My gratitude goes to SunflowerFran for beta'ing this.

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Prequel Three
Paris

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Edward can pinpoint the exact moment he falls in love with Isabella.

Not St. Kitts - no matter how unforgettable that memory is - and not New York. It was in Scotland, breaking into the scientists' hotel rooms, her brow furrowed in concentration as she does her best to pretend to understand microbiology.

Isabella is stubborn, strong-willed, fiercely independent, but she is driven by a need to do right. By a conviction that cannot be shaken.

He realises his personal happiness would be far easier to achieve if he had not gone and fallen in love with a witch. That seems a given; but he has never wanted the simple—never wanted the done thing.

At the very least, he does not have the trouble Jasper currently does, trying to keep his magic hidden from his girlfriend and quietly panicking over whether Alice is the type of person that would ever believe him if he told her. Divorce does not exist for wizards. Once a marriage if consummated - that being the bride told of magic - that woman is the responsibility of the wizard until said wizard is no longer of this earth. She may divorce him, but he may never tell his secret to another. As it is, wizards only fall in love once—once it happens, it's irreversible. It's solid, never again to change.

Magic. Permanent.

Sadly, Edward has enough troubles of his own. That being the simple and fundamental realisation that Bella will never agree to anything like a relationship. It's not in her nature, and her culture forbids it. And unlike Edward, who respects his order and abides by its rules, he does not feel the same intrinsic connection to his order's rules quite in the same way Bella feels to hers. Perhaps it is easier for Isabella if the Coven has fewer rules that feel somehow morally wrong. Both their orders have baggage, but the Volturi undoubtedly have more—like enslaving witches for a millennium.

Edward has to be careful, not to show too much of his magic, to not turn it against her; not corner her. He feels a bit like he is trying to tame a wild animal, trying to convince the creature that he is safe. He is getting there, but not quickly enough. Never quickly enough. Because as soon as he feels he gets anywhere, she is gone…disappeared on the wind, eyes turned to her next task, always, always on the move. She is too young still, in her soul. Still needs to run, still needs to feel that abandonment of freedom.

So he banks on time being his ally, and that whatever magic binds them together will allow them to meet once more.

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~ Rosewood & Emerald ~

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"I think I'm going to ask her to marry me."

"Congratulations. Again."

"I mean it this time." Jasper rubs his face with his hands, blinking his eyes into focus as he stares down into his half-empty wine glass. "I—I think she might be ready."

"She was ready a year ago."

"I don't think she'll run from me. I think she might believe me."

Edward tries to hold in the sigh. Jasper has wanted to ask Alice to marry him for at least two years now, if not more, and has never had the courage. It is not a question of if, but when.

"She is a woman of science, Jasper. If you prove to her, empirically, and explain logically - she will believe you."

Jasper's gaze remains on the inside of his glass, and Edward takes the bottle from the table and tops up their glasses. The rooftop bar is shielded with a clear, glass dome, and sitting in the corner, they have a direct view of the Eiffel Tower blinking in the distance. A Paris winter; cold, wet, and rugged, yet enough bars and restaurants serving alcohol into the night that the city still feels like it vibrates—pulsates with close affection and intimacy.

"Have you thought about how you are going to ask her?" The other patrons are far enough away that they can speak privately, cool, modern touches made softer by the artwork on the walls and the partitions between tables.

"She wouldn't want something elaborate. Something quiet, but personal."

"Just ask her, Jasper," Edward smiles, finally having to admit that seeing his friend this nervous is more than a little funny. "From what you've told me, she doesn't seem like the judging type. You could be in a chicken-costume, and she'd say yes."

"Maybe I should tell her what I am when I propose," he sighs, twisting himself into a metaphorical knot. "It does not seem fair - she's agreeing to something without knowing the consequences."

"Jasper." His friend looks up, and the stress on his face finally stomps out the mirth on Edward's lips. "Ask her. She will say yes. And once you are married, you can tell her what we are. Don't jeopardise her safety and the retribution of the order by telling her before. If she does not believe you and tells someone whilst you are not married, it is her memory that will be tampered with. She is only protected if you are married. You know this."

His frown is predictable. Edward doubts he is truly considering telling her prior to being married. He will not risk her safety.

"Maybe I should have a look at engagement rings again."

