After writing this, I'm really enjoying the differences between writing Carys and Carlisle.

I know we've all had bad experiences with Breaking Dawn etc, but not going to be boring or horrific, I promise. Really looking forward to the next few chapters. We'll learn about dhampirs, but mostly we'll have lots of Carys/Carlisle time, and will learn more about Carlisle and parts of his past. There's little to nothing in the books, so it's fun to introduce you all to the man I've headcanoned.

I'm taking a break still, but will update, just not as often. This is a much, much shorter book before Breaking Dawn (5ish chapters) and it's flowing easily. I need the writing just now because it's cheering me up.

Carlisle POV - Carlisle's book.

Blue Moon, Chapter 1

Navigating the streets of London, Carlisle drove the scenic route to his childhood home. It wasn't in order to avoid the Sunday morning traffic. There was something he wanted to show Carys, and he wanted to get it out of the way as soon possible. The tinted windows of the car kept out the bright summer sunshine soaking the streets as he drew them close to the banks of the River Thames.

"Carys, oh, are you-?" Carlisle waited for Carys to look up, blinking owlishly as she rubbed at her eye. "Hello."

"Hi," she said lightly.

Carys had woken from her nap long enough to make it through the airport and stop off at a butcher's before the sun had broken through, but was still shaking off the last vestiges of sleep. It was Carlisle's fault she was so tired, and rather than remorse, he felt an innate satisfaction. It had been their wedding night, after all.

Carlisle marvelled over her beauty for a fraction of a second. She was breathtaking. Sleep mussed, her lips and cheeks were flushed a soft pink, blending beautifully with her skin-tone. He wished that he hadn't woken her until they returned home, so that he could hold her close while she came back to the world.

He put it out of mind for now.

"I have an interesting historical tidbit if you're game?"

"Always," she said a little hoarsely.

"Over there - just... there." Carlisle pointed at a turning coming up to the right. It was far enough away that he knew she wouldn't miss it before they passed. "Do you see it?"

"Um..." Carys squinted in the direction he was pointing.

"The wide alley towards the Wharf."

"Yes!" she announced proudly, sitting up once she'd taken note.

Carlisle's tone was calmly observational. Chuckling to himself, he kept his amusement from the surface. He wouldn't usually make light of the subject, but it would be worth it to see and hear her reaction.

"That's precisely the spot where I was bitten," he said quickly. "And over there - just there. That's where I crawled into the potato cellar to die an agonising death." He returned his hand to the steering wheel. "It's the same pub, interestingly enough, but they blocked off that part of the cellar to expand the foundations."

Carys made a spluttering sound beside him. As she shook her head, her breath and heartbeats came fast.

"You... you can't just...," she stuttered, her head turning as they passed the place, her gaze fixed. "That's... You're..."

"Sorry, love, you'll have to form a sentence I can understand."

"You... you... You just..."

"Yes?"

Carys fell silent, flopping in her seat to sit forward again, her mouth agape.

He half-expected her to rally herself and call him a 'Morbid bastard'. Or to say that dying in a vat of potatoes would be heaven. But then he would remind her that they were rotting and uncooked, to which she would say it was hell.

Carlisle's amusement at the morbidity of his pronouncement continued.

Carys hadn't gathered her tongue by the time Carlisle caught sight of the Georgian townhouse he had built atop the ruins of his childhood home. The brick façade was lined by tall sash windows, symmetrical on all but the modified ground floor, a large six-panelled black door set into the middle.

He turned the car off the street, waiting for a moment for the garage door to open before he drew into the small space. He had lost a room and a little of the symmetry to accommodate the measure - before provisions were put in place to discourage such modifications - but sunny days such as this made up for it. There was no need to cover his skin between the car and house.

When he had last lived there for an extended period, there had hardly been space for the wall - leaning and bowing already, a warped partition between the homes - let alone a garage. The house had grown taller - with the addition of three stories - and wider some two centuries before. In his day, the houses had been even more densely packed than now. More of them had lined the streets, their upper stories hanging overhead. It was what over three hundred years did to a place like London. It gained and lost, fluctuating as parts of the city were rebuilt again and again.

