Rotkaeppchen

by Feuermalerin

What does it take to recognize the One? First of all, you have to look her in the eyes. Easy. If there wouldn't be something like short-sightedness. Confusing? Oh, yes. At least for Paul. Less so for Nora, who has completely different problems anyway - an imprinting story, with lots of heart and hormones. And profanity. This is about Paul, after all. Paul/OC AU-ish

4. Chapter 4

Thank you all so much for your patience, for reading this story, for commenting... for everything, really.
I had a tough time with this chapter, because I found I had to immerse a bit into the emotional side of things - but don't be too confused or strain yoursef too much, it won't stay like this. I wanted to have fun with this and write about a bumby imprinting case with a happy ending (ambiguous meaning intended, I am definitely planning on sexual content).
So, hopefully, you'll see this through with me ... and Paul and Nora :) They really are not having the best of times.
Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter.
Let me know what you think. 3

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Fourth chapter: In which the world is turned inside out

As far as strange days went, this one stood out like a waving leaf in a windless treetop.

Night had given way to the morning with nebulous dreams out of which Nora had awakened again and again, feeling feverish and shivering from a bone deep chill.

The shrill ringing of her phone had finally jolted her out of sleep completely, the abruptness leaving an underlying tremor in her body, a kind of disorientation. Nora felt cloudy, dishevelled and unwell. Like from too much alcohol, except she hadn't been drinking any.

Definitely a lack of sleep.

But Nora wasn't surprised. She almost never slept well. Not since that day almost three years ago.

Since then, something as important as trust had been missing from her life.

Trust in the good. Trust that a fire wouldn't just break out or lightning wouldn't strike her roof.

Worries about worries she had every day. Worries that chased each other, built on each other like a circus pyramid that teetered dangerously, bringing with it new worries.

Sometimes Nora could no longer follow her own thoughts.

That didn't necessarily help her to fall asleep.

Strangely enough, her unscheduled wake-up call stemmed from the same cause as the wasted night.

For a change, it wasn't worries about Hannah's safety that had kept Nora awake.

It was memories.

Memories of an evening in her kitchen and the presence of a man who was supposed to be intimidating.

Memories and a tingling that Nora hadn't felt in so long that she couldn't identify it as anticipation until well after midnight.

At first, though, she had just been angry at Mrs. Kornicki and the unholy habit of older people to get up ungodly early.

"Nora, darling, there's one of those men sitting on your roof. You know, the ones from the reservation. I thought you should know."

After the initial fright and a few reassuring words to her elderly neighbour, Nora's anger changed to a much more shaky feeling. Because she already suspected who Mrs. Kornicki had seen but she wasn't sure.

When a man was sitting on your roof, you had to make sure he belonged there.

Nora had considered looking for a weapon.

And dismissed that as the most ridiculous thought that had occurred to her in months.

She didn't have a weapon in her house. If you didn't count kitchen knives. And Nora didn't count them, because she would sooner hurt herself then defending herself with those.

Besides, ever since a self-defense class, there was a deep (and probably justified) fear in Nora that an attacker could simply take any makeshift weapon from her and use it to hurt her.

Thanks, Mom, for this helpful course. Thank you for this glorious idea.

Nora and her view of the world - the now dangerous world - had never recovered.

Just Nora and her robe, then, as she carefully opened the back door.

Then the second strange episode of this promising morning followed.

Caution, which turned into the distinct bubbling of annoyance. What was this overgrown native american goon doing here already? It wasn't even dawn!

All the frustration and lack of coffee cumulated when Nora realized, not only was she relieved that there was no serial killer squatting on her roof, but that she felt a tiny wave of joy, that it was Paul instead.

Paul Lahote.

One of those men from the reservation.

And what a specimen he was.

He was so quick when he responded to her call, swinging down from the side of her porch roof. And so imposing when you hadn't seen him for a while.

He moved nimbly for someone so muscular, the effect momentarily dazzling.

Yes, she had been looking forward to see him. Nora had looked forward to this day. He had said he would come, and she had genuinely been looking forward to it. The realization was ... surprising.

Why?

Despite the brief and always completely unpredictable episodes of pure, perplexed adrenaline release and associated nervous palpitations, Nora had enjoyed herself quite a bit that night. Paul Lahote had a way about him that made him hard to categorize.

Clever.

He was clever.

Cleverer than could be seen, something that made Nora feel she had to be on her guard. Still, she had felt comfortable. Most of the time. So much so that she hadn't even noticed. Only when that nervous, jittery sense of foreboding crept up, had the contrast made her realize it.

She felt comfortable with him.

Nora felt comfortable with a pumped up giant native american with a shady aura. Someone she knew absolutely nothing about, except that he hung out with a gang of other pumped up giant native americans, who were responsible for stopping some of the students she cared about from coming to school.

Oh, and apparently they were feeding the kids steroids. Or something otherwise illegal.

Okay, Nora knew a little bit more than nothing.

My dad died when I was twelve.

The open trust on the masculine face, cast in bronze in the indirect light of her homey kitchen. The feeling of connection.

It all happened so fast. Her impressions raced by her. The understanding, the pondering. Jumping thoughts that Nora could hardly keep up with.

And then the strangest thing of all.

Paul's eyes. Words that came and abruptly faded away.

The shock when their eyes met.

His absolute immobility as he stared at her. Just stared.

Nora frowned, confused and unsettled.

"Paul? Are you okay?"

She took a step forward, not planning on touching him, but something was drawing her in.

It was over before Nora could comprehend.

Paul took a stumbling step backward, muttering something Nora didn't understand. Then he turned his back on her and ran.

He ran.

Nora had never seen anyone run before. Not like this.

It was like a parody. A parody of other people's running, which from that day, from that sight, would only seem ridiculous in comparison.

Except Nora didn't feel like laughing.

Not at all.

She stood there for a moment. Unable to move. As if Paul, in running away, had taken not only her breath but also the key necessary to move her legs.

Nora stood there staring after him. Staring into the greyish, dusky thicket of the nearby forest. The very place Paul had disappeared.

At that moment, she didn't think about why he hadn't taken his car - the only detail that bothered her about the story she made up for her mind later, after she saw his truck parked in her driveway.

At that moment, Nora was rather trying to figure out, where the overwhelming need to chase after him came from.

It was Mrs. Kornicki, who found her like that. Still standing on the porch, in her nightgown and toes numb with cold.

Selma, as Mrs. Kornicki wanted Nora to call her, came hurrying around the corner, red sneakers on her feet and her dog in her arms.

Nora winced.

She had nothing against Mrs. Kornicki.

Nothing at all.

She watered Nora's plants when she couldn't and took care of the mail when Nora had to go to Seattle with Hannah.

No, Nora had something against Selma Kornicki's dog.

It wasn't anything personal. Mrs. Kornicki's dog had never done anything to Nora.

It was a matter of principle.

Nora had a thing against all dogs.

Ever since the smelly giant dog a neighbour fostered had attacked Nora when she was just six years old, she had had a bone-rattling, knee-softening, breath-stealing, panic-attack-inducing fear of all canines.

It didn't help that Nora's screeching was partly to blame for the dog's attack. She had been warned and told that the dog was sad and angry because it had been mistreated - rescued from illegal dog fighting - but Nora, in her childlike innocence, had thought she could cheer him up.

So the scar on her shin might be partly her fault. But that didn't help the irrational fear that the mere sight of a small dog caused in her.

Bigger and older, Nora knew there was no danger from most animals. And Mrs. Kornicki's spaniel was small and certainly extremely cute to some eyes. Hannah, at least, thought so.

But Nora felt her spine tighten when she saw the dog's upturned ears.

The change did good, at least that's what a small rational part of her consciousness thought.

Focus on that.

Mrs. Kornicki's dog had the bad habit of trying to cure Nora of her distrust. Those were the worst: friendly dogs.

Nora shuddered.

"Good morning, dear."

Selma Kornicki's voice was softened from being used so much and almost glowed with all-American pleasantness. One of this country's countless everyday heroines.

Nora forced herself to smile.

"Good morning, Selma."

Holding the dog in her arms, Mrs. Kornicki pointed upward.

"No more man on the roof?"

Nora shook her head.

"No more man on the roof."

Mrs. Kornicki nodded. The enthusiasm of the movement made her spaniel's ears wiggle. Nora kept a close eye on him.

"Tell that guy I'll call the police next time." It was a good thing Mrs. Kornicki hadn't yet reached the age where she needed a walking stick. She would be a scary figure. Defender of the neighbourhood. No wild animals or perverted murderers would dare come into this area.

"There's no need, Selma," Nora said. She wrapped the robe tighter around her nightgown. It was cold. No surprise as far as that went. It was December, for crying out loud. And Nora wasn't wearing shoes.

