A/N: Thanks so much for your wonderful thoughts! I was so glad to see so many of you were eager for a little bit of Christmas in June!

We'll have one more chapter after this, and then maybe an epilogue, depending on how long the next chapter turns out to be, lol.

Characters belong to S. Meyer. The rest belongs to me. All mistakes are mine.

Chapter 12 – The Girl Who Was In the Midst of a Metamorphosis

Back in my sophomore year of college, I read a novel for Lit class, regarding a protagonist who slowly morphs into an insect. The novel's intricacies currently escape me. What I remember is the novel's crux: the protagonist slowly surrenders those things that make him human while eventually accepting those things that speed up his horrific metamorphosis. Concurrent to the protagonist's devolution, the people around him begin to ignore his needs. Ultimately, they forget altogether that the protagonist was once human.

The entire novel is a massive metaphor, yes; a symbolic analogy regarding man's dogged pursuit of those things that, in the end, turn us into beasts. It's also a warning to beware who and what we trust while in the midst of this pursuit. Because when you're no longer useful to some of these same people, they'll happily crush you just like…well, just like a bug. So, here's my crux:

"I'm in the midst of a metamorphosis."

Edward chuckles against my mouth. "Are you discussing Kafka, on Christmas, and while we fool around on this sofa?"

"I'm thinking aloud," I say, nipping his top lip and smiling at how quickly he caught that reference. "And my metamorphosis isn't a gruesome one, like that novel's protagonist's."

"Ahh, all right, then. Thank goodness. Blimey, you Americans make the strangest conversation."

Chuckling, I return to it.

Obviously, neither am I grasping my magnificent evolution as clearly as I'm sure I would if my mind and body weren't otherwise engaged. In this state of joyful bliss, of total abandon, of limbs and mouths tangled and entwined like the English vine bracelet with which Edward Christmas-gifted me, my level of mental fortitude is admittedly lacking.

I can, however, muster just enough clarity to be struck by the realization that I'm a woman who was precariously close to morphing into an insect. I've been playing the part of a worker ant stuck in a colony controlled by queens who'd have no compunction about crushing me once I lost value; the part of a woman too lonely to realize that, like an insect, she was settling for crumbs of affection, for slivers of approval, and scavenging it all from the wrong places.

It's not a novel scenario, a woman in a dead-end job with a boss who'll never appreciate her, involved with a deceitful man who takes and never gives. While perhaps not exactly this storyline, at some point, we're all stuck in some form of rut. We're all larvae in the midst of a radical metamorphosis. The question for most of us becomes whether we'll remain worker ants for the supposed queens and kings of the world, or whether we'll morph into our own brilliantly-shaded butterflies poised for flight – exquisite queens shining in our own right.

All this vaguely runs through my head while I straddle Edward's lap and our mouths move in the sort of perfect tandem couples usually need weeks if not months to perfect. Yes, there's an epiphany taking root, but it's all happening in the background. In the foreground, I smile at the realization that Edward's hair is just the right length for my size hands to grip, to grab two fistfuls as I rock languidly over him. When he nuzzles my neck and collarbone, his warm tongue darting against my flushed skin, my hands skim downward and cradle his handsome face, thumbs tracing the smooth yet prickly stubble along his high cheeks and angular jawline.

"Edward…"

"Yes…?"

This is when another realization hits me: the texture of Edward's freshly-shaven face, the angular shape of his jaw, and the precise heat and shape of his mouth are already uniquely familiar to me. I'd recognize him blindfolded, with my hands tied behind my back, and with only my mouth skimming his features. Also unique are the grunts he expels as we push against and pull toward and nip and taste, and I'm further taken aback by the fact that Edward and I work in exquisite rhythm. It's almost as if…well, almost as if we were created for one another.

"I love you too, in case my metamorphosis reference wasn't clear. You're my cocoon…my warm shell…"

Edward's hearty laughter rings throughout the room, overpowering the Christmas bells jingling quietly on the stereo. It tickles its way from my mouth to my heart and into my limbs. His laughter – I'd recognize that too, even if I couldn't hear it, just from the sensations it sends coursing through me.

When Edward pulls me away – only enough to meet my gaze, mind you – he sports a lopsided though bemused grin.

"Your cocoon," he echoes breathlessly. "'Right. While I fancy the sound of being wrapped around you, the solicitor in me begs for context."

