—NOTES: I totally forgot to say thanks in my last upload and I feel like complete crap. To the people who left reviews, I appreciate you so much! I love hearing your thoughts and theories on the story! Updates will be sporadic and slow for a while, unfortunately. I think I've a block, and writing isn't coming easy as it used to. But I'm not giving up on this story. I can't. It's my pride and joy, my baby. Also, I'm sorry that this chapter sort of sucks ass; I might have rushed through the very end of it – I had to cut it short because inspiration was stuck. Do not worry though, I will add what I didn't add here, in the next chapter.

"Look at her, Em," Quil's voice is laced with a harsh panic. "She's in shock, for Christ's sake!"

I'd been huddled up on the floor of Emily's kitchen, knees tucked under my chin, arms around my legs. As soon as we arrived, Embry had to carry me inside because of the shock. At least, I think so. The events left me catatonic. Quil showed up nearly ten minutes after we got here – no Claire in sight. He took her home.

I don't remember how I ended up in the kitchen – on the floor, no less – but everything continues to flicker in and out of reality for me. I feel cold. Numb. And I'm pretty sure I look ridiculous, huddled up, shivering and twitching on the floor as my teeth chatter from the adrenaline pumping through my veins. Like a cornered kitten, my panic and paranoia of close proximity has my eyes zooming over every little noise, creak, subtle movement, outlining as many things as it takes for me to feel comfortable.

Emily stands at the opening of the kitchen, arms hugged around her small frame. She looks back at me every two minutes, worry etched into frown lines.

I try to make myself look as small as possible.

Emily flinches once then glances back at me. Her lips move rapidly as if she's speaking to someone, but the voices have gone fuzzy again.

Seconds later, both Embry and Quil, rush in, Kim right on their tail. As Quil stops to pace the floorboards, Embry slowly scuffles his way over and sinks down to his knees. His features are pinched as he eyes me the way one might eye a dangerous, cornered animal.

Emily worriedly chews on her fingernails. "She keeps doing that."

"Is she okay?" Kim inquires softly at her place by Emily's side.

"I don't know," Embry says, now sounding alarmingly concerned. "She's never been this bad."

Quil stops his pacing, eyes wide and imploring as they fall on my traumatized form. "You gotta do something, man."

Embry shoots a wild look over his shoulder. "Do what?"

Quil starts to pace again. "I don't know!" he moans miserably.

Embry turns back to me, hands hovering unsurely. He scoots closer, a look of determination set sharply on his features before cautiously moving his hand between my back and the cupboard. His hand is unfaltering as I try to ram into the grooved surface again, and again, but get nowhere. Eventually, the rocking eases, and he ends up too relieved for words.

"Atta girl," he whispers, eyelashes fluttering against my temple.

The front door bangs open, startling me, and five more bulky figures march in. An abundance of voices ring out from the living room, coaxing both Quil and Kim out into the open area.

Emily stays behind, and Embry doesn't remove his hand from my back. Instead, he lazily flops down next to me, and rubs soothing circles into my skin.

Paul glances toward the kitchen. "What's wrong with her?"

"She's in shock," Kim says softly.

He makes a noise halfway between a grunt and a scoff. "This could've all been avoided if Leah had done her job."

Leah gives him a withering-wicked-daggering look. "Eat shit, Lahote. I did my job."

"Not good enough, obviously."

"I am not Jake's babysitter," Leah snarls viciously.

The door smacks open again.

"That's enough." The voice is commanding, deep, like that of a powerful God. Sam.

Paul breaks away from their heated stare-down first, and sulks near the table. Jared lays with his legs over the back of the couch and his head upside down, barely grazing the floor. Leah stalks over and hunkers down irritably next to him, arms crossed.

"You guys saw the scar, right?"

Kim whacks Jared out of reflex. He doesn't even react.

"What? We're all thinking the same thing. Do you think Seth–?"

"I don't know," Quil cuts him off abruptly. "I mean, I knew about the accident, but not even I've seen it until now."

Embry stops his ministrations, straining to listen.

