Deştepta
Pairing: E/B endgame, but wolfpack fans will like the beginning
Rating: Are you kidding?
Setting: College AU
All standard disclaimers apply
Edward sits upright in his seat, staring at the scuffed black tabletop in front of him. He hates the first day of a new term. It doesn't matter what school he attends, public or private, Ivy League or bottom barrel, the first day is always the same. The instructor hands out the syllabus and reads from it like the students aren't capable of reading for themselves—which, considering the attention spans of most of his classmates, may actually be a wise assumption—and then, if the class is small enough, forces everyone to try to get to know each other, as if the identities of their fellow classmates actually matter.
He wished for sunshine as an excuse to skip the torture of the first day, but unfortunately for him the morning dawned muggy and overcast. His first class is an intro to world history held in a giant lecture hall, so he escapes the agony of classmate introductions. His second, however, is the lab portion of his human anatomy and physiology intro course, held in a small room with about twenty-five other students. He fiddles with his phone, staring at the screen without interest as the humans around him chatter with each other. They're mostly freshmen and sophomores, mostly don't know each other, and mostly nervous because they've heard this class is one of the hardest introductory courses to pass. For the most part Edward ignores their thoughts as they press gently at the edges of his gift, annoying but not unmanageable. He looks up without much interest as the TA, a young grad student with dark skin, enters the classroom just as the clock strikes ten.
"Good morning," he says, hefting stacks of paper to the desk. "For those of you new to the PGU science department, welcome. You probably haven't attended your first anatomy lecture yet, but don't worry. All the labs keep pace with the professor and his lectures, so you won't be lost."
Edward has already earned two medical degrees. He won't be lost even if they teach this class backwards and underwater. He watches with a carefully-cultivated bland expression as the TA shuffles through his papers and listens with half an ear to the rest of the students as they quiet. Some of them pay attention to the front of the room. Others, as usual, pay attention to him. They're drawn in by his beauty but equally put off by the undercurrent of danger they can sense, their prey instincts warning them to keep away even as their senses pull them closer. Eyes linger on him. Hushed voices whisper.
"He's so pretty," one girl murmurs to her neighbor.
"He looks sick," the boy whispers back flatly. "Is he a gamer? Why is he so pale when summer just ended?"
A glimmer of a dry smile touches one corner of Edward's mouth. They have no idea. He settles back in his scuffed plastic chair, prepared to be thoroughly bored for the next hour and a half.
That assumption is squashed flat two heartbeats later when, in a rush of heat and scent that nearly sends him physically reeling, the girl from the wolves' den saunters into the room.
Her smell hits him first, like a fist to the chest—honey and smoke and spice, hotter and sweeter than his brain remembered, a rush of liquid sugar dripping with sin. His breaths stutter to a halt as he forces his lungs to still, to quit assaulting him with that scent. It's too much; it...does things to him. Things he doesn't want to think about. Things he doesn't want to have to deal with, especially in this room full of people. His body begs for that sweet heat but he denies it, refusing to inhale again. The touch of her presence is bad enough, the heat rolling off of her, the way her proximity feels like fire against his skin, tongues of flame, so sweet it's nearly painful. He hears a soft, strangled gasp from one or two throats as the room otherwise silences, and the hearts of the other students still with shock for a moment before picking up again, some now racing, fluttering like the beat of little birds.
He feels venom pool in his mouth, not only at the temptation of human hearts taunting him with their uneven pulses, but at the scent of her as she stands just beside the TA's desk. He swallows it back furiously, his throat almost refusing to work. What is this? He's...hungry. He's...furious.
Trying to look at her objectively is difficult. He's seen her fully unclothed, and that somehow changes his perspective on these things. He's fairly sure she's beautiful by anyone's reckoning. He knows the mathematical formulas that dictate pleasing human faces and forms—the proportions, the shapes. His eyes tell him she's perfection, but his logical brain screams at him to disagree. She has brown hair and brown eyes, which he's fairly sure is not generally considered the most desirable of combinations. And she's small, slender and short, while he's pretty sure models, the arbiters of current beauty standards, are tall. Her breasts are proportional to her body shape and size, not enhanced with surgery—purely a medical observation, he tells himself firmly. All of these things say she logically should not attract the attention she demands from the room just by standing there.