One street ahead, a few of the houses remained just the same as they had been - built in the Tudor style. One behind, they were mostly Georgian. One to the side and they were modern in the extreme. The street on which he had lived was, by and large, an amalgamation of styles and periods of architecture. He was sure Carys would love it when she walked up and down.

He drew the car to a halt, waited for the garage door to close, then cut the engine and announced:

"This is the house where - well, not the house precisely, but the plot of land - where I was born and brought up. I'll get the bags, shall I?"

"What!?" came the horrified exclamation, on the verge of a shriek. It caused Carlisle to wince. "You're lying now," she whispered, "you must be? Surely?"

"Not at all."

"No?" she moaned.

"No."

Carys' mouth opened and closed when he palmed the keys and hopped out, her eyes wide.

Carlisle forced down a laugh.

Lifting the hood of the trunk, he removed the three suitcases, his bag, and the shopping bag, gathering them in one hand. He slammed the hood shut, headed for the side door, fit his key to the lock, and let himself into the house.

Light streamed through the long windows into the large foyer, flooding the space with brightness. He couldn't go far. Untreated, the windows would allow the direct sunlight to set his skin off. Carys would need to close the shutters before he took her on a tour.

After all the centuries, through all the changes, the remembered scent lingered. For a moment it smelt to him as it had when he had returned that first time after his change - of home, the faint musk of time passed, and the roasted goose being prepared for his father's supper. The memory left him, and the scents of lemon cleaning products and various polishes took their place.

Carlisle put the cases down, his eyes shifting, unbidden, up towards the attic above.

He returned to find Carys unmoved, silently crying in the front seat. The thick salty tears assaulted his nose as he opened the passenger-side door. Each one sent a panging chill to the vicinity of his long-still heart.

"I'm sorry," he said, half-crouching beside her to gather the tears with his fingertips. "I thought it would be funny in a strange sort of way. I didn't want you to cry."

"I was going to make a joke," she sniffled. Batting at her eyes, she offered him a brief, watery smile. "... about the whole potatoes thing. I thought of it after you told me how you died the first time. I was gonna say it couldn't be that bad if you were surrounded by potatoes, but then..." Her face shifted. "It just got worse."

"You remembered the potatoes were rotten?"

"No. I mean," she chuckled wryly, "now that's terrible too. Thanks. No, I meant... You died, and now we're here. You're surrounded by terrible memories. I don't mean London, I mean here."

"Not all are bad," he reassured.

Carys dried her eyes. The pain lingered, twisting her beautiful face. It was replaced, after a moment, by soft hope and the easing of her features.

"They're not?" she asked slowly, looking him over. For any sign of deceit, he was sure. It made him want to kiss her, but he didn't want to distract her from the issue at hand, and he couldn't be sure - once he started - that he might be able to stop.

"No," Carlisle said, "I have good memories, and by the time we leave I'll have far, far better ones than I could have dreamed."

"But the house...?"

"It's perfectly alright, love. I've rebuilt the place more than once."

"A shrine to your awful childhood?"

"A memory I preferred to preserve."

"That's why Rose and Em bought my house for me, isn't it?" Carys recalled.

"Yes."

It was as much a gift to him as it was her. In a hundred years, they may wish to remember the life they led there. His memories would be as clear as day, but hers would be far more difficult to grasp.

"It can... ground us," Carlisle told her. "Would you prefer to stay somewhere else?"

He ran through the catalogue. There were a few options in London alone. Most were rented or leased, but one was between occupancies. He was about to suggest the change when Carys threw herself across the last of the small space between them, gripped the back of his shirt, likely warping the fabric, and asked:

"Are you sure you want to be here?"

"I am," he repeated. "I'm honouring all the traditions now."

"How so?"

"When I was alive - in the station I held, it was common for the bridegroom to undress the bride before their wedding night," he said with a wink.

"I knew that," she insisted. "And that you'd need a house, wouldn't you? And a living to support a family?"