Jared piffles on, unaware of the troubling subject. "The kid's wearing his imprint goggles, there's no way he hasn't seen it."

"It's not like he can just turn it off," Leah butts in defensively.

For the third time, the door swings open, and someone barrels into the house.

"Where is she?"

"Seth–"

Feet pound frantically across the floor, and before I have time to question why Embry's moving away, Seth appears in nothing but a pair of cut-off shorts. His eyes do a desperate scan around the kitchen before they fall on me, and he just about staggers before dropping to his knees in front of me.

He looks disoriented with his messy, unkempt hair, and dirt-speckled body. His hysterical gaze sweeps over me once, and something primal splinters at his apex.

"What happened?" He asks, or whispers, or shouts.

I can't tell. Everything sounds heightened. Words sound choppy in a way that's incomprehensible to my brain.

Seth's thumb nudges at my pudgy cheek in hopes of getting me to focus on him. His touch, no matter how gentle, feels like fire on my skin. Hot! Hot! Hot! I attempt to swat his hand away, but a noise of distress claws up his throat. His hand is back to touching my cheek within seconds.

Sam comes to kneel down next to him. "How long has she been like this?"

My head starts to tip backwards, but Seth easily steadies me.

"Since we got here," Quil answers, out of my line of sight. "We've never seen her like this before. It's like she isn't even here."

A supernova of pain explodes at my temples, making my head feel heavy. A feeble moan lodges uncomfortably in my throat. My head droops a second time. Seth nears closer to keep it held upright and leans his forehead on mine, eyes intent on my own with a desperate concentration.

My eyes roll around and inspect. Embry rubs his hand over his mouth, eyes darting back and forth between Seth and me with a look of intense helplessness. Quil looks about ready to start pacing again, arms curled over his chest, hands tucked into the inside of his elbows.

Everyone is on edge, watching without breathing.

Seconds go by before the feeling of someone taking a crowbar to my psyche and forcibly prying it open annihilates every inch of me. Eyes flying over to Seth, I suck in a breath, suddenly jarred to even look at him.

Then he goes hauntingly still, eyes trained on something I can't see on my face.

He pulls back so quickly that it feels as though someone had taken a brick and dropped it over my chest. Whatever hold he had over me had disappeared, and I was left with that empty, sinking feeling once again.

But he leaves no time for me to settle as he lifts me up by my armpits. The sudden change of momentum causes my head to spin out of control, and my body convulses with a tremor.

Everyone lingering in the kitchen forces space between us.

A low-pitched whine wedges deep in my shadow's chest as he struggles with my dead weight.

"I got her, Seth."

With an adamant shake of his head, he tucks me protectively into his side, posture unnaturally defensive and coddling.

"It's okay," Emily croons, appearing beside me. "Let me help."

Something wet dribbles down my chin, and reflex has me tilting my head back.

"Seth."

Sam's steely command must have knocked some sense into him, because it isn't long before Seth's warmth is replaced by another.

Instinct has him following after us as we go deeper into the house, but his presence is lost on me when Emily guides me into the bathroom. She quietly sits me down on the toilet and searches for a wash cloth.

"Try not to tilt your head back, Grace." The water running from the faucet reaches my ears. "It'll risk the blood flowing into your windpipe."

At her suggestion, I slowly angle my head down. My eyes subconsciously flicker to the bathroom door where not only Seth, but Embry and Quil, linger just outside. Wearing equally severe expressions. They look cramped, standing there in the doorway with their massive frames all huddled next to each other.

Emily kneels in front of me and, very gently, rubs my face clean of any blood. Her expression, although less severe, still holds a maternal concern as her gaze sweeps over my face with a keen concentration.

"Is there any medication you need?" She threads her words carefully. "Anything at all?"

Afraid of getting blood in my mouth, I shake my head.

"She – she already took some this morning," Embry stutters, his quondam impediment resurfacing in his panic. "Pro… Promethazine, I think. She gets really tired after."