But she does. Oh, she does. And she has his attention, too, whether she wants it or not. He stares. He glowers. He can't decide whether he's more angry at her, at the men in the class thinking filthy thoughts about her, or at himself for not being able to look away.
She has a full, sweet mouth that looks—again—completely natural, not enhanced with the sort of injectables so popular these days. She licks those smooth pink lips and smiles at the TA. He stares dumbly at her. If his lower jaw drops three feet like in an old cartoon, Edward won't be surprised.
"Sorry, late add," she says, and shows him the screen of her phone. Edward can see her schedule on it perfectly well from here, but it doesn't register in his brain. Very little other than her registers, in fact. It's...a very odd phenomenon. Nothing he's ever encountered before.
Is she a witch? He wonders now whether she's a witch. Many people still believed in such things in his day, though they didn't say so out loud as they did during Carlisle's lifetime. He never believed before, but she might just convince him. He narrows his eyes at her suspiciously.
Finally the TA finds his voice. He clears his throat several times and steps firmly behind his desk. "Yes," he says. "Find a seat. Of course. Of course."
No. No no no. Edward wants to run. He wants to bolt from his seat and get out of there, because he can see what's going to happen next as clearly as if he had Alice's gift. There are two empty seats in the room, one next to him and one next to a boy who looks and smells like he hasn't showered in over a week. They've been left clear for obvious reasons. Edward's fellow students watch him, and want him, but he has a veneer of impenetrability, partially intentional and partially not, that they don't quite dare to breach.
This girl dares.
Of course she dares.
She plonks herself down in the plastic chair beside him, those huge brown eyes spilling over with devilish mirth. "Fancy meeting me here." She grins wickedly as she tosses her backpack onto the table.
He can feel his pupils dilate at her proximity, flat black overtaking the gold. She's too close. She's way too close. He can feel that sweet fire pressing at him, gliding along his skin. Warming him. How is that possible? It's not, he tells himself firmly. It's not possible. But it's happening anyway. She's not touching him, she's a good two feet from his skin, but he can feel the hairs on the backs of his arms lift in...warning? Or something else? A shudder ripples down his spine.
And her mind, when he reaches desperately for it, is still an impenetrable blank. It doesn't even feel like she's blocking him as his family has learned to do. There's just...nothing there. It feels like fumbling in the dark for a doorknob and finding only empty air.
"I forgive you, you know," she says, leaning toward him conspiratorially, dropping her voice to a smooth whisper. "For barging in on us. I would have invited you to play for real, but you and Sam had a whole thing going on."
As she rights herself, Edward swallows back venom. Did he say before that she didn't smell edible? Not like something he wanted to bite? Yeah, he was wrong. He was so very, very wrong. He can practically feel the slide of blood in her veins, hear the wet pulse of her calm heart, slow and steady and strong. Her pale skin warms to peach and pink where the thick artery in her throat lies, just under the surface. It would be so easy, so incredibly easy, to first put his lips to that soft column, then to open his mouth and….
"What are you?" he demands, his voice emerging as a croak. Why didn't he feel like this the other night? She was unclothed and he was so close to her, but he doesn't remember feeling this thirst mixed with bodily lust. He remembers confusion and then supreme embarrassment. Mortification. Not...this.
She pulls her head out of her backpack, hand still digging inside, and eyes him up and down, just a quick flick of that hot dark gaze. "Wouldn't you like to know?" But then, after her immediate flippant answer, she blinks. She has the longest eyelashes he's ever seen, and he doesn't think she's wearing mascara. She looks at him again, more carefully. Heedless of the people around them, she leans closer again.
And inhales.
"Oh."
He jerks back, propelling himself to the far end of their table with his feet, the legs of his chair squealing on the cold floor. "What's that supposed to mean?" he hisses, and though he knows he shouldn't, he lets his lip curl. Just a little bit. Just enough to show his very white, very sharp teeth. He has no fangs, but people tend to be unnerved by his teeth anyway.
She only snorts. "Word to the wise, Lestat? Don't try to play a player, and don't try to scare a demon. I'm not threatening you—I'm harmless. But you won't like the result you get." She turns back to her bag, pulling out a new spiral-bound notebook and a pen with sparkly purple ink.
A demon?
Do...do demons take notes in sparkly purple ink?
Edward does not know the answer to this question, and he's suddenly very upset about that.
