Hi all, and thanks for reading this! I forgot to put one up in the prologue, so here it is: I don't own anything you recognize from the Twilight series, only my characters! Thanks lots, and please review! No flames please!

"Carlisle, there's nothing to be ashamed of," Esme pleaded.

"You don't understand, Esme. I almost took her away! I was going to kill her!" Carlisle shouted at his wife, as if she were almost devoid of her hearing and yelling would get the message across.

Esme was undeterred by her husband's angry tone. "Every vampire has to overcome a situation like this. Edward did."

"Damn it Esme! Stop talking about Edward as if he is someone I can aspire to be! I can't control myself anymore, and it's all because of her!"

"It's not her fault, and you shouldn't speak of your son that way."

"Why was she there? Of all the insignificant, trivial occasions in my life, she just appears out of nowhere, splattered in her own blood and almost dead. You don't understand, Esme," he repeated softly, "I wasn't Carlisle Cullen that moment when I took in that first breath of her scent. I had turned into what I NEVER, EVER WANTED TO BECOME!"

Carlisle dropped his head into his hands and wept tearlessly. Esme stood rooted next to him, shocked and sympathetic. He had never screamed at her before; it only made Esme think about how he could be sound in his conclusions, that he had truly lost control. Carlisle had always been the man of composure, never becoming panicked or frantic in any given situation. Esme wasn't prepared to handle a breakdown of this magnitude, especially when it concerned Carlisle; he'd never given her reason to be aware that he was capable of being this angry and frustrated.

It was a few minutes before she thought to speak and comfort the defeated man sitting next to her, shoulders heaving with dry tears.

"Carlisle," she whispered. She lightly touched his cheek with one hand and gently lifted his face up to her level with the other. Had Carlisle been a human his eyes would have been as puffy as if he'd had an allergic reaction to something.

"I can't exactly tell you that I know how you feel, but what I can say is that…" she paused, unsure how to continue.

Carlisle's onyx eyes flickered with understanding. "You probably are not the person I should be discussing this with."

"I'm sorry."

Esme lightly stood up and began to ascend the stairs, thinking Carlisle would like time alone to think and calm down. She also believed, deep down, that she was only making it worse for him, because she truly didn't know how to handle this. Esme had never come across la tua cantante and she had always wished upon her lucky stars that she never would. Esme was convinced that had she herself been given a choice in that position of whether to walk away, or give in to the tasty lure of her singer's blood, she would not have refused what was right in front of her.

"Esme."

She turned around to find Carlisle not a foot away from her. Before she could back away, he pulled her lips to his in a deep and passionate kiss that only soul mates could share. Esme had soon stopped trying to resist, but Carlisle knew that he would have to before he could let temptation of another kind completely take over. The softness and warmth of her lips was almost enough to make him forget why he had approached her.

"Esme," Carlisle moaned as he unwillingly pulled away.

She instead buried her head into the crook of his neck and trapped him in a tight embrace. "I'm so sorry, Carlisle. I'm so sorry," she repeated over and over.

"Stop. I should be apologizing. It was wrong for me to shout at you when all you were trying to do was help," he said.

"I know I only made it worse."

"No, you gave me a very smart suggestion. I'll speak with Edward in a while; you were very right to tell me that I should talk to him about this."

She sighed wearily. "I didn't want you to think that I was being insensitive. I truly wish I could help you in some way…"

"Good, because it appears I might need a counselor over the next few days," Carlisle chuckled as he cradled her face in his hands. Then he thought of the accident, and how the venom had simultaneously coated his teeth in that one breath. How the fire had erupted in his throat, and how powerless he felt when he couldn't soothe it. Thinking of her made him shudder and tug Esme into an even tighter embrace, one that was filled with fear.

"Carlisle, what is it? What's wrong?" Esme asked worriedly.

"I'm just…so…so scared, Esme. I'm so scared."

The next day had come after a fitful night of unrest. The accident kept replaying in his mind over and over again, piquing on the point of how fiery his throat had become when he smelled her. It had been a simple smell of lilac, with no mixing of any other scent. To any other person, he assumed that the flowery perfume was undetectable; to him, it was magnified a thousand times more.

Carlisle cursed his constant need to help others in his head as the night had worn on. If his doctoral instincts hadn't kicked in, then he wouldn't have gone outside and met the detonator to his destruction. Why couldn't he just play the part of ignorant civilian for those fifteen minutes? Those had been the longest fifteen minutes of his entire life; he compared it to how long eternity seemed, and multiplied the possibility by a hundred.