How he knew about the Promethazine specifically, escapes me, and leaves me confused and frustrated. Vigorously, I try to regain my senses and haul in all that verve that the shock has taken away.

Seth stumbles over the threshold, snapping me back into place.

"Is there anything I can do?" The look on his face is nothing short of tormented. He isn't talking to me, but the focus he gives me is unshakable. At this moment, I'd do anything to take it off of me. So, I say the first thing that comes to mind.

"Where's Jacob?"

He gapes, torn on what to say, or if he should say anything at all. A battle rages in the depths of swirling golden-copper.

At the silence that follows, Emily swipes a sheen of sweat from my forehead before slowly lowering her hand. She levels a sidelong glance at the boy beside her. No more blood, only a draft hitting my damp, fevered skin.

I stare back with large, hopeful eyes. "Is he okay?"

All focus seems to drift toward Seth as he flounders to come up with an answer. But after a moment of watching his hesitation, a newfound panic erupts within the confines of my chest. Whatever he sees in my expression brings him to his knees.

"Are you okay?"

I sniffle, feeling my chin tremble. "I'm confused and I don't understand," my voice cracks under the weight of my colliding emotions, "and I just want to know if my best friend is okay."

Seth crumbles completely. Before me isn't the happy-go-lucky Seth Clearwater, but a version of him that looks as if he aged a couple hundred years.

"Can you please tell me what's going on?"

Wordlessly, he sweeps his thumb over my cheek. Then my chin. A raw, unbridled look of desolation curves his expression tightly. "Can you stand?"

It takes a moment for me to process the weight of his question. Am I finally going to get answers?

He hoists himself up and stares at me with a gentle patience, outstretching his hand toward me. I look at it once, weighing my options before I decide that if I want answers, then I should cooperate. Cooperation gets you places. Cooperation is key.

I slip my palm into his, but the moment I stand to my feet, the floor sways and the room blurs.

All at the same time, Embry, Quil, Emily, and Seth, lunge to steady me. But since Seth is closer to me, I fall directly against his chest. Heat ensnares me, head-to-toe. Some stupid defense mechanism has me staggering back, embarrassed, avoiding eye-contact.

"Sorry."

Seth steps after me. "Do you need me to carry you?"

Again, I find myself shutting down. My palm digs into my chest. "Space. I need space."

The second he forces space between us, I work on getting my heartrate to slow down its rapid pace. There's a tense silence in the room, and I don't realize why until I lift my gaze.

Seth has his hand curled to his chest, holding it there with his other one. The sharp, agonized twist of his features tells me that he had taken my resistance as a sign of rejection. All because in my haste to get away from him, I had torn my hand from his grip.

In a panic, I force my way through Quil and Embry's leering statures, stumbling out into the hall. I lose feeling in my fingers, tightening my knuckles into fists. That feeling of derealization sinks deep into my bones then.

"Grace?"

I look up, startled, eyes meeting a guarded pair of deep chocolate. Behind him, the others linger warily, watching me like I'm some caged animal. "Where's Jacob?"

Sam straightens at this, eyes flickering to a spot over my shoulder before they zipline back to me. His arms go right over his chest. "He's cooling off," he replies tersely.

I put up a brave front. "Where?"

"He didn't want to risk… phasing in front of you again." He says this carefully as if I might lash out. He's stalling, I realize belatedly; he completely avoided my question.

"Phase?" I retort, now on my way to getting properly worked up. "What does that even mean? And how – how did he turn into that–"

"Grace…" He warns, taking hesitant steps toward me. "Your heart is beating too fast. You need to calm down–"

"I will not."

Shocked by the feral edge of my tone, he halts, arms falling limp at his sides. The crease between his brows harden upon my insistence. He looks at that space above my shoulders again, and during that split second, there's a voice in the back of my head that chants, 'Bad, Grace. Bad, bad, bad.'

Paul lets out a low whistle, grinning crookedly. "Little Wolf's got balls."