"Yes. I would bring you home. Home could have been my parents' home, but I had the means, and so I wouldn't have married before I had a living of my own with income to support a wife. This is the first home I bought; it stands to reason that it's here I bring you."

He waited as Carys mulled over this information. Her mouth opened once, but she closed it again and wordlessly eyed him rather than ask whatever question she had thought of.

"And I'm pregnant," she said finally.

"In which case, the wedding would have been a requirement, whether I had the money or not."

Carlisle earned himself the sweetest smile.

"You'd've married me if I got pregnant? Aw, you're so honourable!" she said with a teasing laugh.

"I am, aren't I? Come on. Lots to do."

Carys - when he convinced her to leave the car behind - was happy to close the shutters for him, and to put the tour off until later when the sun had shifted. They headed through the foyer (which she stopped to stare at in mute amazement - taking in the black and white tiling, the neo-classical design, grand staircase, various doors off the main, four flights of stairs, and the chandelier hanging from the highest point) and continued down the long hall to the flagstone kitchen.

It was the one part of the house that he had preserved almost as it was - the floor itself and the rough layout. It was the place he remembered as home. This was where his happy memories had been. He couldn't grasp them, but he knew they were there, somewhere in his heart and soul, whenever he entered the room.

As soon as he entered, peace washed over him.

A large room sunk low beneath the house, it faced away from the worst of the summer light. It was painted a warm cream, lined with dark cabinets, and light tiles and counter-tops. The space was dominated by both the Aga, set against the north wall nearby the overlarge fridge-freezer and pantry door, and the wooden table which took up a large part of the middle of the room.

As he prepared and then lightly seared her steak, Carlisle listened with open pride as Carys ran around exclaiming over aspects of the room. She was especially enamoured with the Aga, which she told him she'd always dreamed of owning. Occasionally, she appeared beside him and held up the odd accoutrement, asking how old it was.

Once or twice, he lied and said something was hundreds of years old. Only after she had marveled over it did he tell her it was probably a year old at most, and belonged to the caretakers.

As soon as the steak was ready, she abandoned her inspection of the pantry in favour of sitting with him at the table.

Not long after, Carlisle wondered if he shouldn't have taken himself off whilst she ate. His nose wrinkled of its own accord. When she looked at him, he cleared his expression.

"I should remind you to chew your food," he said, "but..."

"You don't chew yours?" she asked.

She raised her fork to her mouth, giving him a moment's glimpse of a blood-red piece of steak clamping between her teeth before it disappeared with the closing of her lips.

It was horrifying to watch, but he supposed it would have been different if she was a vampire. He wouldn't be as fascinated, nor horrified, nor, he was sure, as faintly nauseated, as he was. He simply could not look away as another, larger, piece of steak went the way of the rest.

He knew she must have been chewing because he could see her jaw working and she had yet to choke, but he wasn't at all sure it was natural - what he was observing. It seemed... Wrong.

"Well, I drink the blood," he admitted, "but... It's... I've never seen a human devour meat with such... gusto..."

Shaking out a napkin, Carlisle reached forward and brushed it over the corner of her mouth. Not something he ever expected he would be called upon to do whilst Carys was a human. She was usually an incredibly careful eater, and even now she managed to keep the habit. For the most part.

He was surprised when she pushed back her chair and picked up the plate. He had been so fixated on her jaw, and on making sure she wasn't about to choke, that he hadn't noticed she was done. Jumping up, he took the plate from her and carried it to the sink whilst she availed herself of the nearest bathroom to wash up.

Carlisle was drying the plate, pan and utensils when she returned to hug him from behind, surrounding him with her scent and that of minty toothpaste and hand soap. All the horror he had found in watching her vanished at her touch, and he leaned back against her, enjoying the moment of domesticity.

Carys left him to return to the table and he replaced the items then joined her, sitting opposite this time.

"So... We're completely alone," Carys surmised, adopting a businesslike tone. "No interruptions."

"No."

"What do you remember of the foggy manuscript?"