"Somebody wanted to look at the porch roof. I knew about it. It's all perfectly legitimate."

Mrs. Kornicki regarded first the roof and then Nora septically. Selma Kornicki's eyes were steel blue and narrowed under greying eyebrows.

"Half past six?"

Nora raised her shoulders. As innocent as possible.

"Early riser."

"You were surprised when you took my call."

Nora sighed.

"You woke me up, Selma. I wasn't fully awake. I'm sorry if I alarmed you."

Usually the technique worked. Distract by a hidden accusation that only someone who secretly felt guilty would respond to.

Like school skipping students, for example. Not so Mrs. Kornicki, who was righteousness personified.

"Where is he now?"

"Huh?"

Mrs. Kornicki's look took on an impatient hue.

"The labourer, Nora. Are you still not awake? Where is he?" She pointed to the porch roof with her free hand. Again the dog wiggled on her arm.

Nora braced herself against the impulse to take a few steps back.

"He forgot some tools, I think." She frowned. She didn't know herself when her story had slipped into a lie, however, she didn't want to stand in the cold and be gawked at by the spaniel any longer.

"Is that his truck?"

Mrs. Kornicki nodded toward the front door. Nora followed the movement unconsciously. Of course, she saw nothing.

Paul had come in a truck?

Her brow furrowed further. Why would he have come on foot? It was fifteen miles to the reservation; of course he had come by car. But why had he left it behind?

The thought took her back to the bizarre situation Mrs. Kornicki had walked in on.

It was only natural that Nora's concentration wobbled.

"Child?! Are you all right?!"

Mrs. Kornicki didn't sound concerned, but rather impatient. Her words seemed to contain a silent demand. Get yourself together!

Nora tried to follow.

Unfortunately, in trying, she slipped into the unpalatable territory of race-based prejudice. At the very least, it played into Mrs. Kornicki's hands, and later Nora would be ashamed of it.

"I don't know either, Selma. I don't know him well. Someone at school made the contact, and you know how they are on the reservation."

It was only half a lie.

And Nora meant that Native people sometimes tended to be mysterious and secretive. She knew it from her own experience. Whenever she made inquiries about Collin's and the others' absence from school, she ran into a wall of silence.

But she deliberately left it unspoken so that Mrs. Kornicki would fall into the trap of her own mental additions.

And thank the God of excuses, it worked.

Half a dozen goodbyes and words of good advice later, Nora closed the back door and sighed, standing shivering in the quiet of her living room.

For a moment she lingered, waiting. Waited for the strange feeling to subside.

The feeling that was not a real feeling, but still somehow left an impression.

Something felt changed and Nora had no clue why or even what.

It felt like the night had gotten stuck in her bones, she was freezing and the sight of a dog in the early morning was something Nora still had to recover from. Adrenaline was forming little bubbles in her veins, which would burst if she thought about it too much.

A tremor skittered up Nora's spine.

And then there was Paul.

Paul Lahote.

A mystery all on his own.

In the dim morning light of her unlit living room, in the echoing silence of the events Nora had awakened to, one realization boomed loud and clear.

Disappointment.

She was disappointed.

Disappointed that he had come and not stayed.

Disappointment resulted when ideas and desires were not fulfilled.

Nora felt her forehead wrinkle.

Almost painfully slowly, Nora gathered the individual strands in her mind, that led back to the day, that was the beginning of her reflection.

A Monday that began like any other and then wove panic and anger and despair into its hours, ending in a strange deal.

She gathered the strands and tracked them. Recognized the subliminal stream of tiny thoughts, seconds only, sometimes barely present enough for them to reach her waking consciousness.

Oh yes, Nora had thought of him. Not just once.

She had been waiting. And she had anticipated.

It was bizarre that she didn't know what exactly she had been expecting.

At least, not that he would look at her and immediately turn around. Not that he would run away as if she' d tried to shoot him.

She had imagined more.

She had wanted to talk to him.

This shouldn't come as such a surprise.

A normal human reaction to another human being who was not unpleasant.

But Nora didn't usually react that way.

Above a certain age, above a certain height, and sometimes according to other parameters Nora was not yet conclusively clear about, she reacted to men with an indifference bordering on blindness, behind which there was a pattern.

Men made Nora nervous. Unless they were young or old.

And at some point she had subconsciously gotten into the habit of only marginally noticing the male half of the population. Unless they were particularly conspicuous, scraping against a different pillar of the complex palace that was her mind.

Paul, for example, was like that.

He was particularly notable. Outwardly, as well as by all the other circumstances.

He lived on reservation land. He was part of the gang that was so strangely intertwined with Nora's school leavers.

And he made her nervous. He made her nervous because he was so far outside her radius of control. Physically as well as mentally.

He was vastly superior to her. In so many ways.

The underlying aggressiveness, the vague feeling of a pressure cooker set high, and this almost palpable intensity.

He was just ... a lot.

Too much for Nora. Way too much.

So why ... why had she been happy? Why wasn't she glad he was gone?

Why didn't she feel like an insecure, trembling blob in his presence?

Instead, it was ... refreshing. Even the nervousness.

Different.

Not numbing. But rather sharpening. As if she were ... waking up.

Nora blinked.

And realized that she had been staring into nothing. For God knows how long.

As always, when the clenched fist of her interpersonal deficit in the compartment of opposite-sex relationships smacked her in the face, she felt like a small, immature girl. Like a kid standing in front of a group of strangers on the first day of school.

Helpless. Annoyed with herself. And with an overbearing desire to escape the situation quickly.

Why wasn't it possible that she found a guy attractive? Even if he seemed dominant and his presence was challenging and he was huge.

He wouldn't have to know, after all.

Nora knew, from painfully many psychological role plays and group therapy sessions, that she had a good enough handle on herself. Most people didn't notice that she was melting down into a pool of discomfort on the inside, against which she had to steel herself with extra sass on the outside.

Most people thought Nora was either perfectly normal or a little stiff. And annoying. Most people definitely found her annoying.

And her problem wasn't that abnormal. Typical shyness coupled with some daddy issues. Hence the trust deficit in the male gender.

Not such a big problem, actually.

But since Hannah ...

It had gotten worse since then.

Hannah.

It's not your fault.

The mantra, the eternal mantra, drilled in, analyzed, illuminated from a thousand angles.

It's not your fault.

And the eternal doubting.

Really?

The eternal whispering, sometimes louder, sometimes quieter, sometimes completely hidden and undetectable and then stronger than before, cumulative echo in its own rut.

You left her alone.

You left her alone with him.

You were not there.

You were gone.

Nora swallowed. Braced herself against the helpless feeling that overtook her whenever she thought of her sister. The conflicting tug, a seething mixture of guilt and anger and love.

An endless struggle. Protection and motivation. Making a home. Giving love.

The knowledge of letting go of Hannah. Pushing her gently. Right into the arms of the problems.

Always and all-present.

Every decision a careful weighing.

Sometimes Nora's head ached from all the thinking.

Let her sleep or wake her up? Bring activity into the day or provide rest?

Prescribe meals or allow Hannah the freedom to develop an appetite so she associated food with something positive.

Confiscate Hannah's cell phone so she couldn't stare at it all day, expecting a call that wouldn't come.

Or burn down the boy's house who was responsible for the increasingly sad expression on her little sister's face.

Hannah's therapist felt that a well-organized day helped with regulating one's feelings and thoughts. Discipline and light activity. Reward, rest in the evening. Effective ways of relaxing. Yoga. Muscle relaxation.

No room for mental sluggishness and emotional holes. Feelings were okay. But they should be talked about. Not use them as an excuse to turn away from the world.

Well. That worked just moderately well.

But at least Dr. Wilters wasn't treating Hannah like an anorexic.

Hannah's condition was complicated. She didn't starve herself. She just didn't want to eat. Meals caused her pervasive nausea that she struggled to fight.

She did not suffer from impaired cognition. Hannah knew exactly how dangerously thin she was. She didn't fight inner demons, didn't fight a life that had the upper hand, didn't put her body on the board as the only piece she could control.

Hannah simply disappeared. She withered away, before Nora's eyes.

Nora's coping mechanism was to stuff herself with muffins.

Where Hannah slimmed down, Nora gained weight.

It didn't take a genius to see that they were very different.

Almost automatically, the mantra stirred in Nora's head again.

It's not your fault.

Well. That was her piece in therapy. It wasn't her fault. It wasn't anyone's fault.

Some days Nora coped just fine.

Some others, she wanted to drive to a seedy corner in a socially deprived area of town and buy the next illegal gun that was shoved under her nose.

Nora would not be able to fire it, no matter how desperate and angry she was at times. Hate was a sword you could only really wield if you were ignorant.

And Nora was many things, but not ignorant.

Nora understood. And she had compassion.