"You make me want change. You make me want to be stronger," I grin, locked in his emerald gaze, "in ways I've never been, in ways I didn't even realize I could be."

He stills, and for a handful of seconds, Edward merely blinks. One hand slips through my hair, fingers skimming downward and gently unknotting the tangles he just created. His gaze wanders between the strands and his fingers, guiding a few whisps behind my ear. When he refocuses on me, he appears dazed.

"There's the context, then, but now I'm gobsmacked."

"Why?" I chuckle.

"Why?" Somehow, he makes the one echoed word sound inane, as if its answer should be plainly obvious. "Love, you're already the strongest woman I've ever met. For you to tell me I make you want to be stronger…"

"How am I the strongest woman you've ever met?"

My tone hints at my dubiousness, but Edward goes ahead and gives me answers.

"Bella, I know you love your parents to bits, and while they both sound like amazing individuals, in many ways, it sounds like you raised yourself, which has made you resilient in way you don't even seem to fathom."

"Such as?"

"Such as how you succeed in one of most competitive cities in the world, while on your own, without even your best mates around you."

"Succeed?" I scoff.

"Yes, succeed. From what we've spoken and from your Kafka reference, I understand that it may no longer be the type of success you value, but in many ways, it is a success. What's more-"

"There's more?" I grin.

"What's more, from thousands of miles away, you support your friends in all their endeavors, even while you question your own career choices. And even while you question those choices which have you underappreciated and overworked, your brilliant talent shines through. You had the bollocks to give my grandmother an earful," he chuckles again, apparently really enjoying that one, "and that's not something commonly done." When his Adam's apple bobs, he sobers. "Your strength leaves me in constant awe, even when you overpack and then can't heft your luggage to save your- Oi!" I bounce on his groin, and he sucks in a sharp breath, hissing and grabbing my hips to still me. "What are you doing?"

"I'm teaching you a lesson for teasing me during such a solemn moment."

"All that'll teach me is to never stop teasing you." He holds me prone over his hard-on, grinning lasciviously. When I pretend to try and pull away – pretend being the key word because I'm not fucking going anywhere – Edward laughs again and kisses me firmly. "My point is, when you tell me that I make you want to be stronger…" he snorts and shakes his head, "I can't even imagine what that would look like."

My heart stops as all the euphoric and fuzzy feelings crowding it over the past few minutes are suddenly buried under a cold avalanche of dread and trepidation. Edward must see or sense my abrupt change because his eyes narrow infinitesimally. Despite it, the warmth in his expression remains, that awe he keeps referring to prevalent above his curiosity. As I glance at my bracelet, I smile fleetingly then swallow hard, praying even harder that my ensuing confession won't eradicate his wish to continue being the vine to my branch, the cocoon to my metamorphosis…the Nutcracker to my horrific ballerina skills.

"Edward…I'm not as strong as you give me credit for. I've got to tell you something."

He nods slowly and smiles. Then he leans in and brushes his lips against my forehead.

"Are you keen on a walk?"

OOOOO

I make my confession as we walk the London streets, gloved hand encased in gloved hand. I can't help noting how, despite the similarities between the metropolitan cities of London and New York, on Christmas Day, they're as different as lions and lambs. For all its usual, boisterous vibrancy, London on Christmas Day is a veritable ghost town.

All the storefronts, whether fashion, pub, or business, are shuttered. Not a single soul trickles out of the usually busy tube stations. Oxford Street, which just last evening was jampacked and teeming with life, is now empty except for a stray pedestrian or vehicle. Piccadilly Circus is no circus. A few pigeons fly high in the gray skies and land on equally gray concrete.

Edward and I may as well be the last two people in the world.

We make our way across Westminster Bridget to the South Bank for a view of the city of Westminster and its Abbey and clock without the usual crowds. Between us, the gray Thames flows undisturbed.

"So, that's it," I murmur, my gaze on the river's calm swells drifting in even rivulets.

It's eerily quiet. If I listen closely, I can almost hear the theme song from one of those Clint Eastwood movies my mom used to love, playing in the background. Out of the corner of one eye, I think I see tumbleweeds blowing in the damp, chilly breeze. When I glance, it's just a woman walking away briskly, tightly wrapped in winter clothing and bundled against the elements, I guess. When I suddenly get the sensation that I'm being watched, I look over my shoulder warily, expecting Jack the Ripper in this town emptied of tourists and locals alike.