"Would you like old English or should I translate?"

"Translate, please," she said quickly. "It's not that I'm saying it wouldn't be understandable, but it'll be easier to... You know..." She made a face. "Understand, I guess."

Carlisle smiled, closed his eyes for a moment, and translated the manuscript he had recently memorised again. He had searched through every memory he had - everything he had ever thought or heard or seen or read - to find it. He had taken two sweeps at full speed and then slowed down to follow himself back through time, slowly combing. It had only then appeared to him, in the midst of the foggy memories he had retained from his human life.

"According to this," he said, opening his eyes, "and I want to be clear - this isn't necessarily correct..."

"But it's all we know so far, and it's been right on my symptoms?"

"Yes," he said, taking a deep breath. "Good. A vampire pregnancy lasts twenty-five to twenty-six weeks. The first three months proceed as normal, after which the timing escalates. The second and third trimesters are played out in double-time. The mother can be expected to endure an intense fever in the thirteenth week, which can be mistaken for as the result of infection, and can kill if left untreated."

"What!?" Carys' shocked exclamation was belied by the intense interest shining in her eyes.

"Yes, I know. Ah. I forgot to mention. There was something about protecting you from scratches, but my memory fails me as to why or for how long."

"I mean," she said with a shrug, "that sort of fits the whole being with a vampire thing, doesn't it?"

"Hmm... Yes, I suppose you're right... That may be it."

"Is there more?"

"Indeed." He picked up where he had left off. "The fever occurs after the introduction of the first blood - when the dhampir undergoes a change. After this, it's incredibly rare to miscarry. Nigh on impossible, but death of the mother and dhampir together is still a possibility. The dhampir requires blood after the first trimester, and without this it can draw from you," he explained when she looked askance, "but I can't be sure about how much it requires. Raw red meat can be substituted."

Carlisle waited for Carys to think through what he had said. Her forehead crinkled for a few moments before it cleared and she nodded, raising a finger in the air.

"I'm week seventeen now because it was week thirteen when I was injured. I remember the thing from my birthday. Which means... If it's twenty-five weeks, then I'm..."

She squinted, and he waited again.

"I'm... I'm..." Trailing off, she slowly bent her head towards him, meeting his eye.

"The equivalent of twenty-two weeks if it was human," he said immediately.

"Right. So... Okay. Gotcha. That means... The dhampir was the reason for the lost blood, and for the fever and everything. And yeah, my recovery after I had the blood. Makes sense... Any idea why it's not killing me from the inside? Wouldn't it be strong and all that?"

"I do, as it happens," he said lightly.

"Pray tell?" she asked, agog.

Carlisle snorted lightly at her wording then schooled his features when she poked her tongue out at him.

"The manuscript could only describe the womb as 'demonic'."

"I have a demonic womb..." Her eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Are you trying to say something, Carlisle?"

"I think what it may have meant is vampire-like," he chuckled, "but malleable."

Carys looked down, her hands disappearing below the table. Her arms flexed, and when she returned them to the table, she did so with a nod.

"About as hard as you are." A pause, in which she blanched. "I mean! I mean about as hard as your skin!"

Carlisle dropped his head to the table, hiding his expression. A double-entendre hadn't so much as entered his mind before she'd clarified. He sat up to find her biting her bottom lip. Her front teeth nibbled and sank into the soft flesh, and he felt undeniable envy well up.

"Moving swiftly on..."

"Yes," she agreed, blushing. "So the vampire womb - weird to think it's... It's a bit freaky."

"I'd say more than a bit." In fact, Carys was taking the news far better than he had. He had lost around an hour to abject shock and horror.

"Is there anything else?" she asked. "Anything more you found?"

"Not really," he said as normally as he could. "I'm not sure of the rest. I'm sorry it took so long, and that I thought it wasn't possible. I had to cast the net wide."

"And you found it in your human memories," Carys recalled. "So it was a text from your mythical creature hunting days."

"Indeed. I think I had used it to dispel my father's belief that a local woman was pregnant with demonic offspring. As it turns out, she was simply having an affair whilst her husband was away."