"The one you bought last year is just fine."

"What if it's too extravagant? She is a surgeon - she can't wear it most of the time."

"The one you have is fine."

"But what if she'd prefer something older - something more vintage?"

Edward does not justify that with an answer, simply rolling his eyes as he takes another sip of his wine. He lets his eyes wander, Jasper occasionally mumbling something about Alice's supposed preference, but there is nothing Edward can say that will calm him. He will need to come to his own conclusions.

Time passes, one bottle is exchanged for another, food brought to the table, and soon it is nearly midnight, and Jasper has convinced himself Alice is too good for him.

"She is just…so happy. Nothing phases her; nothing brings her down - she's always—on to the next thing, looking forward. Her patient died and she just…she was so upset with herself, and then half an hour later, she just got up, took a shower, and said she'd do better the next time. I don't deserve her - and I'm lying to her—"

"Jasper."

"Yes?"

"You're starting to get on my nerves."

"I—yes. Sorry."

Edward sighs, half tempted to force his friend to find Alice this very moment and just ask her. He doesn't, because he might actually do it, and he's had too much wine to remember it properly. In this state, he'll definitely tell her about being a wizard.

He looks out over the restaurant, tables still half full, despite the late hour. The place has a bar attached to it, live music coming from the corner - piano and clarinet. Jazz.

The door opens, and then he sees her.

Isabella.

Every time is a surprise. Every time is a shock to his system. Every time her face is salvation and pain and rapture - the face of the woman he first remembers breathing life into him once more.

A year and a half, it's been since Scotland; since the time she kicked him out of her hotel room, satisfied and tipsy, lazily stretching her naked body as she lay content.

Her hair is longer than he remembers it. Her face a bit thinner. She's wearing a large dark coat that looks too big on her, hair wild around her face. Her broom is gripped in her hand, bristles almost touching the ground.

The longing is almost crippling. The need to go to her—to be with her; to have her eyes on him, her hands, desperately trying to keep up with her. The pull in his chest is not imagined - part of Bella's soul recognising it's twin, needing to return to its place of origin.

"That's her, isn't it?"

Tearing his eyes away from her is almost torture. Edward is somehow terrified she will disappear, but Jasper is staring at him, concern rooted in his features.

"What?" Edward's eyes dart back to the door, Bella still there, talking to a server. She looks…tired. Worn. She favours one leg as she stands.

"That's Isabella, is it?"

"Huh? Oh. Yes, that's…that's Isabella." Suddenly he wishes Jasper were anywhere else. Jasper knows of Isabella, knows of St. Kitts, but although Edward has never told him explicitly of what has been happening since, of the near-crippling inability to forget her, Jasper is not blind.

And Bella looks…off. Is she hurt?

"It's a bad idea, Edward."

"What?" Attention diverted once more, the frown on Jasper's face seems to have gotten worse.

"Isabella—going after her? It's a bad idea."

"I know." Still, he looks back, looks as she is lead to an empty table. She's definitely limping. She's not seen him. Not yet.

Somewhere in his periphery, Edward sees Jasper sigh, his tall frame unfolding from his seat.

"I better go."

"Yeah, see you." Edward barely notices Jasper leave, his eyes trained on Isabella. She's seated now, and he can't see her face. Can only see the back of her head.

If she is unwell, is it really such a good idea to approach her? His normal guise of being around her for her body can surely not be entertained - not if she is hurt. Would she allow him anywhere near her if she were in pain?

Despite his reservations, it makes little difference. Because she is here—in the same corner of the earth as he is. And he's not seen her in one year and five months. He grabs his staff and his glass, hanging his coat over his arm. He catches a waiter on the way and tells him he's moving tables.

After everything he told Jasper, he's the one nervous. The short walk over to her table feels like a mile, and he has to squeeze his hand around his staff so tightly he's worried he might accidentally turn it back into its true form. He battles with himself over whether to approach her from the back, or walk around the table first, and then tells himself he's definitely had enough wine and leaves it on an empty table.

"Seems we keep doing this." He doesn't know how, but his voice is steady when he speaks, close enough that she can hear, walking to the other side of the table. He lets one hand fall on the back of the empty seat before he looks at her again.