Though he's the only one that seems to find the situation humorous. From what I can see, everyone else is watching the scene raptly, eyes ping-ponging back and forth between Sam and I. I feel my eyes slowly swing over to him, gulping thickly as realization dawns on me. Suddenly I feel like I'm standing before my executioner, waiting for my sentence.

Then I quickly backtrack. "I-I'm sorry. I just want to know what happened. Please."

Sam scrutinizes me for a moment and, with a stoicism that puts Black Widow's to shame, tells me, "We're Shape-Shifters. What you saw proves that."

"Right." I nod, still trying to make sense of it. "So, when you say Shape-Shifters, you mean…"

"We turn into giant frickin' wolves," Jared supplies, but in a way that reminds me of a stoner going, 'Hell yeah, I smoke weed!'

My face scrunches up into a grimace. "Yes. Thank you, Jared–"

"No problemo."

I disregard the choked laughter coming behind me, and huff through my nose. Giving my attention back to Sam, I level him with a meaningful look. "How?"

And thus begins the tale of the Spirit Warriors. Sam's version of the story is choppy and clipped, but I find myself deeply engrossed nonetheless. Spirit Warriors is what they refer to themselves as, and among their greatest warrior, Taha Aki, and The Third Wife. How they battled and protected their tribe against creatures called Cold Ones.

My brows unfurl at the term. "Cold Ones?"

"Vampires," Collin pipes up, disdainfully. I can barely make out his face amongst the strapping bodies all cramped into the narrow hallway.

I feel myself go a bit fuzzy-headed. Vampires. Vampires with razor-sharp teeth, inhuman speed, immortality, and a thirst for human blood.

Brady whacks his shoulder, a scowl ensnaring his features. "Dude."

"What?" Collin defends himself. "She's going to find out anyway, since her sister–"

"Collin, that's enough." Sam's icy-bitten order causes the teenager to shrink back. A look of guilt heavy in his expression as he stares at me, as if the words, 'I screwed up' are painted in big, bold letters over his forehead. The blood rushes to my ears – a dreadful sense of not-knowing traps me in place.

A warmth settles beside me, frighteningly still yet seemingly my only source of comfort. I cast a wary glance to my left, and whiskey-copper hold me hostage. I catch a breath.

Seth had been unnaturally silent throughout the entirety of Sam's story-telling, so much so that his sudden presence intensifies my confusion, even worries me a little. He looks strangely apprehensive. Poised like he's about to jump in at any given moment. I tear my focus away from him, and eye the surrounding crowd in a fastidious fashion before settling on Sam.

"Since my sister is what?"

He fidgets, jaw set and tight. The movement grabs my focus and amplifies my distress.

"Sam…"

"The Cullens, they're vampires," he says with words like venom.

Discomfort ignites like a wasp's stinger at my skull, causing me to recoil. The room goes so utterly quiet that you'd be able to hear a pin drop. They watch me, anticipating the worst reaction from me, but at this moment, I don't have one. You'd be able to knock me over with a feather then. My head feels especially light on my shoulders, like someone stuffed a shit ton of cotton into my brain, and the natural buzz of life sounds more like white-noise and the room feels like it's getting smaller.

"And Bella will become one."

That happens to be the last straw as thick, clunky bile rises up my throat. I hunch over, arms cradled to my stomach, as the sound of a wounded animal blubbers out of me. "I think I'm gonna be sick."

Seth, my anchor in the pandemonium, shepherds me back into the bathroom. People are speaking loudly, voices frantic and pleading, but it all sounds like gibberish to me. As soon as we make it across the threshold, I bumble, nearly trip over the rug, and seep down, emptying my guts into the bowl. Seth combs my hair out of my face, holding the thick curls at the base of my neck. With his other hand, he kneads gently at my spine and the pressure between my shoulder blades. The sound of my retching, and the heavy chunks of last night's dinner, dropping heavily, resounds and echoes in choppy distortions in my ears.

Leah scoffs loudly. "Way to go, Alpha."

"I didn't think she'd react this way!" He replies, half-crazed.