Even with the sad creature that was Hannah's father.

Never should have left her alone with him.

Nora let her fingers slide, lost in thought, over the back of the leather sofa that was centred in the quiet room.

Her living room.

Her home.

The home she had created for Hannah. So she could have a place to heal. Heal from wounds inflicted by the people who should have protected her.

A small knife made sharp cuts in Nora's chest. Her chin began to tremble and hot moisture rose to her eyes.

She loved her little sister. Hannah. Her beautiful, sweet, happy sister. In Nora's memory, still the little, peacefully sleeping, pink bundle her mother had held under her nose after seven months of excited waiting (she hadn't told Nora about the pregnancy right away).

When Hannah was born, Nora had been nine years old. And she had immediately lost her heart to this tiny baby, who smelled infinitely appetizing and made the most adorable noises.

Her little sister, who looked like a living doll. That had never changed. Not in Nora's swelling heart when she looked into Hannah's blue eyes, which had lost their lustre in the last two years.

Not when she held her sister close and breathed in her familiar scent, even though Nora had to be careful with her hugs by now, so fragile had Hannah become. Even the countless trips to the clinic, the worry-filled phone calls and sessions with psychologists did nothing to change that. Every smile from her sister, as rare as they had become, brought Nora endless happiness.

Nora, you had no way of knowing. You were 19 years old and had just lost your mother. You were at a vulnerable age yourself. You were about to start your own life.

Hannah's father had always been a trusting, tender presence in both of your lives until then.

Hannah's father is ill.

You saw the signs as soon as they were there.

You couldn't have done anything differently.

You couldn't have prevented it. No one could have.

The sooner you can accept this terrible fact, the better.

All that and more. A neutral voice in Nora's head could understand it by now. All the sessions. All the words. All the role-playing and technical terms Nora had written papers about in college herself.

But Hannah was her little sister. Her baby. Her little doll.

And Nora had allowed her to get hurt. Because she had been gone. Because she had started her own life.

You're not her mother, Nora.

No. But I should have been.

The everlasting sigh. Compassion and understanding, a little bit of impatience. The typical mixture of Dr. Vanessa Wilters.

It had been better. For a time. Life had returned to Hannah's eyes and the nausea had faded.

Girlish giggles had made Nora's heart beat louder and for a few months it seemed Hannah's wounds were healing.

Delighted shrieks had filled the house, as had the dark croaky laughter of a voice-broken teenager.

Seth.

Sunny, lanky Seth.

Seth Clearwater, whom Hannah had met on a school field trip she had been allowed to attend as Nora's relative, even though she was learning from home.

With the perpetual grin on his coppery face, his sunny disposition was so positive and radiant that Hannah couldn't help but be drawn to it.

A rain cloud and the sun.

The cloud didn't stand a chance.

Until the sun disappeared. And didn't even leave an explanation. Not a word from Seth. For almost a year.

His father's death, Hannah's pain at not being able to be there for him. Then flimsy excuses. Visits to relatives. Illnesses that dragged on for a long time.

And rumours. Rumours that Seth wasn't gone, as his mother affirmed when Hannah called.

And Hannah's hole was back.

No deeper than before - at least that was Dr. Wilter's assessment. But not any shallower, either.

This behaviour was out of character for Seth.

The two had been inseparable, and Nora just couldn't imagine him hurting Hannah like that.

It didn't fit.

Not to Seth.

Not to the kind-hearted, friendly boy she had met and invited into her home. Who had cocoa spurting out of his nose - a side effect of too much trashy afternoon TV and too much laughter.

And who had peered into the deep, dark hole with patient faithfulness and seen the beauty behind Hannah's shy, sad facade.

Seth had understood Hannah like no other and had managed to bring her back to life.

For that, Nora would be eternally grateful to him.

That's why she didn't give up on him so easily.

Something was going on, something that was clearly not as unproblematic as everyone made it out to be.

Sam Uley had tried to convince Nora that Seth wasn't in trouble, all the while making a face like a thundercloud. Not very confidence inspiring.

He had even had the gall to mention that things would return to normal. And had cleverly avoided even explaining what it was in the first place.

Nora was not convinced. Not at all.

And she wasn't stupid.

No matter how inviting the scene at Sam Uley's huge dining table had presented itself. No matter how domestic and neighbourly his fiancée had presented herself.

Something was going on. Nora just knew it. All her instincts were aroused and Paul Lahote had indirectly confirmed it to her in an unconscious second.

"Watch where you stick your nose, Little Red Riding Hood. Already forgotten how the fairy tale ends?"

Regardless of the stupid, sexist nickname he'd given her, all sticky with cliché, Nora's inner alarm had gone off.

And now she was more determined than ever to find out what was going on on reservation land.

It wasn't just affecting her own life. It wasn't just making her little sister miserable.

It was Nora's job.

She was responsible for the emotional well-being of the small gaggle of students who attended the Quileute Tribal School.

And she owed it to Seth and Collin and Brady. And Cuzon. And Josh. And Gabriel Cohen, who, it seemed, wasn't coming back to school either.

But it wasn't just her job.

Someone was trying to play her for a fool.

And her little sister had been hurt in the process.

So it was personal.

It meant war.

But she was small and alone. Against a horde of massive beefcake guys and a sworn community. A tribe.

No one there seemed to care.

It wasn't the sad, but still normal ignorance of disinterested, socially deprived families. The La Push tribal community had never presented itself that way. On the contrary.

Here, everyone was involved.

And wherever Nora had inquired, she had encountered the same frigid wall of silence.

A fog of evasions and taciturn answers when Nora's questions became more specific. None of the otherwise involved adults seemed to care that kids were categorically staying away from school and turning to a gang instead.

And not just the parents. The school administration, too.

They had politely advised Nora to let the matter rest. They would already be taking all measures.

She had been advised, less politely, that Nora was not aware of all the facts.

And had kept silent when Nora had asked to present them to her then.

They had even asked her if she would not rather take another job.

Since then, Nora kept a low profile at school.

And also with the parents, because there was a risk that they would complain to the principal and Nora would then be out of a job.

She couldn't risk that. Not as long as the mystery remained unsolved.

So she had to change her tactics.

And thanks to Paul's strange disappearance and his promise to take care of her porch roof, Nora had a foot in the door. She had a reason to go to La Push.

The thought of Paul made her shudder.

Again, the strange feeling of disappointment came over her, leaving her a little confused for a moment. Confused and cold.

Again, she shivered.

Frowning, Nora rubbed her arms. An unfamiliar impatience filled her limbs. A heavy, shaky feeling, like excess energy that wanted to be dissipated. Except that at the same time, dull laziness pulled at her bones. The same heaviness she had taken with her from her dreams into the day.

Perhaps she was nursing a cold.

She would make some tea.

What better way to combat an internal chill and an approaching cold? Also, she should put on socks.

And then she would think.

Until she had a plan.

---

"Can he hear us?"

A grunted "don't know".

"He hasn't moved in hours."

"Been quite a shock for him."

Someone laughed darkly. "I'll be rubbing that in his face forever."

"Make sure, he doesn't rub your own shit in your face."

Jared's voice flickered through the fog.

"I don't know, is that right? Is that the way it's supposed to be?"

"How the hell should I know?!"

Was that Quil?!

The fragments of Paul's consciousness began to coalesce again. A sharp impulse of something that felt familiar burned on fuses and slowly thoughts flickered through the dense, steely absorbent cotton that wrapped his mind and senses.

Quil?!

Joy at first. Quil was here!

Then a scythe between his ribs.

Pain. Betrayal.

Paul felt his chest again. And his heart. Which brought him back to the now with a heavy thud.

"Because you've imprinted too, you moron."

Embry.

Some more of Paul fought his way back to the surface of time and space.

Quil. And Embry.

"It's different for each of us." Quil sounded tense. "Haven't you seen it often enough, you mind peeper?!"

Paul upgraded his impression: Quil was furious.

An indignant sound, and then an "Asshole. As if I am in this mind-fuck willingly."

Paul's senses returned. Slowly. Sluggishly. Numb and tingling like a foot asleep and hypersensitive at the same time.

"Did he just say something?"

"He made a face, you nitwit."

"Is he in pain?" Brady. And then again, this time panicked, "Does it hurt?!"

A thud, followed by Brady's "Hey."

"Of course it doesn't hurt to imprint." Quil again. "He probably just has to fart or something."

"Leave him alone." A soft, calm voice. Emily. Again, something inside Paul made a thud. Something that didn't want this state of cotton and fog.

Emily's scent came closer. Paul made a sound of repulsion.

This was not the scent he wanted. Not this close.

"Are you okay, Pauli?"

A gentle touch on his forehead, from which he drew back.

The relics of Paul were trying to force him to apologize. He didn't want to upset Emily.