Blazing, gold eyes observe him, her lips tight. There is rage there. Unrestrained emotion, and she looks near unhinged—a caged tiger. He can sense her magic on his tongue, a slight electricity in the air. Earthy, strong, dew in the morning sun. Like ripe fruit.

"May I?" His hand is unsteady on the seat.

"I am not in the mood for company," she answers, and her low voice has him wanting to sigh. Balm to his bruised chest where the pull is impossibly stronger. Yet, there is something in her expression, something that has him holding off. Something is wrong. He can tell that much, even through the wine. Perhaps he shouldn't push it.

"I don't want to impose." Is it difficult, but he manages to remove his hand off the seat. If she does not want him here, he will leave. No matter how impossible it feels.

"Then don't."

"I'm sorry for intruding." He takes a step back. He bows his head forward, hoping to hide the wince there. "Hope you are well."

He turns, forcing his feet to follow his bidding.

"Edward, wait."

Something in his chest loosens and he can take breath again. Panic lessened. He turns, looking back at her, and her eyes slowly return to their deep brown.

"Yes?"

"Why did you come over?"

He knows his answer will determine if he is allowed to stay.

He shrugs. His nonchalance is faked.

"I noticed you coming into the bar. It is polite to greet old acquaintances."

"Cut the crap. Why did you come over? What do want out of it?"

He takes in her unsettled expression, the tightness of her jaw, the slimness of her neck, the dark rings under her eyes. Whatever breaking point she has reached, this is a bad time to push her. Yet…she asked him a question. He was on his way out of here and she stopped him.

He lets his eyes roam over her face, over the exposed skin under her collarbone, her shirt torn under her coat. It causes an unknown type of fear to lodge in his throat, but he pushes it down.

"It is rare we run into one another. The last couple of times…well. Why would a man approach a woman in a bar?"

Her expression makes him want to squirm. He stands still, only to prove to himself that he has what it takes to do this. He knows how to calm her. He needs to trust that.

Three more seconds and then she closes her eyes, taking deep breaths as she settles. Her magic disappears from the air, and her shoulders relax. When she looks at him again, she looks almost indifferent.

Cold.

"You were going to sit? Then sit."

For the first time, he truly questions what he's doing. Chasing after a woman - a witch - that barely wants anything to do with him. Is he a glutton for punishment? Or is that voice, that small voice, encouraging him to wait for her, right?

"Okay, then." He slowly pulls the chair out, sitting down opposite her.

They are saved from speaking as the waiter places a bowl of soup and some bread in front of her. She nods her thanks, her French soft, despite her mood, and begins eating, barely paying Edward any attention. She is not going to make this easy for him.

She never has.

"I didn't realise the kitchen was still open."

"It's not," she replies, tearing off a piece of bread and dipping it in the creamy soup. Her lips wrap around the piece, a drop of soup left in the corner of her lip. She wipes it away with her napkin. "If you've come to seduce me, you're doing a bad job of it."

Fury. She is so furious at everything. Whatever happened to her has left her shaken in a way he has not seen her before. Almost as if she wants to fight.

"You speak as if I need to make an effort." He goads gently, testing the waters, and the spark in her eye convinces him he's right.

"You think you have me pegged, do you?" Spoon forgotten on the table, she leans forward, flecks of gold appearing in her eyes. It brings her to life, brings colour to her face. "Well, you don't. You don't know the half there is to know about me or my kind."

"I never claimed to."

"You're all the same, thinking you know it all."

"Wizards?"

"Men." She spits the word, then closes her eyes, leans back, and again picks up her spoon. "Distractions. There is nothing more dangerous when working with magic. Flights of fancy. All because someone told her he is in love with her. Like that's ever worked out for a witch."

"I'm afraid I don't follow."

"You're not meant to."

She is silent, eating her soup, finishing off the bread. Edward pours himself some water from the table, still debating whether this is a mistake.

When she is finished, she wipes her mouth with the napkin, folding it in front of her.

"Your hotel room or mine?" she asks, her tone curt.

"I'm not staying in Paris," he replies. "Only here for dinner."

"Mine then." She stands, throwing some cash on the table, and grabs her broom as she walks out of the bar, leaving Edward having to catch her. He does so a few steps outside, his hand coming out to grab her wrist.