"What is it?" Edward asks.

"I thought I felt someone behind us."

"Likely a pap believing himself crafty," he says. "They're out even when no one else-"

"Don't you have anything to say?" I finally force myself to ask.

"Besides that the bloke Marcus sounds like a complete and total arsehole, and if I had the sodding knobhead before me I'd be keen to beat him to a bloody pulp? Yeah." He snorts, his gaze also on the river. "Yeah, I do actually have more to say. I'm merely trying to find the right words for that bit, to make sure nothing is misconstrued in U.K. to U.S. English translation."

Stopping, I turn to face him, impatient. "Okay, Solicitor?"

He begins slowly, his words obviously measured. My heart beats erratically, uneasily.

"I am…proud of you."

"Oh, come on! Stop!" I say forcefully, throwing my head up and growling, taking full advantage of the fact that we're the only people in London. "Stop turning everything I say into another example of my supposed strength. I mean, I know you're in love with me, but let's call a spade a-"

My words are cut off when Edward lays a gloved hand over my mouth. He takes me in through a fiery gaze, nostrils flared.

"Will you bloody shut it long enough to allow me to finish, you maddeningly impatient American?"

"I mean, you're being ridiculous," I gripe, throwing up my hands. At least, I try to gripe. The words erupt like muffled, unintelligible gibberish, since Edward doesn't remove his hand. I huff loudly and grumble. "Fine." It's still mostly unintelligible, but the shrug that accompanies it must signal my surrender.

"Thank you," he stresses melodramatically as he cautiously drops his hand.

"What I was trying to say before I was rudely interrupted is that I'm proud of you because," he hisses briskly when my eyes flare, "I'm proud of you because you broke off that relationship the moment you found out he was a cheating wanker."

"Edward, I should've known he was a cheating wanker from the very beginning," I whisper shamefully. "All the signs were there, and I merely closed my eyes to them because I was…because I was lonely. And because I was so lonely, his over-the-top attentions flattered me way more than they should've. And even after I found out, I was so tempted-"

Edward reaches for my hand and squeezes it tightly. "May I please finish, my love, without having to resort to flattening my palm over your mouth? If that was the pap, our first row has just been publicized, and I'd hate to provide more fodder."

"Go ahead," I exhale.

"Perhaps you should have seen the signs. Perhaps you did close your eyes to them-"

"His wife was my boss's sister!" I hiss. "I mean, what kind of an idiot doesn't-"

"Bloody hell, Bella."

"All right, all right! Continue," I say begrudgingly.

He chuckles and pulls me against him, sliding his arms around my waist and shaking his head.

"So impatient. Here's what I'm trying to say. I'm proud of you because despite how you went wrong – and there, I won't sugarcoat it just because I love you and pretend you didn't veer off course – you set yourself back on course even though it was, by your own admittance, brilliantly difficult. Loneliness or not, my Bella," he swallows, "you grew to have feelings for the selfish prick, and I can…relate to the difficulty in pulling yourself out of a relationship that's gotten comfortable, that keeps the loneliness at bay, and to the temptation to return to that ease even when you know it would be wrong."

"Irina?" I ask, feeling more than a twinge of irrational jealousy.

"Irina," he confirms.

"What if I wouldn't have met you, Edward, and realized what true love feels like, and then gone home and allowed him in again regardless of what excuse he came up with for not leaving his wife? Or if I kept trying to hide the truth from my boss and made an already miserable job situation even worse?"

"There you go, gobsmacking me once again with your open talk of love," he grins. "Bella, what if I hadn't met you, and therefore fallen back into my own personal and professional comfort zone? I mean, who's managed to convince me, in a matter of days, that despite a lifetime of believing some stupid title means I can't or perhaps shouldn't, if I want to write my own comic book, I should?"

"Well, you can and you should," I say matter-of-factly.

"As a solicitor who deals in what is, and not in what may have been, I think…" – his fingertip traces the outline of my mouth – "the pertinent facts here are that you did pull away from the bloody wanker, and then…you did meet me and fall in love with me." His smug grin makes me chuckle. He's convinced I'm the prize, and really, who am I to disabuse him?