"What happened to the woman? Was she alright? I mean," she widened her eyes and pressed her lips together, "not great on the cheating bit, but-"

"Her husband had been put away," he clarified. "He was awaiting punishment for murder."

"Did he do it?"

"According to Google, yes. And more."

"Whoa, okay, that's a bit different. But she was okay, right?"

"That, I don't remember, but I'm hopeful I kept her confidence on the matter."

"God, you're so sexy," said Carys, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the table. She gazed at him in wonder.

Her expression was the same as it had been when she had met some of his friends that week. It was a relief to see it again. He had been unsure of her thoughts that day, insecure over the meaning of her expression. He had worried she might be surprised to see him interacting as he was, that she had thought he was showing off or acting differently than normal. Seeing it again, hearing her words, made him realise he had been worried for no reason.

"For keeping a woman's confidence?" he asked, keeping the revelation from his voice.

"All the reading you've done. Your mind. I know I say it a lot, but you really are unbelievably sexy when you talk about the past. You act as if talking about things that happened hundreds of years ago in perfect detail is normal. It's just a good job you didn't start speaking old English. I might've jumped you."

Carlisle chuckled at her joke. Carys was playing with fire. His ability to resist her lure was all but non-existent now. He searched for a way to warn her.

He searched her face and swallowed hard. Her eyes had darkened - her pupils dilating; her breath turned shallow; her scent made his mouth water. She must have been thinking about something arousing to hammer home her jest. It was hardly fair. He thought of a myriad of unarousing things and scrabbled together enough will-power to resist.

"There's plenty more where that came from...," he bantered with a wink. "I read Austen when she was relatively unknown."

Carys pushed her chair all the way in. Leaning eagerly towards him, she adopted a serious expression and quipped:

"Do you want to go up to the bedroom, or should we desecrate the table as is? Right here, right now?"

Carlisle laughed outright. She almost made him believe she was as insatiable as he was. Carys slumped back in her chair with an exaggerated show of disappointment.

"Do you think I could still take a pregnancy test?" she asked hopefully, after a moment's silence, the excitement growing in her eyes again. "It didn't show up in the hospital but it might do now?"

"Judging by the timing of the tests and the conversion," he agreed, "it-"

"The baby-change," Carys offered as an alternative.

"Good name. Apt. Yes, it might come up now."

"I'm gonna go buy twenty and pee on them all!"

"We already know you're pregnant," he reminded her.

"Don't ruin my romantic comedy 'I think I might be pregnant' moment." Carys looked down at herself, pushing her chair back. It scraped against the kitchen tiles, and she laid her hands over her bump and said, as if entirely shocked, "Oh no. I haven't had my period in months and now my vampire husband says I'm expecting his child. What if I'm actually pregnant?"

Carlisle leaned back in his chair, chuckling affectionately. He had no doubt she would be committed to following her plan.

Carys went on, in much the same tone:

"I'd better get a pregnancy test. But those can give false positives and negatives. I'd better get two packs to be sure. But for the sake of the reveal, I should get more. And different brands. Wow. I'd better buy a shocking amount of expensive pregnancy tests just to be sure of what a normal amount of normal priced ones would tell me. And somehow manage to take them all at once even though I need to pee on them for a good few seconds each."

"You know a lot about pregnancy tests," Carlisle observed when he thought she must have been done. Her white teeth flashed as a small happy grin parted her full lips.

"We watch a lot of romantic films."

"It's sunny outside," Carlisle said. "You'll have to go alone."

"Left on my own with City of London prices? Better get that shiny new pin number!"

"I knew it," he accused, playfully narrowing his eyes. "You only married me for my money."

"And we don't have a prenup. Hah!" She clapped her hands together once and bounced in her seat, grinning widely now. "Financial security all the way. Wonder what I'll do with my millions."

"You do remember how much I'm worth?" he said, joking along with her.

"Yeah, but then you have more than enough money to get one of those really good solicitors if we ever divorced, and-"

"You think I'd cheat you out of your half?"