"All right. I get it." Emily sighed. A soft swirl of breath met Paul's painfully refined sense of smell.

He began to gag.

"What's wrong?!" A cloud of panic evaporated in the air, making Paul nervous. The scuffing of many feet in close proximity. More than half a dozen hearts beating. Tension in the air.

His arms twitched, then his torso, as the sensation began to return to it.

A jolt ran through him and Paul's head crashed into something hard.

"Is he having a seizure or something!"

A heavy hand grabbed his shoulder and held him down.

"Calm down, man!"

Paul didn't need to calm down. He needed to get out of this mess of odours. He had to go somewhere else. He had to ...

To Nora.

Paul's eyes flew open. And the world raced toward him in a thousand individual impressions.

Too much. Too much. Too much.

His breathing was rapid and his head ached from the images he was trying to process all at once.

Emily, kneeling a little apart on the floor. Jared right next to Paul, his hand on his shoulder. Paul's gaze raked up the trusted sight, glued to the familiar face. A landmark in the spinning vortex of world and Too Much.

Familiar faces in the background, the clarifying presence of Alpha to his right.

"Hey, you're back!" The enthusiastic, loud cheer made Paul wince.

"Shut up!"

"You're okay, buddy! Just keep breathing." Jared's voice was low and quiet, an anchor in the spinning world that wouldn't make sense, no matter how Paul struggled.

A wave of nausea rolled over him, leaving a sickly feeling of dizziness and weakness.

"It's confusing, I know."

Again, Paul sought Jared's gaze. His hand found the latter's t-shirt and clawed at it.

Understanding tinted Jared's familiar, friendly face, and his calm began to seep through Paul's skin into his bones.

"You had to make it harder on yourself than you really needed too, you old thick head."

Dark chuckles came from all around. A soothing sound that tasted of camaraderie.

Paul turned his head and let his gaze fly over the scene.

Sam and Emily, cautiously standing up, concern on both their faces.

Brady and Collin, standing a little apart with Josh, Cuzon, and Gabe.

And to Paul's left, Embry's grinning face, right next to Quil's sullen one.

Paul stared at the two of them.

"What are you doing here?!" His voice sounded surprisingly normal. Inwardly he was surprised the words had even found their way out of his warbling head. He heard Emily inhale in surprise. How long had he been in this semi-comatose state? And why?

Astonishment flitted across everyone's faces in sync, then Quil crossed his arms in front of his chest demonstratively, while Embry looked down at the floor.

"Still a prick, huh?"

"Not the time, Quil," Sam warned from the side.

Paul's eyes moved from the two traitors back to his alpha. Perceived the latter's tense posture and underlying resistance.

Something in Paul relaxed.

Whatever was going on, Sam wasn't thrilled. That was enough for Paul.

He classified the presence of the two morons as temporarily unimportant.

First he had to sort out the situation for himself.

Paul felt dull and sluggish. Slowed down. As if he had water in his ears. Dazed, he shook his head and made a move to get up.

Immediately Jared grabbed him under the arms and pulled. Brady's hands were also there, holding him.

Amazingly, Paul needed their help. He swayed as he stood on both feet.

"What happened?" He remembered the morning. The euphoria that came with it and then the bone-chilling fright.

He remembered blue eyes. Remembered flames and ice all over his body, of painful thawing of something deep.

Soul. Recognition. Greed.

Silk. Red.

They were not memories. They were impressions. Fused with colours and images and feelings. Smells.

Spicy sweetness.

Nora.

Little Red.

Shock paralysed him and he was grateful for the helping strong arms of his brothers.

Paul had imprinted.

How was that possible? This hadn't been the first time he had looked her in the eyes.

Had something gone wrong?

Had he not imprinted properly?

No. No, that couldn't be.

The wolf was sure of it. As confused and dazed as Paul was, the wolf had no doubts.

The wolf knew.

And he was angry.

It was rare that their feelings were out of sync, Paul's and the wolf's. Usually they agreed on pretty much everything.

Maybe that was the cause of his disorientation. Since his first transformation, they had been calibrated to each other, the wolf part of Paul and not a separate creature. Paul was the wolf.

The part of him that was one with the legends and mystics of an ancient world. The magic of his blood and that of his forefathers.

Paul's wolf was spirit and history and genes. The animal side of each man supernaturally amplified and incarnated.

But at that moment, it felt like something alien was inhabiting his body. An alien that occupied him, a possessed spirit that had nothing at all in common with him.

Again, nausea and weakness washed over him.

"Dude, you really don't look so good." Paul's gaze flickered to Brady, who eyed him uncertainly. Big brown eyes in a face that was far too angular for a sixteen-year-old.

He had to agree with the kid. If he was right, that was sweat he felt on his upper lip.

Well, that hadn't happened to him in quiet a while.

"Can you make it to the sofa, Paul?"

Paul nodded, even though he wasn't sure at all, and took a few awkward steps, still supported by Jared and Brady. The others parted as if on silent command, even Embry and Quil still so intertwined with the pack that the movement seemed as seamless and silky as ever.

Not like always, Paul corrected himself, like before.

Paul wasn't the only one groaning as he slumped into the sofa.

Jared folded up beside him, his back against the corner of the wide couch.

Sam squatted in front of it, his brow furrowed steeply over dark, gleaming eyes.

Concentrating, he regarded Paul, who returned his gaze bleakly.

"Talk to me, Paul, how did it happen?"

How, not what.

Paul was the fifth of them. They had all seen it enough to recognize it by now.

Imprinting.

Shit.

Paul exhaled heavily and let his head tilt back into his neck.

"Fuck," he murmured wearily, rubbing his eyes. Every little reminder of what had happened brought the feeling back. A sickly sagging in his limbs, feeling like he was on a roller coaster, about to take a big fall. An inner-body swaying, like a cork on restless waves. And cold that burned.

A tremor vibrated across his skin, like a thousand tiny spiders that had tiny percussion hammers for legs. Paul shook himself.

Again it was Jared's over-warm hand, its firm grip grounding him.

Paul moaned softly and closed his eyes.

"I imprinted, for shit's sake." The words were harsh, but his voice lacked the necessary bite. Paul clenched his teeth. He sounded so whiny it hurt him in a completely different way. He sounded like a fucking pussy.

"I need you to focus, Paul. What happened? Why hasn't it happened before?"

Paul opened his eyes. Saw straight into Sam's dark ones. So dark that in the fading afternoon light - shit, it was that late? - they looked almost black.

Alpha, an inner voice murmured, and Paul calmed down.

Enough to sit up and scrape his thoughts together.

"We were there when you first saw her. What was going on then? Why didn't it happen then?"

Every murmur, every shuffle of feet had fallen silent, the weight of every focused attention pressed on Paul.

They were all highly interested.

Imprinting was a mystery. Everyone had their own theories, but with each case they learned more about it.

And as it seemed, Paul had to be a fucking exception once again.

"He's seen her before?" Quil asked, sounding almost the same as always. Before Paul had called him a fucking traitor. "And nothing happened?"

He sounded incredulous. And almost friendly.

"That's not entirely true."

The brief movement of air in the room testified to everyone turning to Jared. Even Paul opened his eyes.

Jared returned the looks thoughtfully. Then he raised his shoulders.

He nodded briefly in Paul's direction.

"He was pretty focused on her. And it was ... weird."

Sam regarded Paul silently. The pin-wheels of his mind could power an entire city, they were spinning so fast.

Paul said nothing. What was there to say about it? Jared was right.

Paul had been overly fixated on Nora. He had thought nothing of it at that moment, simply seeing it as his typical reaction to a challenging presence like hers. He often reacted more violently than the others.

His blood bubbled hotter and his control was not the best.

It often got him into trouble, but it was simply how he functioned.

He cooled down just as quickly.

So that in itself had been nothing out of the ordinary. And the other ... the physical. Paul had blamed that on a sexual dry spell, that had gone on too long.

Hell, he'd even been mocking himself.

She'd teased him, plucked a few of his strings. Made everything about him tingle and still induced a seductive calm in him.

Despite everything, nothing had happened.

When she'd opened the door the night he'd brought the bike, her small form illuminated by soft light, there had been nothing. Nothing but anticipation and the tantalizing cocktail that adrenaline brewed in his blood.

No giddy hot and cold reaction. No tearing apart the world.

Paul had looked directly at her and ...

"The glasses." Paul looked up jerkily. So quickly that even Sam flinched.

"The glasses," he repeated to himself, as his thoughts spun.

"What?"

"What are you talking about, dude?!"

Paul fixed Sam. "She's wearing glasses."

No one stirred. It was Emily who spoke first.

"Can that do anything?"

Paul raised his head. She stood a little apart, probably at Sam's request. Immediately, Paul felt guilty. This had to be upsetting to her.

