A/N: I probably should have specified this at the beginning of the story lol, but this is an au. Jessica Stanley is probably out of character as heck, and because I suck at writing, Paul probably will be as well. Anywho, imprinting works a lil differently in this universe, it's something I definitely plan on explaining in the future. But it's like a slow working kinda thing, a bond all the same but just a tad different. Idk im not very eloquent. Also thanks for the reviews! 3

three

Paul Lahote was going to ring Embry Call's skinny little neck, he hadn't been to the library in years, hell, he couldn't remember the last book he'd read just to read. But because he was endlessly generous and a truly giving friend he'd traipsed on over to the library for the busier boy –

No, that wasn't quite right. He'd lost a bet, a stupid bet. Paul should have won, would have won. But he'd been distracted by those blooming freckles. In fact, they hadn't left his mind once in the past four days and he absolutely refused to think about why; he wouldn't give this strange little fantasy the time of day. And that's what it was, all it was, all she was; a fantasy. If only she would stay in his head and out of his chest – not his heart, it wasn't like that.

The library was a small little building, it hadn't changed once in 70 years – or so he'd been told – and he could appreciate that. The intense sameness of it all. What must it feel like to be stood stock still as everything around you changed? A dark brittle part of him retaliated, you don't need to wonder, because you know exactly what it feels like –

He clutches the wooden mahogany shelves like he might fall otherwise, which is just – he's isn't, he's standing upright, his feet are on the floor, and it's solid, it's concrete. He's not going anywhere. But his heart drops to the pit of his wasteland stomach and it's overwhelming all the same –

"Oh hey!" He smells her before he hears her – that's the wolf, then – mixed in with the old books and the lemon glass cleaner is that purple lavender smell that sends him reeling, "You work at the bowling alley, right?"

He spares a glance to his left, eyes glued firmly to the top of her forehead because there aren't so many freckles there that he has to compulsively count or memorize the sprouting flowers and enthralling constellations that move across her skin, on her forehead their just freckles not –

"Mhm," He hears himself grunt and his voice sounds distant and far away, even to him. So, he tries again, because Paul Lahote is not fucking soft, "yeah, on the weekends,"

"I didn't know you liked to read," She points to the stack of books gathered in his right hand. You don't know a lot of things about me, he wants to say. He doesn't.

"I don't," He bites out, and his grip on the antique bookshelf tightens, if he looked down, he'd see that the tips of his fingers were being enveloped by the telltale pressure of too much. The wood cracks, he can feel it. He doesn't have to look to know, because the ends of his fingers go numb, and that's telling enough.

"Oh, I just assumed, since we're at a library and you've got three – four books," Gillian whispers, her voice is so fucking soft, he wants to know why, because surely – surely, she's not just like this.

Paul nods slowly releasing his grip on the shelf, surprisingly the floor doesn't give way beneath him, but he turns to look at her – really look – and it might as well have. Because he's floored, not just by those blooming freckles, but those piercing eyes. They're brown. Rachel had brown eyes. He coughs, "for a friend,"

Her brows furrow and her eyes narrow before she finally settles on, "your friend has excellent taste,"

Paul laughs at that, it's not, it's not because he thinks she's funny, it's because he's feeling utterly delirious. He can't stop thinking about this stranger the same way he couldn't stop thinking about Rachel, and he doesn't want to know what that means, he's not even a little bit curious, "right,"

"So," she starts again, and he wants to tell her to leave him alone, he wants to glare at her until she gets the fuck out of his way, he wants to punch Embry Call in the face, he wants –

"What do you do?"

He doesn't think he's hearing her right, his heart is beating incredibly fucking loud, "What?"