"Not really, but I don't think I'd need more than a few million? I mean..." she trailed off in thought. "Okay. Gimme five billion. I could work with that. Way more than I could ever burn through."

"Done."

Carlisle stood from his chair, reaching across the table, and Carys mirrored him, shaking hands in the middle.

"And dusted," she said, pulling back to stretch. Her back clicked twice. "Now. I'll grab my bag and be back soon?"

"I'll be here," he said with a morose shrug.

Passing him on her way to the hall, Carys feigned right and jumped left, toward him, shouldering him lightly.

"I'm weirdly enjoying actually getting to see the whole 'can't go in the sun because I'm a vampire' thing," she announced, fleeing for the hall with a belt of laughter when his response was to bare his teeth and hiss.

Carlisle followed after her. He was ready to give Carys the route to the nearest shop, but, as it turned out, he had no need to. She had paid enough attention to the last leg of their journey to remember the way back to the main road, and then to the local Sainsbury's.

When she left, he found himself at a loss. Now that they were in London, married, and Carys knew as much as he did, it didn't seem so scary. He felt... free.

Alive.

Restless.

He ambled through the halls for a minute or two, fighting a losing battle against the urge to run up to the attic and make the most of the time he had to himself.

He gave in almost too easily.

With one foot on the bottom stair, he glanced up again, turned his head toward the firmly locked front door and shuttered windows, then took a few steps back.

Making the most of his little run-up, Carlisle launched himself through the air with a grin, and caught the edge of the bannister overlooking the fourth floor. It had been a long time since he'd jumped that far inside a house. Knowing that there were people on the street - he could hear them, each and every one - added a touch of thrill to the moment. He had reminded his children over and over again that they were not to take risks, but it was so much fun when he could forget the responsibility.

"Do as I say, not as I do," he murmured to himself, jumping the extra ten feet to the small locked hatch - the entrance to the attic.

Once he had rid himself of the barrier, he moved across the dark space and removed a small section of wall, behind which a small safe was hidden. It held by far his greatest and most loved treasures. Only he knew of this place. He had housed them there long after he had left the Volturi behind.

Locked away and protected as they were, they had continued to withstand the test of time. He sifted through the seven diaries and lifted his favourite. Finding a piece of fabric, he dusted off part of the floor and sat down cross-legged, turning to a well-read page.

The words stretched and looped in a familiar, beautiful scrawl. For a moment he was content to bask in the warmth the physical action of holding the diary gave him.

He set to read as slowly as he could.

Saturday, January 21 1640

I have lain awake with fear these past nights. I amuse myself by proffering the name Carlisle for a boy-child. The news that I expect to name him for the city of my birth has not been met with excitement.

Says I, "As my husband must send as far as Carlisle for a wife, he may expect she wish to honour her home."

Says he, "I have no time for such jests."

Cook is of a mind that Carlisle is a name befitting a nobleman. I am like to agree.

Wednesday, January 25 1640

I have neglected my quill. The days grow long and my amusements have fast become mine heart's own desire. The course is set. My husband must be persuaded.

"What name is Carlisle!?" says he. "A son should have a strong, goodly name."

"Aye," says I. "No boy-child will have a name as strong and good as mine. Carlisle. The most wonderful of gifts."

I am minded that his vexation came chiefly from his mistake. Goodly, he says, and yet godly, mayhap, was his meaning.

I look now to the future and grow giddy. Tis not Carlisle a marker of the man I hope my beloved son to be? I have consulted Mistress Abagnale. She is in agreement. This one sits in the position of a boy-child, and Mistress A tells me Carlisle has the meaning "from the walled city".

This is the manner of my persuasion: might not the walled city refer to that holy garden from whence all life has sprung? I shall present the argument forthwith. Wish me luck.

"Good luck, Mama," Carlisle whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

Thursday, January 26 1640

My husband has likened me to a wily shrew - there is hope he will accept my choice within the sennight.