She had been through so much shit because of this fucking curse.

Again, realization stabbed between Paul's ribs. A knife right in the flesh.

He didn't want this.

None of it.

He wouldn't drag someone innocent into this filthy world he had to deal with.

Again, it was Emily who said something.

"But she wasn't wearing one when she was here." She looked to Sam, who immediately returned her gaze when he felt her eyes on him.

He nodded thoughtfully.

But Paul knew the answer to that. It had been odd, anyway, that this detail had stuck in his mind.

"She wore contacts," he murmured brittle, closing his eyes again.

A picture had formed in his mind. A wafting explanation that he didn't even want to fathom more deeply, but simply accepted.

He didn't want to think about it any further.

Her eyes. Eye contact.

Imprinting took place whenever gazes crossed.

Eyes. The fucking mirror of the fucking soul.

And apparently that was very literal to see.

It was Embry, with his typical way of stating the obvious, who nailed it.

"This is fucked up."

Sam got Paul to sum up the few moments before the imprinting. At a certain point, Sam had to use an alpha command, because Paul's voice was failing him.

He didn't want to talk about it. He just wanted to forget about it.

He wanted to at least try, as unlikely as that possibility was.

But orders were orders, so Paul channelled his energy toward words and speech.

At some point, it was as if he stopped listening to himself.

From that moment on, it was easier.

Paul was all the more irritated when Sam interrupted him.

"You imprinted and you were able to just walk away?"

Like lead, Paul's head sank into the cup of his hands. He didn't want to think about it. The nausea worsened every time he tried to piece together a meaningful picture from his over-bright, splintered memories.

He swallowed, the movement sluggish and strangely delayed in its execution.

"It wasn't easy," he said slowly. He turned his head as a few seconds ticked by in silence. The looks he saw Sam and Jared exchange were meaningful, the ability to communicate completely without words even more pronounced in these first two wolves, than in the others in the pack.

"But you left?" asked Sam finally, his face conspicuously devoid of emotion. "Without saying anything?"

"Without doing anything?" This came from Jared, who as usual had a shitty poker face and was openly glaring.

Tension tried to climb into Paul's face, but slipped away at the slick limpness of every muscle in his body. In a strangely twisted position, bent over with his head in his hands, his gaze alternating between alpha and beta, Paul languidly moved his shoulders.

He didn't understand what they were getting at.

Shit, was Sam worried that Paul might have been rude?

"I don't know, okay?!" he blathered, a little sobered by how pathetic it sounded.

A castrated wolf.

Shit!

Wincing, Paul exhaled as he straightened up. At least tried to. His middle felt numb. And weak. As if it had no strength to hold his upper body.

It was a feeling that had nothing to do with muscles and bones, but went deeper. An out-of-body weakness that nevertheless came entirely from within.

Paul leaned against the supportive high back of the sofa, the back of his head against the soft padding. It felt good. Familiar. Stable.

"Maybe I did say I had to get away. Bullshit like that." Paul stared straight ahead, the pack a blur of dark flicker in his peripheral vision. "At least I thought about it," he added more quietly. The problem was, he couldn't remember for sure.

Shame was oily and sticky, a feeling he couldn't fight off.

In that harrowing fall from his old world into this shitty new one, he had had no control.

Usually, that didn't bother him. Most of the time, he had significantly more fun when he lost control.

But this was something else. A whole different calibre. It made him look weak.

Helpless as a blind puppy, without the benefit of adorable cuteness.

Shit, he couldn't remember. What had he said?

It was bad enough when he'd cowered like a pathetic weakling, with so little power over his reactions that he could only hope he hadn't drooled.

But the idea that something in his behaviour could possibly endanger the pack...

He didn't know. All he saw, when he tried to remember, were her eyes.

God, those eyes.

Again, tons of nausea rolled over Paul.

A groan resonated through his bones as the now not-so-foreign hot cold swirled through him.

"Thought?" asked Sam hesitantly. "You were thinking? During this?" Paul could have imagined Sam using the exact same tone of voice to ask, "You lit a snail on fire? With a corkscrew?"

Quil chuckled, not even knowing Paul's thoughts.

But Paul knew Sam's. Not exactly. He'd need the wolf for that. And he'd rather smoke the peace pipe with a bloodsucker and lick his balls afterwards, than phase now. But Paul knew his alpha.

And no matter how befuddled he might be, he knew his alpha hadn't made a bad joke at Paul's expense.

It was about something else.

He blinked slowly. The prelude of yet another attempt to bring order and sense to the heated blizzard that was Paul's thoughts.

He concentrated. Tugged at the nebulous scraps of his memory, pulling them out of the morass of faded fragments that paved this morning.

First he looked at Sam, then at Jared.

"A little," Paul finally said, answering Sam's question. "Not much." He faltered as he felt nauseous so strongly and suddenly that it was as if his guts had turned to erupting vomit with a lightning strike.

He sucked in air abruptly to suppress the gag reflex, but at the same time tried to talk around it. "It was ... difficult." Paul put his right hand to his stomach. Even by his standards, his skin felt hot through the fabric of the shirt.

For a moment, he wished he would just finally throw up. Then, at least for a moment, he would have peace from this sickening feeling.

"It's a wonder," Sam said, his voice grave and emphatic, "that you could even grasp a thought that wasn't her."

It hit Paul like an avalanche. Snow and ice met seething lava and vaporized in milliseconds, the violence of the steam explosion so violent that for a brief moment he saw only white. The world swayed.

Not one clear thought remained in Paul's mind. Everything was colour, everything was blindingly bright, everything was Nora. In facets and aspects, divided into a thousand little pictures, all the pictures he had of her.

There were too many. And they multiplied. Mated with each other and gave birth to the future.

Too much. Too much. It was way too much.

Paul heard a noise, a whimper and a whine, and the last shred of rationality in him said that he himself was making that noise.

"Dude, he's seriously fucked up."

"Shut up Quil." The alpha's darkly threatening tone.

"It's okay."

"It's insane. How did he do that?" Jared's concerned voice. "He was with her all evening without the imprint taking hold."

A pause arose in which Paul could do nothing but resist the life that poured inexorably through him, dragging him relentlessly on through this torture.

Movement around him. Rustling of clothes, scuffing of feet. Heartbeats, breaths.

"And he didn't give it time to settle." Sam again. Serious. Calm. But very serious.

"What does that mean?" Quil's dark snarl was now flooded with concern, too. "The imprint didn't have time to settle?"

"He took off right away. Bam, your world implodes, two poles become one, but you run away before the world realigns."

"I don't understand. What's wrong with him?" Embry's quieter voice, muffled as if by a hand to her lips.

Another pause.

"I'm not sure," Sam finally replied, as Paul's attack subsided enough for him to follow the alpha's words.

"I think he's stuck."

This pause was different from the one before it. Confusion dusted the air and foreboding condensed it into a thick mass that was hard to breathe in. Silence rested heavily in the room.

"That means it hasn't imprinted yet? Not completely?"

A brief glimmer of hope stirred in Paul.

Sharp as a scalpel, it helped him dissect his thoughts and lift back up the sky that had slipped over his head.

"I don't know," Sam muttered, and it sounded like he wasn't thrilled with the conundrum.

Quil stormed through the cordon of the situation by dropping onto the sofa causing it to quake and then opening his big mouth.

"Who is the unfortunate woman, anyway?"

It was the hope of a way out of this filthy misery that gave Paul the mental strength to fight back against the renewed swaying in his body. At least a little bit.

All he had to do was keep calm.

Breathe.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Paul found that steady breathing drove away the nausea. It was like looking at the horizon when seasick. An anchor point in the midst of the swaying.

A lively exchange of words had sprung up around him, led by Quil, whose tone grew increasingly incredulous as he asked more and more questions of the younger pack members. Which, amazingly, were answered dutifully.

Paul was surprised that they could. Until he remembered the reason.

She worked at the school.

The school that the young wolves had attended until recently.

Slowly Paul began to be able to concentrate on what was being said.

Quil seemed to have just understood who the unfortunate one was.

"But ... she's not his type at all."

The words formed too slowly in Paul's mind. He couldn't respond. It was probably better that way. No comments about a guy imprinting on a kid.

One didn't joke about imprinting. And one didn't judge. It was a rule.

And Quil was only able to get so close to the line because Sam was distracted.

Emily had been one of Paul's most loyal defenders even before the wolf thing - and he desperately needed one, with all the shit he was getting into - and so now she stood protectively in front of him. Verbally, at least.

"And what's Paul's type supposed to be, Quil?"

If Quil had been smart, he would have shut up now. Em didn't often get snippy, but imprinting was a touchy subject with her. No wonder. It had caused her as much pain as joy, and sometimes Paul didn't know what it was really like for, aside from the obvious love for Sam.