Bella wants to be turned? She wants to become a vampire – and her husband is a vampire, and I live in this world. This world full of destruction and bloodshed and things that go bump in the night, things our parents only used as a tactic to get us to go to sleep, things we thought only lived in our closets and under our beds. Monsters.

I gag, but nothing comes out, and my back arches from the physical force.

"Alright, give her some space. Out!"

A cacophony of distorted sounds, a few disputing grumbles.

However, Seth doesn't move. He only leans his cheek on the top of my head, murmuring a soft string of reassurances. Words like, "It's okay. You're okay," echo like a lullaby in my ears.

I veer away from the stench, and close the lid. It trembles lightly in my grip. Little tremors seize my hands, and I stare down at them, feeling detached.

Seth stands and moves around me toward the sink as I lift myself up and onto the toilet. He comes back with a damp washcloth, a different one, one that isn't dirty and used. Kneeling down in front of me, he reaches up and begins cleaning my face of the vomit.

His movements slow disconcertingly, and he stares with an unabated hopelessness. The white of his eyes are bloodshot.

"Please don't cry," he begs quietly.

Something inside of me snaps like a rubber band, and I lose my train of thought.

"I'm not crying." I glare such a grouchy glare that it has him floored, halting completely.

Slowly lowering his hand, his head droops low, his shoulders cave. He sighs, and the sound of it is so exhausted that guilt welds around my heart.

"You don't have to keep taking care of me," I blurt out unthinkingly.

His head jets right back up, looking as if my words insulted him. "Don't say that."

The edge to his tone warps my guilt. I blink back more moisture, averting my eyes down to my hands. In my lap, they still seem to shake. I curl them into the bloodied fabric of my shirt, quickly losing feeling in the appendages.

Everything feels so far away from me as if I'm seeing things from an outsider's point of view. Seth is here – physically, he's here – but I can't feel his warmth any longer.

Then, like a switch, the world dulls into a static cage, wrapping around me in viselike suffocation.

Seth sniffles, resisting the downfall of his tears. The sounds ricochet, not quite sinking in.

Drained now more than anything, I lift my gaze to the curve of his jaw with immense difficulty. "Can you take me home?"

He deflates, light dimming from his eyes.

Something sick and desperate sinks deep into me. "Please?"

Because of my current state, Seth isn't eager to let me be. He isn't the only one that feels that way. Embry and Quil try to coax me into staying, but all it feels like is pressure.

Seth doesn't like this. He interjects fiercely on my behalf, visibly torn at the aspect of being overwhelmed and overall exhausted. With his hand at my back, I half expect him to bare his teeth at my two best friends in warning. He doesn't let them near me.

I want to be irked. His sudden aggression toward the absolute halves of my heart doesn't make me feel all that well, but I realize that I'd been the one to push him into this state. All because of my inability to let others see me vulnerable. I had openly cried in front of people – strangers. Puked in front of them, and completely embarrassed myself.

Right when we make it over the threshold, Sam calls us back. No hardened exterior, but he speaks with a regretful, wincing, easier tone as he reminds me of the culminations of now bearing dangerous knowledge.

In other words: no one must know.

Although, he expects a verbal affirmation, the best I can give him is a nod. He appears satisfied by this, nonetheless, and shares a more than meaningful look with Seth. Again, I feel that dread sink down into my core, but it isn't enough to make me nauseous.

In that brief second, Embry and Quil sulk like miserable puppies.

The drive home is agonizing. Seth drives under the speed limit, foot barely pushing down on the pedal as if he's afraid that I might fly out of my seat. That, and his hand will dance in my direction every time he brakes at a stop sign.

Reality rears its ugly head at me as we pull up into my driveway. We sit in this insufferable silence, and the words, mixed with my stabbing realization, spill out of me in a desperate rush to break it.

"Duffle. My duffle. Did I–"

"It's in the back," he murmurs.

Breathing out in relief, I settle back into the seat. A tremor creeps up my hand. I look down, staring blankly as it shakes. My fingers curl into my palm, sending tiny shivers up my forearm.