"Bella, what we may or may not have done otherwise is irrelevant. If a person can be convicted for their wrong choices, why shouldn't they be lauded for their correct ones? As you said yourself, you're in the midst of a metamorphosis, and it's your choices which have gotten you here. That's all there is to it."

"That's all there is to it, huh?"

"Yep."

I wait for him to meet my gaze. "You know what I think?"

"What do you think, my contrary American?" he smirks.

"I think we're both in the midst of a wonderful metamorphosis. And I think it was pretty fortuitous of me to fall in love with such a factual solicitor, who at the same time, has such a broad streak of creativity running through him. Edward, Barons in England may be ten a penny," I tease, using his terminology, "but you are one of a kind."

"Am I now?" he smiles, leaning in and angling his head.

"Mhm. You're an English Baron-"

"I'm actually an heir to the-"

"And I'm, in your grandmother's terms, a 'common American,'" I laugh, mimicking Lady Charlotte's posh accent. "Yet, you get me, and I think that's the pertinent fact. And now, let's give those pap something to-"

That's as far as I get before Edward's mouth – not his hand – covers mine.

OOOOO

We amble along sublimely now that all possible impediments to our relationship have been annihilated in one holiday morning. Recrossing Westminster Bridge, we stroll through St. James Park as if it belongs to us. With no one – besides perhaps a few million people via social media – to judge us, we stand on benches and kiss and take silly selfies. St. James Park leads to Green Park, where we wander down the side streets of Knightsbridge and its gorgeous residential homes. Rose and Alice text me to check in, and as I text them back, Edward tells me Emmett then Jasper are checking in with him too.

"Jasper too?" I smile curiously.

Edward holds up his phone and reads aloud: "Edward, a blithe Yule, pal! I bet I ken whit ye got fer Christmas."

Shaking my head, I laugh. "No wonder he gets along so well with Alice. She wants to know if I've unwrapped my English cucumber yet."

Edward presses his lips together to keep from bursting into peals of laughter. "Let's leave them wondering, shall we?" he says as he re-pockets his phone.

Even though he seethed at the news that Marcus is in London, I've assured Edward that I've taken care of Marcus, and he won't be bothering us. When he asks for Marcus's cell, I tell him, "Absolutely not." Edward smartly drops it.

As for Sulpicia, I know now that, once I'm back in New York, I have to tell her the truth, for my own peace of mind. I also have to tell her that I'm done being her Bob Cratchit. Whatever happens after both of those reveals, I'll deal with it, and just knowing that I will deal with it, that regardless of what happens, I have my girls…and now, I also have Edward to support me, is a tremendous weight off my shoulders. How he and I will handle this long-distance relationship is a different matter altogether. But it's one we'll also handle – together.

For the past half-hour, we've sauntered around quiet side streets. Between my inner monologue and Edward's and my conversation and laughter, I'm a bit startled when he tugs on our entwined hands and pulls me to another stop, facing me.

"What?" I smile up at him.

He gestures to the side, and his ensuing smile holds more than a note of sheepishness. It's cold out, yes, and we've been kissing along the way, but his cheeks absolutely flame.

"Uh, well, my flat is here."

My eyes sweep over a street of beautifully maintained, Georgian-era, white stucco townhouses interconnected in a crescent shape, all with black-iron balconies. When my gaze skims back to Edward, he offers me a self-conscious sort of shrug.

"It's uh…it's been in the family since the early nineteenth century, though I currently only occupy the top floor."

"You brought me to your home, Edward?"

His Adam's apple bobs. "I…Bella, since the day I met you, since you fell asleep and drooled on my shoulder, then awoke, and we talked about anything and everything…I've imagined you in my flat, walking around and laughing your loud, American laugh, sitting on the couch with me whilst we binge-watch television and talk, ambling through the kitchen whilst we drink-"

"Tea and cucumber sandwiches?" I grin.

"I was going to say 'a pint or two,' but yeah, tea and cucumber sandwiches work. Why not?"

Climbing on my tiptoes, I wind my arms around Edward's neck. "Edward, this means a lot to me, that you'd bring me to your place. I mean, I already knew you had nothing to hide, but more than just imagining me in all those places you just mentioned, making it happen…"

His hands brush my hips, thumbs digging along my backside. Even over my wool coat, the heat of his touch more than kindles me. The warmth of his breath, as he leans in close to my ear, makes the fine hairs on my neck stand on end.

"May I make one more confession?" he breathes in my ear.