At the front of the room, the TA finally pulls himself together and claps his hands. "Okay, sorry about that." He clears his throat again. "My name's Tyler, and I'll be leading this lab section. The person at the table with you is now your lab partner for the rest of the term. When you need to work in larger groups, you'll work in groups of four with the table either directly in front or behind you."
Lovely. Just perfect. Edward picks up his phone and scowls into it. He drops his hand under the desk so Tyler can't see and quickly taps out a text to Alice.
- I'll never forgive you for this.
She's supposed to be in class, too, but the answer comes back immediately.
- Yes, you will. Stop complaining and have some fun for once.
He decides he's not speaking to her. Again. Because she's not speaking sense.
As Tyler passes out the stapled sheets of the syllabus and drones on about due dates and projects, Edward peers at the girl beside him from the corner of his eye. Half the class, both male and female, are doing the same. What is it about her? His analytical mind demands answers, but his observational skills give him nothing. She's not dressed particularly provocatively for this time period, though to Edward all these girls look indecent. She's wearing denim cutoffs that purposefully expose the cotton pouches of her front pockets—something Alice would absolutely hate, he's sure. Her tank top at least covers her torso, her midriff decently hidden, though the neckline rides lower than he's comfortable with. Although it does give an enticing glimpse of shadow between her—no. No, he's not going there.
She's wearing several cheap necklaces, hemp and glass beads and maybe a little sterling silver. On her feet she wears new black Chucks, the toes still sparkling white. She's casual, more casual than his sisters would ever deign to appear in public. She's not trying to attract attention at all. He can't even tell whether she's wearing makeup, and he can always tell.
So why can't he just ignore her? And why can't anyone else?
She picks up her phone and fiddles with it behind her notebook, then tilts the screen so Edward can see.
Staring again, Lestat.
And that's the other thing. Alarm filters through him, swift as the venom that flows through his veins. How does she know? How can she possibly know?
"Let's get to it," Tyler says from the front of the room. "Pass back those sheets when you're done." The girl in front of Edward hands him a sheaf of papers. Dully, he takes one and hands it backward again. It's just what he feared: a getting-to-know-your-classmates exercise. He wonders whether he'll be noticed if he slips out of the room now.
That's a dumb question. Of course he will. Everyone always notices him.
Except with this new girl around maybe they won't? It's...a little disconcerting, realizing he may not be the most interesting thing in the room right now.
And, whatever instinct keeps people at a distance from him, it doesn't work on his new lab partner. She's instantly swarmed by shy but interested classmates. Edward glances down at his worksheet again.
Meet someone who has traveled out of state. Meet someone who has traveled out of the country. Meet someone who plays an instrument. And on and on. Shoot him now. Pull him to pieces and feed them to a fire...any fire that isn't hers.
The girl beside him grabs the paper from his hands without asking and scrawls two messy initials next to the line that states Meet someone who is older than you. That sparkly purple ink mocks him.
"I'm Bella," she says as she shoves her paper under his hand, "And you're the most interesting thing that's happened in a while. Now you do me."
Very deliberately, he pulls out a black pen and signs his name neatly next to the same prompt.
Bella's delicate eyebrows lift. "So it's like that, huh?" She examines his elegant signature. "Edward. Classic name. Could be older than me, I guess. I doubt it." She grins at him again, that smile full of devilish glee. She's having fun. He's pretty sure he's offended by that.
"'Bella' only came into fashion twenty years ago," he objects.
"Isabella has been the name of queens for centuries," she corrects. "And, anyway, I named myself. No one did it for me, so it doesn't matter what was in fashion twenty years ago."
"Are you really twenty?" a boy says, offering her his paper. "I'm eighteen."
"Nineteen." She smiles sweetly at him. "Where do you want me to sign?"
"Anywhere," he says quickly. She could probably scrawl her name across his forehead and that boy wouldn't mind, Edward thinks bitterly. He watches with a mixture of resentment and confusion as Bella willingly exchanges papers with their classmates, signing obligingly where asked, answering questions politely while gently deflecting the more curious who try to dig deeper.
"Are you living on or off campus?" one boy asks, which really seems like far too personal a question for Edward.
Bella smiles at the boy sweetly. "I'm at the LMA house at the moment."
This quickly stops the prying, and several speaking glances pass between other members of the class. They all know the most select frat on campus, the only frat that doesn't recruit. And they know girls aren't supposed to live in fraternity housing.