"I mean, like, when you aren't working at the alley? What do you do?" She tries again and those wide dark eyes meet his. What are you doing? Paul wants to ask, because only dumb asses make small talk with him, and well, she didn't look like a dumbass. Why are you talking to me? Don't you know how this ends? I am the wolf, and I am not friendly, I will not be gentle –

"Nothing," he grunt's and he's aware; spine tingling aware of all of his shortcomings. He's not particularly eloquent, it's a bone deep recognition, the kind that settles in the marrow. Paul didn't go to college, but he's not fucking stupid, he knows her parents would blanche at the sight of him, he knows this the same way he knows where conversations like this always go. They go absolutely nowhere, and there's no point trying to pretend otherwise. "nothing important anyways,"

"Oh? Pardon my saying so," Who the fuck even talked like that? Paul wondered, "but, I don't really believe that."

She cocks her head to the side and her brows lift ever so slightly, challengingly, and it pisses him off, because he's so sick of everyone telling him who he is and who he isn't. She didn't fucking now a thing about him, how many smiles and spirits was he going to have to break before they figured it out?

He rears on her then, stalking towards her slowly, large shoulders hunched up, big ugly face screwed into a scowl – that's the wolf, but it's also the man too. She trips backwards into the wall and he places each hand on either side of her head. But she could leave if she wanted – he wouldn't, he wouldn't trap her.

"And why is that?" He growls. He doesn't even try to keep the animal out of it, wide devastating doe eyes stare up at him, he can't help the thought that filters into his mind, she looks like prey, god, that stirred something strange in him, "you don't even know who I am."

She swallowed hard, his eyes flick to her exposed neck and then up to her swollen trembling lips, he looked away then because he wanted to kiss her, it was an overwhelming feeling that crashed over him in waves so violent he felt seasick. Paul Lahote was an awful fucking person, but he'd never force himself on someone who clearly didn't want him.

He channels his mixed-up feelings into an achingly familiar blistering vengeful heat. Good, he knows angry, he can work with angry, "I know what I am." He spat, "and I know who I'll be tomorrow, I don't need some kid trying to make me seem like a fucking martyr."

She holds his gaze with an intensity that scared him, "I-I'm twenty-three."

"What?"

"You called me a kid, I'm not." Her voice is shaky at first, she hesitates for a moment, and steels herself with a resolve he might have admired if the circumstances were different. "I'm twenty-three."

He laughs in her face, it's an ugly cruel bark of a laugh. It's not charming, it's not becoming. It's a laugh that reminded him of splintered rotting wood, "Whatever."

"You're not very nice, are you?" She bites out and it's thrilling, watching the heat in her eyes, the accusation in her words. He's not so lost in her though that he can't recognize how wrong it is to want to be burned.

"I don't have a fucking obligation to be nice to anyone in this shit town, I won't preen and smile and jump through god damn hoops just because your daddy has money," He doesn't know why he says that last bit, she didn't even seem like that kind of girl; the one that would flaunt her families wealth. But he's a dumbass and words just come out of him sometimes, they boil over, scalding hot and agonizing. But that's the thing, he didn't – he didn't want to hurt her. Not the way he thought he did. He wants to take it back, this whole fucking exchange, but hadn't he felt this way before?

With Rachel.

Hadn't he been sorry? Hadn't he begged her to stay? Hadn't she left anyways?

Hadn't it ended in ruin –

It had, and some people, well, some people just can't be ruined twice.

"I-What are you talking about?" Gillian says coldly, her wide-open face shutting down, smoothed into an icy mask and it's a crying shame because she was so beautiful moments ago, when her lips had been parted, and he hadn't said a fucking word. Despite her resolve he could still hear the slight waver in her voice, "Oh, of course. I understand better now, you're a hypocrite."

"I'm not –"

"Now," She held his gaze, and something in it makes him freeze whatever half-hearted protest he had dies on his tongue, "if you'll please excuse me."

But he doesn't move, he just continues staring at her, scrutinizing those delicate features, memorizing them because this is the last time he'll see her, he knows this like he knows everything else and it – it makes him somber.