Quil wasn't stupid. But a little dense at times.

"I don't know. Dumb and sexy?"

Em snorted before Paul could even feel attacked. Warmth filled his chest.

Thank you, Em.

"Don't be such a cliché, Quil!" Her usually soft voice had become edgy and explosive. Her words little cannonballs. "I hate that kind of talk."

Someone boxed Quil, probably Jared, who was sitting closest to him. Paul still had his eyes closed, not planning on opening them for something so trivial. Things had just calmed down a bit for him and his surroundings became clearer again.

"I'm just saying," Quil began, the air almost dripping with his palpable compulsion to gift the world with the mysteries of his mind.

"She looks so...," he hesitated, and everyone in the room held their breath in tense anticipation as he ventured so close to the sacred subject of imprinting again, "... buttoned up."

Tricky, but not scandalously condescending - a collection of held breaths escaped in a unison of windy relief at the very moment Quil added: "And totally frigid." And with that he had walked straight over the line.

Embry and Brady groaned. Emily made an angry hissing sound and Sam growled darkly.

To Paul, Quil's words seemed like meteors. They struck on the shaky foundation of this new, miserable, upside-down world his life had turned into.

They exploded and blew away some of the sickness that had afflicted him.

Paul recognized the feeling and clung to it like a shipwrecked man to driftwood. It was anger. Anger that bubbled up inside him with that familiar, blissful fire, evaporating more and more of the disturbing cold and unbearable nausea.

Paul welcomed it like a long-lost friend. His fists twitched, but Jared - who like a seismograph knew what was coming - grabbed Paul by the arm and pushed him back into the sofa.

Rage might be just starting to rid him of the foul plague that had held him in its tainted grip, but it couldn't give him the physical strength to fight Jared's grip. Barely trying, Paul gave up.

Instead, he concentrated on spreading the familiar feeling throughout his body. Sent it into his legs and arms, every remote place between muscles and tendons, filling it with his old sense of self.

The change was soothing. He was becoming Paul again.

However, it was worrisome that it was Quil's words that had brought about this relieving change.

It was the powerful instinct to defend Nora, to protect her, to erase any harm, verbal or physical, that provided this clarification.

Something rough inside him smoothed out, order returned, walls shored up and made room for Paul. For him and his being, his character, his thoughts, memories and feelings.

Someone weaker might have howled with relief.

The world no longer swayed.

Sounds no longer overlapped into a deformed tapestry, smells returned to their normal streams.

The strange, burning cold was gone and the nausea had vanished.

Forgotten. Fizzled out. Only the vague sense of it as a stamp on Paul's bones.

He was himself again.

And he was suspicious as shit.

Quil hadn't said anything Paul hadn't thought.

Before he knew better.

Before he'd seen her bare toes and her tousled hair, tangled and sexy, her whole appearance the complete opposite of frigid.

Nervous and relaxed, luminous and disheveled from sleep. With a heartbreaking smile and a numbing sweetness.

Accessible. Soft. Feminine.

Someone with whom you wanted to share all your secrets and thoughts, to lay your head in her lap and close your eyes.

Paul groaned hoarsely.

Fuck!

He had it so bad.

Fuck!

He totally should have known.

How had he not known?

All the signs had been there. And he had chosen, out of the worst fit of brain depravity, to ignore them.

All around him, Quil was being pelted with accusations, but Paul couldn't even find satisfaction in them.

All he could think was, that Quil had said exactly what Paul himself had thought before.

And that it had somehow caused his world to clear up again.

As if the swelling anger had led to Paul being able to think again.

The anger thing didn't surprise him, it bothered him that Quil's statement had that power.

That his words were the trigger, when they were exactly Paul's thoughts.

The impulse to blow Quil's teeth out of his filthy mouth with TNT and to wear the shreds of his tongue as a trophy on a chain seemed exaggerated to the remaining rational part of Paul.

It also struck this rational part that the new clarity in his head correlated with the instinct to protect Nora.

The more he gave in to it, the calmer it became inside him.

An unpleasant thought took root in him. Paul followed it down the rabbit hole as he listened to Emily's words.

"I know," she began in that motherly annoyed tone she only used when she was really pissed off, "we women can't complain. And I'm not going to bore you by talking about equality." Her voice sounded as brittle as the drying sand of a sandcastle, which prevented the rude guys around her from starting to make their typical jokes.

"But a teacher with hair like out of a shampoo commercial and eyes like a deer will always have trouble being taken seriously in this world."

She sounded a little breathless.

Everyone was silent. Even Sam, who usually didn't take a second when it came to reassuring her.

Maybe the others were having trouble following her, too.

"Huh?" It was Quil.

Paul could hear Emily rolling her eyes.

"Nora Taylor," she said strained. "She's a young working woman, with many attractive attributes. If she doesn't tarnish them a little, the first impression she makes is certainly not professional. And even someone blind can see that Preppy is not her style. It's a façade!"

Emily snorted. "The world is far too superficial that you can look like a surfer girl and not be confronted with sexist prejudice."

Paul could feel Sam, still kneeling in front of him, getting more and more restless as Emily became more agitated.

"I can't blame her for wanting to avoid it. And maybe it's a surprise to you, Quil Ateara, but the women on this planet don't give a fuck about your opinion of them."

The atmosphere in the room changed from one second to the next.

Emily had cursed.

Emily didn't curse.

Ever.

It was her stated mission to act like the mother of them all, and that included a general ban on all swearing. The commonly known ones as well as the creatively and rarely used ones.

Quil wasn't stupid, but about as empathetic as a rock, the only exception being Claire. Although that only worked because Quil had become the little girl's babysitter-butler-slave. He just did whatever she wanted. He didn't need to be particularly emphatic about that.

Paul was gruff and usually an asshole, but he wasn't nearly as insensitive. Even in his miserable state, he knew why the issue was so close to Emily's heart.

Sam knew it, too. And guilt and shame seemed to rise from him like he was a boiling pot of bubbling water.

Emily hated it when people were judged by their appearance. No matter what those judgments were.

Anyone who looked at her could understand that, even if no one in the pack even noticed the scars on her face.

The world out there, superficial as Em had said, would never let her forget what she looked like, though.

What Sam had done to her.

Paul wouldn't have needed that particular reminder of why he had to stop the imprint. But it still helped to fuel his brain and solve the problem that was circling his head like a vulture.

His mind still felt sluggish and the connections he would have otherwise done in a few seconds took his brain minutes.

Creeping slowly, the clues linked together and the realization that should have been like a bolt of lightning came like an electric shock.

"She's not a teacher, Emily," Collin said uncertainly. "She's the-"

"That's not the point at all, Collin!", Emily snapped.

Paul's misery had begun to unravel when Little Red Riding Hood was thrust into the center of what an overreacting brain suffering from imprinting would take as an insult.

And the resulting anger, had promised him relief and clarification, so Paul had pounced on it.

In the background, Paul perceived Collin hesitantly announcing that he had some unfinished business. Another pair of feet followed. Emily made a noise that sounded as contrite as it was angry, then she too disappeared in a haze of agitation.

Paul concentrated on his dilemma.

Thought until the muscles on his face tightened to help him.

He had accepted the anger over something that shouldn't make him angry.

He had accepted.

He had reacted like an imprinted moron would react.

He had reacted imprinted.

Imprinted.

He had accepted!

He had accepted the imprint.

And then the world had stopped swaying.

Fuck.

Fuckfuckfuck!

"Still. She looks like-"

"Quil! Shut up!", Sam cut him off, growling.

Paul wished he hadn't.

"She looks like a fucking secretary!" The words shot out of him like a flash of flame. Eyes wide and face contorted from the fresh wave of nausea he was fighting. But he welcomed it now. The heaving and choking. The twisting freezing cold, the burning in his throat and eyes.

It meant fight.

Nausea meant fight.

Being cold and burning meant, he didn't accept the imprint.

It meant that he did not surrender.

He had understood.

Paul gasped and clawed at Jared's shorts with one hand. Underneath, his skin felt cold.

Cold! Jared's skin wasn't cold.

Which meant Paul must be glowing.

He let go of Jared and slumped forward. Kept himself from collapsing like a pocket knife by propping his elbows on his thighs.

"Hey Paul, man!" Embry's naive sunshine lit up the room. "You with us, dude?"

Paul didn't answer. Instead, he dropped his forehead against the hard wall of his interlocked fingers. There was a loud clap. And the pain felt good.

He did it again.

And again.

And again.

"Ok-ay," it came hesitantly from Embry, obvious in his tone that he doubted Paul's state of mind.

And he was right to do so.

Paul was on the verge of losing it.

"Talk to me!" It was Sam. "What's going on? What can I do?"

Paul shook his head. The only thing he could think of was shoot me. Twice, please.