If they only knew, Edward thinks wryly. This is an introductory class of mostly new students, students who won't have been at the party where he first encountered Bella. They may learn soon. Or they may not, depending on whether her behavior—deplorable to him—rose to something today's college students consider worth gossiping about. She certainly has no shame about admitting where she's currently staying.
Few students are brave enough to ask Edward to sign their papers. He doesn't care. None of this means anything to him, and he prefers his usual position on the edge of the crowd, he tells himself firmly. He's not human, he's dangerous, so he likes being left alone.
Before the end of the class period, he's had it. Most of the students are done with their worksheets and killing time talking to each other or playing on their phones. He shoves his things back into his bag, tosses his worksheet in the trash, and heads for the door.
Halfway down the hallway, he hears the squeak of rubber shoe soles on linoleum. "Hey Lestat! Wait up!"
That flood of honey and spice hits him again and he almost winces. It's too much. Not too strong like most perfumes, but too much. The scent isn't just a scent; it's also a taste melting on his tongue, a texture brushed against his skin. He shudders, an uncomfortable ripple flowing down his spine. Uncomfortable not because it hurts, but because it makes him feel things he doesn't understand. Something churns inside him, deep in his gut where things have lain still and silent since he awoke to his new life.
Her fire caresses his skin with warmth as she jogs up next to him. She knocks her shoulder into his arm; he draws quickly away, as if she's burned him. That touch. It's so incredibly warm. So incredibly sweet, even through the long sleeve of his shirt. He can't handle it. He just can't. He swallows back venom and stares resolutely ahead.
"Are you going to ignore me for the whole fucking term or what?" She pivots on one foot and plants herself in front of him, stilling his steps. He draws up short face-to-face with her, this tiny little fire staring up at him without fear. He showed her his teeth in the classroom, snarled at her a little bit, and all she did was tell him to knock it off. Now she's got him cornered and refuses to back down.
No woman has ever reacted to him like this before. He doesn't know what to do with it. Most girls want his attention, but they're also intimidated. This one demands he deal with her, and he can't smell any fear on her at all.
"Holy shit, calm down." She snorts. "You look like you've just seen a ghost." She laughs at her own joke, which he doesn't think is funny at all. "I just wanted to settle that first question." Her playful grin returns. "Who's older?"
He glares blackly at her. "None of your business."
"The way you stare at me says it might be." She eyes him up and down again, as she did in the classroom. It's...unnerving. It's so warm. He can feel the heat of her even in that fiery brown gaze. "Everybody stares at me. Guys, girls—it doesn't matter. They always have. But not like you do." Her head tips slightly to the side as she considers him. "What is it? Most people want to fuck me. They're undressing me in their heads. I don't read minds or anything, but it doesn't take a rocket scientist to know that much." Her eyes flick between his, one to the other, as he struggles with everything in him to hold still. To...do what?
Not kill her? Or just…not touch her? There's an unfamiliar tightening in his testicles, fluid flowing along his length, and while he intellectually understands these things and what they mean, he's not prepared for how it feels when she's so close, staring at him while it happens. He pulls his bag firmly between them, covering his...affliction so this is one mortification he can avoid. She doesn't have to know. Nobody has to know.
"No," she decides, still gazing up into his eyes. "You're not fucking me in your head. You're not like the rest of them. You want something else."
Does he? Does he really? For one horrifying second, he's forced to wonder.
There's not room between them for her to take a full step, but she shuffles forward the little bit that she can, bringing the bright white toes of her Chucks within an inch of his shoes and her face within three of his shoulder. She tips up toward him like a flower tilting to the sun, except she's the one exuding heat. She's so warm he can barely keep from touching and his skin tingles with the proximity of that fire. It should hurt. Fire is a vampire's only weakness. Whatever she is, that inner fire of hers should logically hurt. But it doesn't. It's warm and soothing, calling to him like the sweetest music from a distant room. Like a memory of when he was human. Alive. But like something else, too, something richer and deeper, something he's never known but somehow he feels that she does. That she knows all of it, and he knows nothing, and this is not how things are supposed to be, and he hates it. He throbs, and he aches, and he hates it because it doesn't make any logical sense at all.
"My blood? Is that what you want?" she guesses.