Gillian swallows hard, heat rises to her face, not because she's embarrassed, I mean, yeah, she's really embarrassed, but it's because she'd never felt so looked at before. He was cracking her open then, like she was a book and reading all the parts of her – it was mesmerizing, it was, it was terrifying –

"I said excuse me!" She bellows and sends a deft elbow directly into his ribs, she wants it to hurt, but he barely even winces and that makes it so much worse. She ducked past him with a fiery hatred in her heart and her head held high.

Paul is left staring at the empty space she'd once occupied, he can't watch her walk away, it's too familiar – and so the girl always leaves then, she never gets to stay.

He thinks of Rachel. Because hadn't it happened just like this?

No, because he had done everything right last time. He'd tried to be good and gentle and –

– she had still left.

People left, even when you didn't want them to, even when you were so sure that you had that eclipsing kind of love, the forever kind; the one that was carved into hundred year old trees that had endured, and endured, and just – continued to endure. A love that sat in the sky and dripped, soaked into the mud and the earth and found its way into the roots of all the old things –

They still leave. Even when you think you've finally, finally been rooted.

Good, he thinks, even though he feels split all the way open, it's good. A reminder. If he gets hurt now, it'll be his own fucking fault.

Jessica isn't surprised exactly when her younger sister shows up to Angela's dress fitting late, and she's not surprised when she plops heavily into the cushioned seat next to her with a billion different creases in between her brows. Jess very well figured it was to be expected, what with the awful circumstances in which Gillian left Forks all those years ago.

But she definitely wasn't expecting her small, meek, usually doe-eyed little sister to conjure up a blistering anger that distorted her usually relaxed features into something new and unsettling, it was like looking at a stranger. When Gillian finally spoke, it was with a heat and acidity that took Jessica's breath away, "What can you tell me about Paul Lahote?"

"Well, hello to you to Gillian." Jessica deadpanned and went back to scrolling through her phone; if only because she didn't want to have to look into her sister's icy eyes any longer.

"Answer the question." Gillian demanded, and this alone caused Jessica to abandon her idle fidgeting. She shot her sister a disdainful scowl. Jessica Stanley was not one to be demanded or coerced into telling anyone anything. She was like her father in that way.

"Oh, I'm fine, yeah, thanks for asking." Jessica sassed, and all Gill could do was roll her eyes in sheer annoyance.

"Jess!" She breathed exasperatedly and gathered her older sisters' fingers into her hands, she shot her an imploring look. Jessica felt truly unnerved at the desperation in her sister's voice. She had teased Gillian mercilessly about the older man earlier in the week, but she had been kidding then.

"Fine," Jessica sighed, she still didn't particularly want to tell her sister, but she wasn't so cruel that she'd reduce the younger girl to begging, "But, I don't really know much about him."

Gillian shook her head, and offered a tentative smile, "You know more than me, I am sure."

To Jessica's relief, and Gillian's annoyance Angela popped out of the fitting room decked all in white. A bride if there ever was one. She wore a small thin smile, but years of friendship brought a certain kind of understanding with it, and Jessica could tell the girl was elated.

"Alright guys, what do you think?" She smoothed her hands down the sides of her gown self-consciously, the attendant dazed off in the distance.

"Oh my god," Jessica cried, "Angela, your boobs!"

"Jess!" Angela shrieked scandalized, and good naturedly covered her bosom. She peeked through her peripherals to gauge the attendant's reaction, but the older woman was still smiling distractedly in the distance.

"What?" Jessica teased. "you look hot, and you know Cheney is going to lose it," Jess insinuated wiggling her eyebrows.

"Brother's going to have like an instant nosebleed," Jessica joked and pantomimed a formidable bloody nose. For her part Angela smiled diligently at her best friend's crude humor.

"You're a menace," Angela breathed softly, "what do you think Gill?"

Gillian looked up at her sister's beautiful best friend, Angela deserved her complete attention, it was bad enough that she had been late. She could plot a certain Paul Lahote's demise later. This moment would only ever happen once.