I grow weary. I am minded of the time before-

Carlisle lifted his head and listened as Carys returned to the end of the road, identifying her from her long-strides and familiar footfall. He closed his mother's diary. Carys walked quickly - as she always did - towards the house. She would reach the door in precisely one minute and forty seconds.

He blinked away the evidence of his emotion.

Thirty-nine.

Thirty-eight.

Thirty-seven.

He returned everything to its place and sprinted to the hatch in a fraction of a second, made quick work of securing the locks, then vaulted the bannister and jumped the four floors down to the ground, where he landed lightly.

Now what?

He had a full minute and thirty seconds to kill. He didn't want her to think he was listening out for her like a love-sick puppy. It would be worse if Carys thought he had been lurking around the dim foyer. Nor did he wish to explain what he had been doing with his time. Not yet. Carys was one of the few people who knew he had taken up writing following his mother's example, but he wasn't sure he was ready to share the diaries.

Tea, he decided and strode at full speed for the kitchen.

Carys likely thought he had the kettle on twenty-four hours a day, but it always worked to distract her. Coffee worked best, but decaffeinated tea would have to do the job until he could pick up some decaf coffee.

He filled and set the kettle. It clicked just as Carys' keys slid into the door, lifting the tumblers one by one.

Carlisle poured the steaming liquid into the two mugs, added the teabags and left them to stew, striding slowly across the kitchen and out into the hall. He met Carys in the foyer beside the closed front door just as she kicked off her shoes.

"Hello, love."

"Lovely," she greeted in turn.

He accepted her offering when she presented her lips to him with a smile. His hard lips sank against the pillowy softness, and he all but preened, exalting at the touch. His restlessness left him in an instant. He reluctantly withdrew.

"How did it go?" he asked.

Carys took a long, deep breath, adopting a thoughtful expression.

"It's effing bolling out there, but good," she said, holding the bag open for them both to look at.

Carlisle counted twenty-five tests in long, thin boxes of various colours as Carys frowned down at the assortment. Quite the haul, he reckoned. He wondered if she had left any on the shelves.

"Got some weird looks from the cashier for buying so many. It's occurred to me that I might have to do it in more rounds than I thought..."

"Then you'll be pleased to know I've popped some tea on."

"Oh my god," Carys breathed, resting against his chest, her head tipped back to fix him with a loving stare. "I love you so much. Nothing like a good cuppa to cool me down."

"You have some short-sleeved-"

Carys held her hand to his chest, shuddering delicately.

"No. Thanks, lovely, but no. Not there yet."

"Do you think you'll...?" he trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. He didn't want to push her. When they were alone together in their bedroom, she was now comfortable enough to leave her arm uncovered. Some small part of him had hoped she was ready to extend that to the wider house if they were alone.

"Tomorrow maybe? I-I mean, I was prepared for the island, just not for London... Does-does that make sense?" she worried, her bottom lip returning to her teeth.

"Yes."

A/N: thank you to: BMBMDooDoo-Doo-Doo-Doo, animexchick, pigs103, Momochan77, KEZZ 1, derniermom, , Guest (I'm glad it helped! We'll learn more over the next few chapters!), seconddragon, LeeForShort, CarlaPA, NeonKat (thank you! I'm glad you liked it, and thank you so so much!), LarissaValenti2613, 0oKitteno0, finediviner (I don't think so. I thought about how that would work, and think that there might be a discussion so that a new pack can be formed, but it wouldn't get anywhere near as far as that. I've often wondered how the characters went from "we're here to protect humans, we'd never kill one" to "let's go kill that human, so we can destroy her unborn child purely because we don't know what it could do". In the books, they talked to the council in the end and decided to wait and see if it was a danger, and I think that's much more in line with the wolves as both teenagers and protectors. If they did try to do it, Carys would probably ask which one was going to kill her and name each of them, and Carlisle would remind them that not only would the vampires protect her to the death, but in killing Carys, the wolves would destroy themselves mentally (as they'd all share their mind) and would go down in history for killing a human), im-okay-mj, BubblyYork, Shelley J88, and DiLayla for your reviews!