Is it? He...honestly doesn't know. Yes, of course, the answer is yes. She's alive, and she smells delectable. The answer to that is always yes. But also no. Because he knows he could drain her dry in this empty hallway right this minute, leave her crumpled in a heap on the linoleum, and he still would feel this pull. He wants her blood, if blood is indeed what she bears, but it wouldn't sate him.
"Answers," he says finally, forcing himself to meet her eyes. They're so big and soft and dark, deceptively gentle considering the fire inside. This is the one thing he wants that he can articulate, the one thing he can admit to both himself and to her. Normally he can pull the answers he needs from the minds around him, but not this time. Not with her.
"About?" she asks readily enough.
"Everything."
She quirks one pretty eyebrow at him. "That would take a philosophy degree, I think, and I don't have the patience for that shit."
Despite himself, he lets out a soft, dry bark of laughter. He needs to get away from her heat, the temptation of whatever she is. And he tells himself he doesn't like the language she uses, though he acknowledges her mouth is no filthier than most of their classmates. But he doesn't...want to go.
He inhales a breath. Nope, that was a bad idea. He exhales again quickly, but then gets flustered because he has no air to speak with. "What are you?" he says finally, when he has this breathing thing sorted out again. It's never seemed so difficult before.
"I'm me. Just myself." Her mouth twists wryly. "You've never met a girl like me before. I know. I hear that every day."
"You're not older than me."
Her wry grin grows. "Try me, Lestat."
He really hates that nickname. "Trust me." She can't be human, but unlike him, she's a living creature. He can hear the beat of her heart, see the pulse thrumming at her throat. And she looks so young, no older than he appears. "You told that boy you were nineteen."
"That's what it says on my ID." She pauses, and her smile gentles. "Okay, Lestat. I'll play." Something in her voice tells him she's offering him something. A gift? He's not sure how this works. "My oldest memories are of the Great Depression." Her lovely clear eyes cloud over momentarily. "They're not pleasant."
He thinks he's supposed to give something in return now. "I...died during World War One. Not in it. But during it." He holds his breath again, his entire body tensing as he waits for her reaction. She already knows what he is. But what will she do with the confirmation?
She nods, as if this information satisfies her. "You win. You're a little older."
"A full generation," he corrects hoarsely.
"What's a generation between friends?" She smiles. "We are friends now, right? I mean, I still don't quite know why you look at me that way, but we've both got secrets and all." She reaches out and gives his hand a playful squeeze.
At least, it's meant to be playful. But the touch of her skin against his is scorching, like the sweetest flame licking along his skin. He snarls as the sensation overwhelms him, shuddering as he draws back.
Her sweet eyes go wide, but instead of running for the hills as he expects, a soft little breath puffs from her mouth, bringing with it the sweetest scent of liquid sugar. "Oh, wow. What happened?" She reaches for him again, then pulls back at the last moment when he cringes away. "You felt it, too. Does it always do that when you touch someone? I didn't know. I've only met one other vampire, and he wouldn't let me near him. He said I must be the devil made flesh and while he knew he had no soul he wasn't ready to be damned to hell just yet." She laughs sweetly.
No, in fact, he's never felt that heat, that rush, before with anyone, human or vampire. "You honestly have no idea what you do to people?" he demands.
"Me?" She blinks at him. "You think that was me? Listen, I touch people all the time. All the time, pretty boy. And nothing like that ever happens."
He frowns at her. "Nothing like what? What did you feel?"
"I don't know! It was...I don't know," she says helplessly, and reaches for his hand again. He pulls it out of her grasp. Her fire is too much. He doesn't know what he'll do if she cracks him, but he fears it. Something inside is so close to breaking, and it's all because of her. His length throbs against its confinement in his jeans, and it feels so incredibly good even as it hurts so much. He wishes it would just go away.
"What's your issue, Lestat?" she prods.
"Don't call me that," he snaps at her, angry again now. Can she feel it, what she does to him? Is she laughing at him again? "How did you know what I was, anyway?"
"Your skin, and that smell. It's clean and sharp; I like it. I told you I met a vampire before."
"Why didn't you know the other night?" he demands.
"I was kind of in the middle of something!" she snaps back. "Plus, I was hungry, okay? I wasn't really concerned with you, except for your potential to maybe turn my party into a bloodbath!"
"Do you really think I'd be here, in the middle of all this—" He waves his arm to indicate the campus. "—if I couldn't control myself?"