"Bella—"

"Don't." She turns, eyes blazing, but the fear there stops him. The pain, and longing, tears suddenly brimming in her eyes. "You want to fuck me? Then come on. Because that's what we do - it's the only thing we do. Nothing else."

"You were limping."

"I've healed already. I just needed food."

They stare at each other for a long time. Edward's hand still locked around her wrist.

"Please?" she finally breathes, her hand, shaking.

He will follow this woman until the end of the earth. Follow her off a cliff, if she so asks. So he loosens his hold on her hand, lifting the back of her palm to his lips, pressing a hard kiss there. Her skin smells like her magic, like earth and nature and fruit, and they both ignore the single tear that rolls down her cheek. He twines his fingers through hers, letting their hands down between them.

"Lead the way."

She leads them through the nighttime streets of Paris, through small cobbled alleyways and corners with white placards with blue street names painted on them, until she reaches a narrow passage, a small hotel with winding stairs up to the third floor. She unlocks the door with a keycard, and they enter. She lets go of his hand to throw her broom and jacket to the side, and Edward has to fight his conscience when he sees just how tattered her shirt is. She looks like she's fallen through a thorn bush, the shirt hanging off her shoulders in tatters. Underneath, he sees thin, pink marks, but they look days old.

"Don't think about it." She kicks her shoes off, pulling at the remnants of her shirt until she stands before him in a bra. With a push of her magic, the door is closed behind them. She will not let him comfort her until they've had sex. If then. So he does what he has never done to her before. Holding his umbrella, he pulls power from it, palm toward her as he pushes her back into the wall, her shoulder blades hitting the plaster with a thump. She gasps, suddenly afraid, and she tries to move, but he keeps her there. Very slowly, he walks up to her, face an inch away from hers.

"Only if you tell me you are okay. I will give you what you want, but only if you are okay. Or I'm leaving."

Lips quivering, she nods.

"I'm okay."

"Who did this to you?"

"A-another witch. She was distracted. It was an accident."

"Are you in pain?"

"Not anymore."

He lets his umbrella fall to the floor and releases her, his mouth coming down on hers, pulling a gasp from her. Rough. She does not need soft. She does not need languid.

He slams her shoulders into the wall as he grinds his body into hers, a hiss leaving her lips as he paws at her body. He will have her in any form. Soft, hard, furious, sad, passionate. She throws it right back at him, hands tearing clothes, now wrapped around him as he forces his cock into her clothed heat.

"So close…" she moans, and he needs closer, needs to reassure them both that they are here, that this is what they need. Holding her ass in his hands, he walks them over to the bed, throwing her down, pulling her jeans off her legs. He flips her over, using his magic to force her down. She moans, tries to get away, her own magic now pushing back, the bedframe cracking as she tries to fight it.

He undoes his belt, his cock unbelievable hard - because this is Isabella, and his body wants no one else - and she is here, her ass in front of him, her underwear glistening with her arousal. He leans over her, one hand in her hair, biting down on her shoulder, the other pushing her underwear to the side. He takes the only part of her she is willing to give. He enters her dizzying heat in a wave of ecstasy, his magic finally getting away from him, leaving everything in the room thrown away from them.

Her hissed 'yes', brings him back, and he forces his body into compliance, fucking her harder than he ever has before, his desperation matching her wrath, and they force their bodies into submission, over and over. When he pulls the orgasm from her body, he is not far behind. Only he ensures he gets a hold of her hair, pulling her face to his, their lips touching as he comes.

They collapse on the bed, Bella face down, and Edward her opposite, chests heaving. Seconds pass, the silence of the room so odd compared to the destruction around them.

"Angela fell in love with a married man," Bella suddenly whispers. "She told him what she is. He panicked. Angela didn't tell anyone, and we were practicing…she miscalculated the force of the vortex. I fell off my broom, fell through fifty feet of branches and trees. Matron is on her way to tell a wizard somewhere to get the man's memory erased. He won't even remember her, but Angela will never forget. She doesn't have that luxury. That's what happens to witches that get attached."

He can't take it anymore. He reaches over, pulling her shaking body against his, holding her against his chest, trying silently to save her from this—silently telling her it doesn't have to be like that.

But he says nothing, and she silently cries.

When he wakes up the next morning, she is gone.

Disappeared. She's run away once more.

So he begins counting days, once more, until the fates have them again running into one another.