I can feel him eyeing the side of my face. Apprehensive. Concerned. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," I mumble, distracted, not all here.

Shadows loom over me like a dark cloud. Derealization sets in once again.

Though, not for long, as something begins to unmold that empty feeling in my chest. For a quick second, my heart feels weightless, as if a bunch of tethers are stitching me back into place.

Now, all that resides is a distinct disorientation. Like the last few seconds never existed.

Like I never existed.

Utterly bewildered, I glance over and my breath catches. Seth's gaze is locked on my hand. The nearly pained glimmer in his eyes startles a ragged breath out of me. A sound that he hears clearly, one that has him gripping onto the steering wheel as a means to keep him still.

He lifts his hands from the steering wheel. A barely visible dent embeds into the rubber where he once gripped. He stares back at me with a soft devastation. Brows furrowed, jaw slackened – his eyes aren't nearly as red and puffy as they had been.

"You're scared," he whispers, disbelieving.

Ashamed that he can somehow see right through me, angry that he's right. I turn away, face scrunched up, twisted into a scowl. My sudden shift in mood has him faltering. He inhales once, then holds his breath before releasing it in a quiver.

"Grace, I won't let anything happen to you," his voice dips into something indecipherable, but his vow is fierce.

Why does he keep talking like that? I don't understand how he can pour so much devotion into everything he says. How he can look at me as if I hung the stars in the sky, and cry because he saw me crying, and, without even blinking, place himself in harm's way so that there isn't a chance that I'll be harmed. I never asked for any of this.

My eyes screw shut. "Do you have your phone?"

"I don't think so," he says, and then after a beat, repeats, "No, I don't. I'm sorry. Did you need it for something?"

I rub at my temples, sighing. "How about a pen?"

He fumbles around his pockets. I crack an eye open, staring at his adorable little frown of concentration. After a minute, he grins victoriously and hands me a black pen. I take it and smile my thanks. It leaves him winded, jaded by the simple action.

Only when I reach for his hand, does he snap out of it. His eyes carefully follow my movements, and he stills as I place the back of his hand into my open palm. Propped up on my knee is my new cellphone, and glaring at me from across a wide screen, is my number.

Blue ink etches into his skin, a strange kind of content by the touch of his skin. A warm tingle, the little space between us hums. I marvel at how right his hand feels with mine.

I bite down on the cap of the pen. Seth exhales a nervous breath.

When I'm finished, I place the cap back on, hopeful gaze flitting up to him. "If you hear anything from Jacob…"

He wilts a little, and my heart drops.

Too much. You asked for too much, Grace. I sink into the cushion, eyes downcast. It feels like someone plunged a hand through my chest and squeezed my heart. "I'm – I'm sorry." Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum. "If it's too much, you don't have to do it." Ba-dum. "I really have no right to ask you–"

"I'll do it."

"Seth, you don't have to–"

"Will it make you happy?"

I pause. Content, yes. Happy, no.

He quickly decodes the look on my face. "Then I'll do it," he repeats. "Whatever makes you happy, I can do."

His fervency is alarming, and what's more, he sounds utterly sincere. He takes in the twisting confusion on my face, his own softened with his bemusement.

As if coming to an accord, he steps out of the jeep and jogs around to my side to open the door for me.

He gives a flamboyant bow then offers his hand. "My queen."

It is ridiculous how light my chest feels. He just keeps smiling. His happiness surrounds him, a golden halo over his head. I nearly swoon from the full-blast of mesmerizing copper.

Despite how full my heart feels, I unbuckle myself and slip my hand into his. He grasps it, thumb sweeping over my knuckles.

He goes to grab my duffle. He releases my hand and replaces his with the duffle straps, which I take gratefully.

I have to squint up at him to avoid remnants of the sun's blinding rays of light. Seth easily steps to the side, and a shadow falls over me. Behind him, the sun hangs in a pink haze of clouds and smog. It streams over him like wings. A moment, purely picturesque: he could pass for an angel.

He smiles. I smile.

Then we bid each other goodbye.

And I keep that strange little smile.