"I don't know! I don't know you!" She's speaking far too loudly now considering the topic of their conversation, her voice rising in tandem with her growing anger. That inner fire of hers flares hotter, expanding as she fumes, reaching tendrils down the hallway and into classrooms. He winces, though it isn't painful. It's exquisite, actually, but it's too much. Far, far too much. He doesn't know how to handle this, especially when it feels like those tendrils of heat wrap around his length and stroke like that... "And not everything is all about you, you know," she rages, toe to toe with a furious vampire but refusing to back down. "Sam isn't a nice guy. You should know that, considering what happened when you walked in on us. I always set people off, and those boys are...touchy. When I'm with them, all it takes is one little spark. That whole frat house could have ignited like a powder keg. You could have been that spark, bloodsucker or not, just by walking in on us."
He knows. He felt it that night, though he couldn't put it into words as clearly as she has. He could feel Sam's anger, his possessive streak, though he couldn't place it and was too preoccupied with his own inner thoughts and embarrassment to really question it.
"If you always set people off, why are you blaming me?" he demands, defensive now. "That would make you the spark, not me."
She laughs bitterly. "I'm always the spark. You have no idea, Lestat."
He believes it. He believes it with everything in him. She's one now, and he feels like the powder keg she thinks those wolves are. "Is Sam your mate?" He drops his voice, attempting to quiet both of them as they speak words which should not be said in public. He needs to walk away, he knows he does, but he can't quite bring himself to do it. His spirit is willing, his conscience screaming at him, but his treacherous body will not comply. It wants that heat too badly. He hasn't been warm in a century, and she's the sweetest, darkest fire.
Bella looks at him scornfully. "Is Sam my mate? You don't know much about those boys, do you? They're a pack; they share everything." Her head tilts toward him significantly. "Everything. And I don't belong to anyone. That's not how I roll."
Edward's forehead furrows. "That's not how love works."
She frowns. "Who said anything about love?"
"But…" He scrabbles to make sense of this. "Why are you with him, why do you let him...do that to you...if you don't love him?"
"Them," she corrects. "All of them. Every fucking one. Because I get hungry and it feels fucking fantastic. You've been around long enough I shouldn't have to tell you that."
He struggles to find an answer to this accusation. Yes, he's been around a very long time. Longer than he ever wanted to be. But there are so many things he's never experienced, so many...urges he's never acted upon, this being principal among them. Because love and marriage must come first, and he's never felt that draw, that romantic pull, to any girl. He closed the door on any possibility of that a long time ago. The rest of his family found spouses perfect for them, but he's destined to be alone.
Bella's watching him with those big brown eyes, far too sweet for the fire within her. It's not fair that she looks like that, like the prettiest, most innocent little casual thing, when inside she's a...a...he doesn't know what she is, but she's dangerous. So very dangerous. He watches as she inspects him as shrewdly as he's ever observed anything.
Suddenly those keen eyes grow wide, huge and full in her delicate little face. Her mouth forms a perfect comical O for a long moment. Then she draws a breath and bursts out laughing.
At him.
Again.
"You—" she gasps through her howls, "you're how old? And you're—you're—" She falls back against the wall, bracing herself on it. Edward's hands clench into fists, his jaw clamps down, and he struggles to hang onto the last threads of his temper. If he didn't have such rigid control, that little girl would be in a world of trouble.
"I have so many more questions now," she giggles, wiping her eyes as she continues to laugh.
"I'm not answering them." He refuses. And he's transferring out of this lab just as soon as he gets the chance.
"Sure, sure. Not now, anyway. Not the place." Straightening, she tosses her bag over her shoulder. "It's been real, Lestat, but I have to get to my next class." She turns and heads down the hallway, the curve of her rear end perfectly framed in her cutoffs, which he loathes himself for noticing. His body aches with physical pain as she walks away, her heat and scent retreating, pulling from him as the cold of his unliving body returns. Only the throb in his genitals remains, wistful and unwelcome, wanting something he knows he cannot have.
"Hit me up if you ever consider changing your status. I might just be game. You're a riot, Lestat." She lifts an arm and wiggles her fingers at him in goodbye without turning her head. In another moment she slips through a doorway, and Edward is once more alone. His phone buzzes in his pocket.
- I like her, Edward.
Alice would. He stuffs his phone in his bag, refusing to answer.
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Wolf imprinting does not exist in this universe, no. :)