"It's going to be a blood bath." Gillian said solemnly and Angela dramatically rolled her eyes. Jessica cackled manically and shot her sister an appreciative glance.

"This is why we can't have nice things," The bride to be chuckled – a delicate tinkling sort of laugh that resonated throughout the small viewing room. She pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose and while not a particularly graceful task, the young woman looked enchanting.

"You look lovely," Gillian amended, "Like a beautiful fairy princess."

Angela smiled at that.

"Thank you, that's what everyone wants to hear about their wedding gown. I am going to change before I inexplicably decide I hate it," She vanished back into the dressing room with the distracted attendant hot on her heels.

"He was going to get married," Jessica said softly, Gillian turned to her confused, "Paul, I mean. Everyone said so."

"To who?" Gillian swallowed the lump in her throat, obviously Paul wasn't married now, but for some reason the very thought of him even being engaged made her nauseous. She didn't even want to think about what that meant.

"Her name was Rachel Black," Gillian felt something cold and black stir deep in her belly, something she'd never felt before. Jess continued, "she came back to Forks for her mother's funeral, and even though she was all sad she was also like, I don't know, beautiful and exotic."

Gillian did not want to hear that, not when she was boring and plain. Not when the entire town of Forks thought she was strange and unusual. Not when Jessica shared the same parents as her but got all the good DNA.

"No one cared about her of course," Jessica rolled her eyes ruefully, "until she was supposed to leave, mainly because she just, didn't."

Gillian nodded along dutifully. Although she really didn't want to hear anymore she couldn't help herself, she opened her big fat mouth, and – "because of Paul?"

"Yeah, I'm guessing. Then people started seeing them around town and everyone said that they were good for each other, happy as newlyweds and all that."

Oh.

"But she left. I don't think anyone ever found out why, there was a lot of speculations though."

"Right," Gillian said softly.

"It's just gossip, Gill. They couldn't have been all that happy if she left him. Look, don't even worry about it." Jessica pushed a strand of hair behind Gillian's ear and smoothed a gentle hand down the top of her head. Normally this would have annoyed the younger girl, she wasn't somebodies' pet, but she found unexpected solace in the comforting touch of her older sister. It had been so long since someone had reached for her just because they wanted to.

Jessica was right, Rachel had left him, how happy could they have been? Maybe that's why she found solace in that wrecked, ruined look on his face. Maybe that's why she felt like she knew him –

She didn't of course. Paul had made that very clear. And in turn he didn't know anything about her either. His words come back to her and she wants to punch him in the jaw –

Had he boxed Rachel in the same way he'd lingered over her at the library? Had he snarled at her the way he snarled at Gillian? Had he ever smiled? Had Rachel made him smile –

She blanched.

"I'm not," Gillian shook her head, a bold faced lie if there ever was one, all the while determined not to think about Paul Lahote and his vanishing exotic girlfriend. She painted on a strangely calm smile. "besides, I'm leaving soon anyways, and I will never see him again."

It was true, in two weeks she'd be on the first plane out of here and she would never have to come back again. She would never see those sad wasteland eyes or those twisted scowling lips or that hard set jaw line or those perpetual hunched shoulders again.

In two weeks, she would be free of whatever weird mind spell he had put on her.

Jessica opened her mouth to say something, but Gillian shook her head, "If you plan on getting married you can very well come to me." At that Jess chuckled softly but Gillian couldn't fight the feeling that the older girl was still bothered.

"Alright, please tell me I'm beautiful, I desperately need validation." Angela called from the dressing room, she was clad in a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Not the elegant beauty of a sophisticated bride, but she was stunning all the same. Jessica was quick to shower the girl with a slew of inappropriate comments, and Gillian nodded along quietly. But in her head, well, she was internally kicking herself for already breaking the silent promise she'd made earlier –

Because those dark, hooded, beastly eyes never left her mind. Not even once.