"Yes," I whisper in return. "Of course. Always."

"Always," he echoes, "I fancy the sound of that too." Then he pulls back and meets my gaze. "Over the past few days, I've imagined you more than walking and laughing around my flat, more than sitting on the couch and watching television, more than ambling through the kitchen." When he pauses and swallows, I wait. "I've imagined you waking up next to me, with your hair a disheveled mess, and your dark eyes brilliantly knackered from a long night of lovemaking. I want the heat of your body imprinted on my bed. I want you to brand it, to make it so that the only way I'll ever feel warm in it again is if you're lying next to me." He cups my cheek. "Because Bella, for the past few nights, it's already felt that way."

I'd never ruin this moment by mentioning him; Jesus, no. But come on, there's no way my mind can fail to pick up on the differences here. With him, we always ended up at my place. He always found some reason or excuse for why we couldn't go to his place. The rude truth is that as long as he was fucking me, he couldn't care less where.

Edward wants me to mark his bed, to make his space…mine.

"Is that all right, then? Was I too forward?"

I throw back my head and laugh. When I meet his gaze, he's grinning, a grin that widens when I take his hand and lead him toward his magnificent townhouse's entrance.

"Edward, that sounds like a hell of a plan to me."

OOOOO

Despite its posh address, Edward's flat is as unpretentious in its gorgeousness as is its owner. The walls are a soft gray, with most of the furnishings in varying shades of the color, yet a few items scattered here and there – red throw pillows, a blue desk, a yellow upholstered chair, break up the almost monotone and keep everything in the realm of smooth and clean lines instead of boring. The floor-to-ceiling windows allow in the city's daylight – also gray, but oh, my God, the views!

Edward chivalrously gives me the tour, holding my hand throughout the entire thing, his voice nervously excited as if he really wants me to like it. When we reach his bedroom, I stop at the threshold as I take it in.

"This isn't what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

It's surrounded by more of those floor-to-ceiling windows – here, they line two entire walls. The room is painted more of a taupe than basic gray, and it's sparsely furnished with a small, chestnut desk in a corner, a white, upholstered chair in another corner, a small, brick fireplace along a third wall, and then, front and center…is the bed.

The headboard and frame are the same chestnut color as the desk, and the bedding is fluffy, gauzy white.

"I expected a gigantic fireplace that took up an entire wall and colorful tapestries on the ceiling and stone floors."

"You just described King Henry the Eighth's bedroom at Hampton Court."

"I was just there a few days ago with Liam," I chuckle. Then I try not to cringe at the faux pas mention of Liam while in Edward's bedroom.

But he simply snorts and pulls me into his arms, softly brushing his lips against mine.

"With Liam, huh?"

"I thought you'd missed that."

He laughs. "It's fine. You were at Hampton Court with him. You're here with me."

"True. Edward, this flat, this entire townhouse is built for aristocracy, but at the same time, it's so normal, so modern."

"What did you expect?" he grins, "a home built for a family of aristocrats who've been around since Norman times, immortals passing themselves off as descendants of the original family when in reality, they're a lot of werewolves, zombies, and vampires."

When he holds my gaze meaningfully, it only takes me a handful of seconds to figure out what he's going on about.

"Your comic!"

"Yes," he smiles. "What do you think?"

"I think it's a great idea! Who better suited to write a series of comics based on aristocracy than you? And you've already got your blood-sucking, aristocratic grandmother to base your scariest character on. Please don't ever tell her I said that."

Edward laughs and laughs, guiding me backward toward the bed. When my knees hit the mattress, he pushes me back, then hovers above me until I pull him down.

"Stop fooling around. We've delayed enough."

"Have we?"

In reply, I capture his mouth, and Edward stretches an arm above me. The blinds along the windowed walls begin coming down, bathing the room in soft darkness. Our lips then part only to guide our shirts over our heads. He unclasps my bra and helps me shoulder out of it. I unzip him, and he pushes down his pants and underwear together. We both work my bottoms off, and then with a handful of heavy breaths and a long, awed gaze, Edward eases himself between my legs and pushes himself in.

He groans against my neck as if relieved, breathing muffled words that sound like, "Everything makes sense," but I can't be sure. Instead of asking, I play with his soft hair, reveling in this solitary, reverential moment before we begin in earnest. Because there's beauty in this moment too.