"Do you want to phase? Let us in?"

With a jerk, Paul raised his head.

"No!" The violence of his defence tore a burn mark in his throat, and he narrowed his eyes as he felt the pain.

But the panic was real. Paul had no fucking idea what the fucking wolf would do if he were free, but he had a nasty suspicion.

Now the wolf lay insulted and depressed in the back corners of Paul's consciousness, contributing to the shitty, helpless feeling that was dragging him down.

And he was damn glad of it.

It meant he was still there. In the midst of all this shit, he was still Paul.

He hadn't disappeared in this hopeless mess, and even though this hellish imprinting bullshit had happened, he hadn't fundamentally changed.

No mind-altering curse could break him and twist him into wanting this.

Ever.

And he didn't want it.

He didn't want the imprint.

Had never wanted it.

He didn't want to be tied to someone who upstaged the pack. A new sun in his universe. A beat for the metronome in his bloodstream.

And it didn't feel that way.

Maybe ... maybe it wouldn't.

What had Quil said? It was different for each of them. And that was true. Paul had seen it for himself.

Through the supernatural threads that made up the interactive spider web of their pack consciousness, he had seen every detail. The connection of Sam and Emily. Of Jared and Kim. Of Quil and Claire - as disturbing as it had been at first, until they all understood, it wasn't that way.

Even of Jake's odd imprinting, they all had a good impression, as Sam's consciousness could pick up something of Jake's when they were both wolves, if it were only the small morsels the traitor had shown Sam, that had been necessary to rebuild the truce.

But all images were different.

Every connection was different.

And maybe Paul just needed a haven of peace in his life. A domestic girl who amused and relaxed him. Maybe that was all there was to it.

Little Red Riding Hood had reacted differently to Paul than women usually did.

No batting of the eyelashes, no flirting. No hint of arousal or even physical attraction. She had treated him like a runaway stray to whom she was grateful, but whom she was unable to assess. Who interested her, but also made her nervous.

Maybe ... Paul couldn't remember ever hoping so fervently in his life.

Beside him, Jared made a noise as if he were trying to drive away a fly with his breath alone.

Paul saw him shake his head.

"You surprise me," Jared said, and it sounded like that was indeed the case.

Paul regarded him darkly, his thoughts still focused on somehow making sense of this cursed misery.

"I don't know if I'm supposed to bow in front of you or if you fucking creep me out. How do you do it!"

Paul frowned. It was clear what Jared meant. But Paul didn't have an answer. It didn't feel like it was particularly successful in resisting.

He felt pathetic. Even if the burning and the heaving and the feeling of throwing up were gone.

"It's his damn thick skull," Quil snarled, sitting there with his arms crossed, brooding.

Embry grinned, but forced himself to keep a neutral expression as he caught Paul's somber look.

The remaining younger wolves stood apart, part of the pack and somehow not quite.

Paul saw Sam give Jared one of those looks that only they understood, then he rose.

It was clear where he was going.

"Talk some sense into him," the Alpha said quietly but emphatically, "I'm going to check on Emily."

Paul's eyes captured Jared, who returned his gaze thoughtfully.

He understood that he was the one who should be brought to his senses.

Suspiciously, he tilted his head and gave Jared a suffering look. A silent plea to desist, whatever the plan was here.

But Jared could be more adamant than the Alpha.

Paul saw himself grabbed by the arm again, then pulled up.

"Come along, you daredevil. We're going for a walk."

There was no point in resisting. In his present condition, he had no chance against Jared.

The beta turned to the others. "You guys stay here and make yourselves useful." He hesitated a moment, then looked at Quil. "You two, too. As long as you're here, our pack laws apply. No slacking."

Some grumbling and a few dirty words followed, but as far as Paul could see, everyone got moving.

"Come on," Jared said quietly, pulling Paul along with him.

"Leave the wolf out of this," Paul said as soon as they stepped onto the porch. "I can't phase. I can't vouch for anything then."

It was miracle enough that he was standing upright without throwing up, thinking about how he'd felt not half an hour ago.

Outside was the early twilight of the winter months and the air was crisp and sea-like, chilly because of risen fog. Paul inhaled it greedily, enjoying the feeling on his skin.

A little uncertainly he followed Jared into the early evening, between the houses and along the familiar paths to the beach.

The sea was choppy, spraying salty fountains in the gusts that were stronger here than further up the reservation. Wet sand stuck to Paul's soles and weighed down his steps. Moisture seeped through the porous material of his sneakers. They had countless holes in them. Either from his escape that morning or from too much wear and tear. Even in human form, their legs ate up a lot of miles. A tough test for no-name brands from the supermarket.

No use replacing them. Eventually they would tear up anyway.

The wind helped even more to blow Paul's head through.

Images became clearer.

A scenario was forming in his mind. A schematic explanation for what had happened.

The context of this unusual situation.

It provided him with an overview.

Before Paul could finish, Jared stopped. In the middle of the cold, churning sea breeze. Damp and full of fine water droplets, the salty air hit them, wind with a taste. Here the fog had blown away and they could look out on the wild waves, the play of grey water and whipped white foam.

Paul dug his feet deeper into the cool sand, enjoying the familiar feeling.

Winter and the sea. They were damn lucky bastards to have been born in this place.

If you looked at it purely geographically.

"How are you, Pauli?" asked Jared at one point. Quiet and serious, his tone the kind of concerned Paul usually saw when anything was going on with Kim.

That's why he forgave Jared the childish nickname he usually only let Emily use.

Paul felt the outrage rising inside him, as it always did, but it didn't spark. His shoulders slumped forward; here, just in Jared's presence, it was pointless and unnecessary to cling to the chains of imagined bravado that held his pride together.

"I'm fucking scared, man," Paul said in a low voice.

The wind was so loud that no one without overly refined senses could have possibly understood.

Jareds turned to him, his face serious.

"Your axis has shifted," he said slowly. Thoughtfully. Emphasized each word with care. "Your world no longer has two poles, but one." Jared paused strategically. Made sure Paul followed him mentally.

"And you ran away before everything could realign."

Jared's eyes switched back and forth between Paul's, taking in every little reaction while trying to push him to understand.

"Right now, your world is upside down, with no chance to balance itself. In short, you're an idiot."

He said it without any trace of humour.

Jared's words made sense. Paul had felt the world shake ever since he looked into Nora's eyes and something inside him imploded.

"It's awful, Jay," Paul croaked, his despair for the first time not hidden inside him, but openly audible. And visible. Paul felt the corners of his mouth tremble and his forehead ache with muscle strain as tension and fear dug through his skin.

"It feels terrible. It hurts."

The revelation stunned Paul as much as it did Jared, who looked at him for a moment, startled.

Then his friend's familiar face wrinkled.

"Only because you're fighting it, you dumbass."

Jared pursed his mouth disapprovingly, looking briefly like a wrinkled raisin with the dark skin of his face shimmering ashen in the dull light.

Not a particularly sympathetic response, but Paul relaxed a bit.

He turned his head to the wind blowing off the sea and stared into the gray distance.

Yes, he had already understood that much. It wasn't the imprint that was giving him trouble. It was his resistance.

Which made all this shit even more hopeless.

Because the resistance he had chosen, from the beginning. Even before he knew what was happening to him.

A movement from Jared made Paul's gaze wander back.

Black shining eyes regarded him emphatically.

"You have to get to her, Paul," Jared finally said. "As soon as possible."

Panicked, Paul's head jerked upward.

"No!" The gasp sounded so pathetic that shame rattled hot and sticky through him. This was silly. Jared was his brother.

A brother who made an angry noise and looked at him with narrow eyes and furrowed brow, scowling.

"That's bullshit, Paul. What if she feels the same way?" Jared's hand gestured to Paul in his whole pitiful state. "She has no idea what's going on at all, though."

Something howling, scratching raked into Paul's chest and pulled.

He gasped.

A pain so intense he couldn't breathe through, burned his chest.

Panting and gasping for air, Paul slumped.

His eyes felt as if they were on the run from his head, as if it would spill out of his skull at any moment.

Shocked, he stared at Jared, who eyed him composedly and not very surprised.

He seemed pleased in a steely, bitter way.

As he always did when something went exactly according to his plan.

"Yeah," Jared said, as if that made everything clear. "Exactly."

It took Paul a few minutes to straighten up.

What the fuck was with that fucking curse!

"I can't go to her," Paul said after a few sweet breaths.

"And why is that?"

"Not until I get this-" he pointed to himself, "under control."

Something in Jared's eyes softened, more understanding. He sighed.

"Paul. She's the key to control," he said softly.

"I don't want that." It was just a whisper. Without the protective wall of anger, Paul lacked the strength for more vocal power.

Jared didn't answer. At least not with words.

He looked at Paul in that way that only Sam would figure out.

