son. You might remember me telling you about them."
"Please," Rosalie gasped. "Please—somebody…just kill me!"
"What were you thinking, Carlisle?" Edward spat loudly, anger and vehemence coating every syllable. I knew he would be upset at my decision to bring another into this world, but there was nothing for it. What was done, was done. "Rosalie Hale?" he pressed. Esme had since entered the room but stood solidly by the door, holding her breath against the undoubtedly stagnant smell of blood that permeated throughout the room and house.
"Keep your voice down, Edward," I hissed lowly. I wasn't sure what she could hear at this point in her transformation. From my own experience, the last day was the worst as I came to grips with my newfound senses, each footstep in the house above me having sounded as though it was inside my own head. If she could hear us with renewed ability, nothing we could say would go amiss; but if, perchance, she was as yet unable to, I hoped to spare her whatever insults Edward would, undoubtedly, have in store.
Quickly, I verbally explained to Esme what had occurred in the minutes and hours following my shift at the hospital, while Edward watched as I narrated my memories—the drunken prowlers and their identities, the conversation they'd had and the injuries Rosalie had sustained.
"I couldn't just let her die," I continued, staring at Rosalie's unnaturally still form. Her brow was furrowed in pain—or was it concentration? Inwardly, Edward was witnessing the torrent of reasons behind my decision, and though I was careful to bury Esme's input deeply behind the shroud of my conscious thought, I could tell by his glaring look in her direction that she was not hiding anything. She moved behind me, wrapping her soft arms around my shoulders and pulling me back to her chest.
I closed my eyes, quietly filling Esme in on my reasoning, whispering the details of what would have been her horrific death, and even mentioning the eleven others I had already lost that day. "It was too much—too horrible," I choked roughly, feeling a sob tightening my throat. "Too much…waste."
"Of course you couldn't." Esme's voice betrayed her uncertainty in the situation even as she sought to endorse my actions, and I felt her shudder behind me, a noiseless sob the cause of the movement as she pressed her lips firmly against the crown of my head.
Edward, on the other hand, seemed to have no sympathy in the situation at all. "People die all the time," he countered coldly.
That's enough, Edward, I silently admonished. You've seen what I have, and you know that Rosalie is not some commonplace person. The timing was too fortuitous to be mere chance, and there's no possible explanation for it, other than that it was meant to be.
I opened my eyes and turned to him, seeing that his expression had softened substantially with my words. He placed a hand on my shoulder, actually appearing slightly contrite; though it was clear he disagreed with my statement, I could tell he was trying to understand—I had already agonized over this enough for the three of us…soon to be the four of us. But beyond that was a measure of fear in his features, and it was entirely understandable. The entire situation had taken him by surprise, and the unanswerable question of what was going to happen next was unsettling even for me—and I had gone through this twice, already.
His forehead tightened as he looked over at Rosalie, "Don't you think she's just a little recognizable, though? The Kings will have to put up a huge search—" I stopped him, briefly, with a wordless memory of the rapists—namely, Rosalie's ex-fiancée: Royce King the Second, himself. He continued instantly with a snarl, "—not that anyone suspects the fiend."
A string of almost inaudible, yet quite discernible profanities issued forth from his lips at the remark, and I could see the red-eyed Edward who had returned to us coming to the surface again. His fists were clenched and his limbs shook with the force of his anger, and Esme released one arm from around me to firmly grasp his shoulder. I could feel my own concern mirrored in the way she held herself.
The next few hours passed in a similar fashion. Esme insisted on cleaning Rosalie up, washing and brushing the caked gore from her hair and body, and placing her into some clean clothes. I hesitated to allow anything that would cause the young woman further discomfort, but Esme assured me, "To a woman, it would be far more discomfiting to awake not only to a new, unfamiliar life, but also covered head to toe in…filth."
I allowed her to have her way as I swiftly washed myself and discarded my own ruined clothing before spending an hour in discussion with Edward, in his own room. As I had predicted, he was unhappy with the idea of my bringing yet another person into our "accursed existence." Though, once he understood that my decision was not as rash as he had previously assumed, and that I had brought her here in hopes of having their—and particularly his—input, he was infinitely less hostile toward me.
Eventually, the span of a few hours found all us sitting together with Rosalie. Even Edward seemed surprised by the unparalleled beauty that lay before us, and Esme was practically beaming as she sat beside her, whispering her comfort and stroking her hair. Rosalie was at least three inches taller than Esme, and the clothes she was now wearing were a reflection of the height differential. But regardless of dress, her sleek, slender form lay almost delicately on the bed, and long, flowing locks of bright blonde flowed down over her shoulders. Her fingers twitched lightly against the sheets—clean now, thanks to Esme—and a pair of the fullest, reddest lips I had ever seen, even in a vampire, appeared to be forming soundless vowels.
It wouldn't be long, as it was nearing nine o'clock. I inwardly berated myself for not having thought to check the initial time of her transformation, though there was little to be done about it now. Presently, she was fully coherent, of that I was almost certain; her vitals were elevated, her heart and lungs working hard in their final moments.
It was deceptive, the calm that hung over the room. I had seen horrific awakenings of newborns, with their unpredictable feats of unfamiliar strength and ferocity. Yet, neither Edward nor Esme seemed to have yet met the "standard" expectations of newborn behavior. I wondered if it was something about my own venom—perhaps its method of production, devoid of human blood, was the cause of their control?
My thoughts continued to churn down a similar train of thought until Edward's voice broke through. "What are we going to do with her?"
I wasn't certain of how to best answer him. I had addressed this question myself, to a degree, in the moments before his arrival. Her situation was not like Esme or Edward's had been—whereas they'd had nothing left in this world, Rosalie would be giving up everything.
Edward nodded in agreement, while Esme gave me a pleading look. I could tell she had already grown attached to Rosalie, as I had. We were beginning to see her as a part of our family before we even knew her.
"That's up to her, of course," I sighed, unable to give my wife the answer I so longed to—that Rosalie would stay. "She may want to go her own way."
I saw the deep sadness creep into Esme's countenance at my words, and I walked over to her, the pain of such unfulfilled longing in her gaze clutching my heart like a vice. Lifting her sorrowful face to mine, I kissed her forehead, cheeks, and lips, praying that Rosalie's choice would not be the latter, but that Esme and I would, eventually, be able to call her daughter.
The tell-tale signs of the end began, and Rosalie let out a cry as her heart beat its last. Her eyes opened immediately, the red orbs quickly darting about the room before taking in Esme, me, and finally Edward.
She sat up quickly, breathing quickly and taking in the new, vast scents and sensations that were no doubt overwhelming her. Her expression went from terrified to confused, to curious as she looked about her, stopping often to give Esme and Edward speculating looks before her eyes landed on me.
All at once, she became furious.
"WHY?" she snarled as she simultaneously leapt from the bed, an arm landing on my collarbone and pushing me backwards across the room. Edward was in front of her in an instant, pushing Esme behind him and crouching defensively with a hiss.