Then, Edward lifts his head, his gaze dark and fierce, and I anchor my legs around his hips and my arms around his shoulders as he begins a series of long, deep thrusts.

"Edward…Edward…"

"Bella…"

Our mouths meet with the tender yet erratic kisses of two people in the throes of bewildering passion. When I arch my back, he wraps his mouth around one breast, then the other, and I cradle his head and play with his hair. When he pulls back and increases his pace, I grip onto his shoulders. And when the heat of our friction burrows deep into my core, I cry out, riding it out to the very end. Edward follows close behind.

Afterward, with our racing hearts beating against one another's, Edward lays on top of me, his body warm and damp as he distributes a smattering of soft kisses to my temple, my forehead, my eyes, my mouth. Over and over. Even when he slides out and off of me, he pulls me into his side, holding me tightly.

"Mmm. Now my bed is nice and warm," he grins.

"You're welcome," I say. "I know how these English winters can seep into one's bones."

Edward offers me a husky chuckle. "Although now we really have a problem? How am I supposed to part with you after the holidays, even if just for a couple of weeks until I can come for a holiday? Or you can come here? Or until we figure out…?"

I cup his cheek, unable to answer because it is a problem that grows more and more serious with each passing moment. Instead, we talk about easier subjects, brainstorm more ideas for his comic until I feel him growing hard again, and his comic becomes the furthest thing from either of our minds. Straddling his hips, he grips my waist and I curve my hands around his shoulders as we make love once more before exhausted, we fall asleep in one another's arms.

And just like that, when we wake up a few hours later, we've fulfilled Edward's wishes: his bed is cozy warm, I've woken disheveled, and my eyes are happy but tired.

OOOOO

We spend the rest of the evening and then the next bank holiday, Boxing Day, in a state of total bliss and half naked. We watch Christmas shows on TV, text our friends back and forth, and laugh at the new pics and articles of us regarding our short spat and subsequent long make up. I'm now being referred to as a 'beautiful yet blundering American princess.' We eat loads of take-out, or take-away as they call it here. And, of course, in between it all, we make love.

The morning after Boxing Day, I open my eyes to the gray morning and find Edward approaching the bed in a suit and tie.

"You're wearing much more clothing than you've worn for the past two days," I say groggily, "and while it fits you sublimely, I'm not sure how I feel about it."

He kneels in front of me and kisses me softly. "I had a last-minute issue come up, and I have to go into the office for a few hours. I should be back by noon."

"Mm," I groan. "Maybe I should get going-"

"No. Please don't," he breathes. "I mean, I know you'll have to leave eventually and return first to Rose and Alice's flat, and then to New York, but…I'd like us to talk and plan some things out first if you don't mind."

"I don't mind," I smile. "Okay, I'll be home, naked and disheveled, when you return."

"I fancy the sound of that," he says. "Now, go back to sleep, my American girl. It's still quite early."

OOOOO

I wake to my phone buzzing and answer it without checking the caller ID. It's likely Rose or Alice or Edward.

"Hello."

"Isabella."

The voice sounds somewhat like Sulpicia, but not exactly. Still, that's who I assume it is.

"Sulpicia?"

"No. This is Didyme. Do you recognize my name?"

My heart stops. All of a sudden, the war drum begins its furious, nauseating beat in my head.

Didyme, Didyme, Didyme. Didyme, Didyme, Didyme.

Sitting abruptly, I hold the blankets around my naked body as if I'm suddenly exposed, as if the blinds aren't shuttered, and instead, all of London can see my shame.

"Yes, you know exactly who I am, don't you?" she hisses before I can speak.

"I-"

"Don't bother attempting to deny or lie your way out of anything. I know who you are as well."

Didyme, Didyme, Didyme. Didyme, Didyme, Didyme.

"I-"

"And I know what you did to make sure Marcus followed you to London."

"What? No. I didn't-"

"Listen to me, you lying little-" She stops, draws in an audible breath before resuming. "You and I are going to talk."

"Didyme, look, I'm sorry about what…happened. Truly I am. But I think it's best if we don't-"

"Unless you want me to contact all the eager London tabloids and let them know exactly what their new, beautiful yet blundering American 'princess,'" she spits the word, "wants from their precious young Baron, you'll meet me right now."

A/N: Thoughts?

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*One more chapter and an epilogue!*

"See" you soon!