It was clear that Jared wanted to say something, but preferred dramatic silence.

"What?"

"Paul," Jared said quietly and solemnly. "I know this is hard for you to grasp. But on a subconscious level, it is. It's exactly what you want. Otherwise it wouldn't have happened."

Paul's head tilted back as if by itself, not so far that he could only see the sky, but enough to involuntarily put distance between his head and Jared's words.

It was those very words he didn't want to hear.

It was the problem behind the imprint, it was the real reason Paul was so angry with Jake.

It's exactly what you want.

And didn't that make Paul the biggest hypocrite of them all?

Whatever showed on his face had to fill Jared with concern.

He reached out a hand to Paul.

"Okay, okay, Paul. Listen to me!"

Paul's eyes began to focus on Jared again. Watchful. Doubting.

"We need you, okay?" Jared looked at him emphatically, his chin a little lowered, his gaze probing.

"There's no other way. The pack needs you."

Then Jared went for the overkill.

"I'm sorry, man, but you're no good like this. You've got to fix this somehow."

The overwhelming sense of how unfair this all was boiled hotly over his skin.

His teeth bared.

"I'm trying to put the pack first, here," Paul hissed out between clenched jaws.

Anger flared through his body, only slightly quenched by Jared's increasingly confused expression.

"What do you mean?"

Paul was so upset he couldn't even move properly. He wanted to roar. Riot. Pound the sand with his fists.

Instead, he just stood there like a fool, breathing heavily as bitter disappointment made bile rise inside him.

"I don't want this curse to come between me and the pack." Straining, Paul emphasized each word. "I don't want to be like..." he pressed his lips together so tightly they went numb as panicked fear drove something suspiciously moist and hot into his eyes. He'd die before he started howling like a fucking three-year-old.

"Like who?" asked Jared, the confusion in his voice as clear as on his face.

A hostile sound came from Paul's throat. Defensiveness and anger, coupled with a rusty snort.

"Like who, Paul?!" Jared wasn't the alpha, but against the power of his voice, Paul could still only fight on a good day.

"Like Jacob fucking Black!" he roared.

At first there was silence, except for Paul's heavy breathing, which could be heard even in the loud whooshing wind.

"What?!" said Jared finally. "That's what you're worried about?"

Paul was silent.

What he hadn't counted on was Jared's laughter.

First a grunting hiss. Then an amused chuckle.

Paul couldn't believe it.

Nostrils flared, he looked at Jared. Watched him throw his head back.

"Oh man...this is ridiculous." Hacking laughter followed and Jared leaned forward while holding his stomach.

For a while, Paul watched the spectacle. Then he had enough.

"Yeah yeah. It's hilarious." His voice gruff as he turned to the side. "Point taken." Paul turned to leave. "I really don't have time for this shit."

"Wait, Paul!"

Paul shook off Jared's hand.

"I'm sorry. It's just...now wait a minute."

Jerking back, Paul stopped.

"Don't touch me!" Threateningly, he took a step toward Jared, who responded by raising his hands defensively in a gesture of peace. Amusement still made his lips quiver.

"It's all right. It's all right. But take it easy. I don't mean it like that, just - Paul this is ridiculous. You're not like Jake. You're as different as ..."

Paul raised an eyebrow and waited.

Again Jared laughed and Paul pursed his mouth in annoyance.

"Okay okay, sorry. Wait. I just can't think of anything as different as you guys."

Paul hadn't expected words to exist that could disarm him so quickly.

He looked on the ground. Let their meaning wash over him as Jared continued to speak.

"We're different. All of us. And so are our women. So are our relationships with them. And Paul ...", Jared broke off and shook his head, smiling, "The control you showed ... it wouldn't be possible to put something between you and your will. I mean ... Man." Jared grinned and held out both hands in Paul's direction.

"You're fucking superman. How you got away from that, I can't even imagine. Back when I saw Kim ... I couldn't even have thought about it. And if someone had removed me by force, I don't know what I would have done. It scares me to think about it. I had no control at all. And you ..." again Jared broke off. Again he shook his head. His grin was starting to look strange.

"Where we all always thought you and control didn't go together."

Paul frowned as the words slowly seeped into his brain.

"The fact is," Jared said, already sounding much more serious, "your loyalties are solid. You couldn't have proven it to yourself more remarkably."

Jared grabbed Paul by the arm so he could be sure of his attention.

"You would never turn your back on the pack," Jared said in a soft, calm voice, "you were willing to give up your imprint even if it destroyed you." He shook his head. "I can't imagine anything will change if you see her again and let things ... run their course."

An encouraging smile showed on Jared's face as he sought Paul's gaze.

The thought was difficult. But not illogical.

Maybe Jared was right.

Maybe Paul's imprint was already showing his loyalty.

He had accepted it, for a short time, and he had felt no difference. No tearing in another direction. No pulling away from the pack.

Paul stared into nothing, thoughtful. He let word after word, memory after memory come up again. He thought sharply until he was still one step away from a decision.

A tap on the shoulder distracted Paul. He blinked in confusion and caught Jared's grin.

"Tell me about her," Jared prompted him. "What's she like?"

Paul didn't want to. And at the same time, he didn't want anything more.

It scared the shit out of him, but at the same time Jared's words had nurtured hope in Paul that maybe the worst was over and the whole thing wasn't so hopeless after all.

Hesitantly, he began to talk. About the shock of the encounter in Red's house, how different she had seemed there. Talked about the evening, the feeling of home and relaxation, how empty rooms of his soul had lit warming fires. The feeling of good and right. The vague foreboding he'd kept pushing aside.

He told Jared about the anticipation and finally the moment of reunion. The moment of imprinting.

And of his perceptions regarding Nora herself.

"You mean it's platonic?", Jared interrupted him with a puzzled expression.

Paul shrugged and put his hands in the pockets of his shorts. A shallow drizzle had begun and cold moisture seeped through the fabric of his shirt. Soaking what sweat and mist and spray hadn't already soaked.

He welcomed the feel of water on his skin and the winter chill. It felt good to no longer feel over-warm.

"I know what I felt. And she clearly didn't respond. Even if I ..." he broke off, partly because he wanted to spare himself the ridicule of revealing that he had acted like a horny fool and because he didn't know if he wanted to talk about something that concerned her privacy.

No more words were needed at all. Jared made a noise of agreement and then looked off into the distance, considering. He seemed to understand what Paul had wanted to say.

After all, he had been in the situation before. Even though it had looked very different.

Jared had had enough sense to imprint on someone who was part of the tribe. And even though Kim was young, she had some qualities that made her golden pack material. She was smart. She was the uncomplicated calm Jared desperately needed. And she was loyal.

So loyal, in fact, that she'd only had eyes for one boy since fourth grade.

Jared.

Jared's imprinting had been the only one to go completely without complication.

Paul wondered what that said about the rest of them.

"Dude. You had to give yourself a hard time," Jared finally said, grinning.

Paul snorted. Not really a laugh, more like a parody of humour. Dark and bitter.

"I was just thinking something similar."

"So," Jared said, his crooked grin disappearing, "What now?"

The question caught Paul off guard, but he had an answer anyway.

He thrust his jaw forward and his eyebrows drew together. In that way that seemed to creep everyone out, he went from a neutral face to cold, scowling concentration.

"Now?" he murmured hoarsely, his chest filled with sinister self-righteousness.

"Now we're at war. And I can't have a fucking distraction."

Jared returned Paul's gaze silently and thoughtfully, something like concern on his face.

"You're going to fight this? Still?!"

It was more of a statement than a question, because Paul's determination was as evident as the wind breaking on their bodies.

"Fuck yeah, I will." Paul's nostrils flared, his chin arrogant and his eyes hard.

"It's not going to go any further than this."

He could handle it, if it was just an instinct to protect. A calm presence a few miles away that he could think about and relax with.

That's exactly how it would remain.

No love, no fairy tale, no soul mate bullshit.

His mind was made up.

Paul would not become a slave to a fucking curse.

The pack needed him? He wasn't going to abandon any of his brothers. Especially not now, with a bunch of bloodsuckers breathing down their necks.

He'd deal with it when this was all over.

If they were still alive then.

Grimly, Paul allowed the decision to slip into its designated recess in his mind.

Maybe he wouldn't be able to undo the imprint. But he could put wires on it.

He was stronger than legend.

He was a warrior.

He was an animal.

His blood flowed as hot as the lava that formed this ground, as fast as the wind that harassed the land, and was as strong as the rock that defied the crashing waves.

He was a fucking werewolf.

And he would not be defeated.

Not without a fight.

He owed that to himself and the pack.

He owed that to Nora.

Because he knew that with deadly certainty. She deserved better.

Something better than Paul.

This was the only and most important thing he would ever do for her.

He would protect her.

From himself.