His mind had processed what had occurred before his body did: brown Ford sedan, drunk driver, unfortunate victim. The result of the combination of the three elements was a broken, battered young woman lying in her own blood. The fire hit him the moment he stepped outside; in that instant, the hunter was in control of mind, body, and spirit, with almost no sign of lenience or mercy to its host. Holding his breath cooled the fire for a few moments, but it wasn't enough. As much as he wanted to run away and forget the dying girl and her existence, Carlisle fought with all the might and power within him and pushed his hesitant self towards her. She made no movement as he approached.

"Someone call 911!"

"Oh my God, get help!"

"Call the cops!"

Another woman kneeling down next to the wounded seemed sensible enough not to make a scene and calmly asked, "Is there a doctor here? Is anyone a doctor?"

"I am," Carlisle answered, stepping forward.

She stepped aside to let him pass. Carlisle felt along her arms, legs, and torso, and could feel about eight fractures, without the X-Ray. He carefully opened her eyelids and locked onto the frightened gaze that had frozen in her unconsciousness. Bright blue eyes, as blue as a cloudless sky, stared behind Carlisle. Her brown hair was matted with blood from the gash cut across her forehead from hitting the pavement. Carlisle's heart ached for the woman who was so gravely injured, who would surely lose much should she live, and lose all if she died. The thought of an alternative to her death flashed across Carlisle's mind.

"The ambulance will be here in a few minutes!" a man called.

Carlisle hadn't noticed he was stroking her cheek until her eyes fluttered open, widening at him.

"Who…who are…you?" she asked hoarsely.

"I'm Dr. Carlisle Cullen. I'm going to help you," he answered. He flinched when she grimaced from trying to smile at him.

"If you can, tell me your name, so I can notify your family of this," Carlisle said.

"Ophelia," she whispered.

"Ophelia what?"

The girl's head went limp as she sank into a coma, Carlisle's inquiry hanging in the air.

Ophelia; an unusual name for a girl. Carlisle knew it was a reference to Hamlet, but was still curious at what could have possessed her parents to name her Ophelia of all names. It rolled off the tongue in a pleasant way, feeling the same as when one tastes something sweet and delicious. But still, Carlisle was puzzled; in the centuries he had lived, he'd never come across anyone named Ophelia.

The siren wailed in the distance, which in turn accompanied sighs of relief. Within five minutes Ophelia had been strapped in and wheeled to the hospital, while the spectators dispersed themselves, not knowing what purpose they had in standing in the middle of the street. Carlisle walked among them and went to his car directly, forgetting the roses for Esme. He sat in the toasty cab for some time, trying to figure out what he should do: go to the hospital and care for the girl, as he'd told her he would, or run home and find excuses to avoid her from now on? As much as Carlisle wanted to stay with her all through the next few painful days, he simply couldn't trust himself to be around her without some sort of devastating reaction.

"Dr. Cullen, patient in 302," the on-duty nurse called to him from behind her desk.

Carlisle nodded and rummaged to find the files for the patient, not bothering to look at the name in the corner of the manila folder. His fellow doctors greeted him as he passed through the hallways, and some nurses, who after almost three years still hadn't taken the hint that he was married, winked at him and made suggestive motions towards him. Carlisle had always been quick to evade any dark-looking corners or sections of the hospital. He was a vampire, and he was scared of silly women that were too pathetic to move on and find new men in their lives, or go back to their husbands in the first place.

Room 302 was in the Intensive Care unit of Forks Memorial Hospital; only those with the most life-threatening of injuries were admitted. Carlisle had never personally visited room 302, and took a deep, unnecessary breath before opening the door. His eyes widened as he looked upon Ophelia sleeping peacefully on the bed.

Carlisle's breath quickened, his mind reeling over what kind of injuries this girl must have possessed in order to be brought in to the I.C. He double-checked the printed name of the folder in his hands, and then cursed himself for not looking at it sooner. Ophelia Westcott. Carlisle knew the Westcotts; a very eccentric family who named all their children after Shakespeare characters. They had a son named Macbeth, and two other daughters named Bianca and Beatrice. Ophelia's name alone should have given him some sort of inclination to think of the Westcotts.

"Dr. Cullen?"

Carlisle's head shot up, his eyes meeting with Ophelia's pale blue ones. A small smile was on her lips.

"I knew I recognized you," she said.

Carlisle nodded. "How are you feeling?"

"Other than like I was just run over by a car?" she asked, chuckling softly. "Pretty good, all things considered. I know I'm lucky to be alive."

"You are, Miss Westcott. Not many people can escape as many fractures and a large loss of blood with their lives. You must have an angel watching over you," he said as he checked her IV levels and the heart monitor chart at the end of her bed.

She answered with a deep sigh sounding of content and relief. Carlisle's heart swelled to hear her voice undisturbed by roughness or pain. Her voice was a deep alto, with inflections of high spirit and personality. She must have inherited the trait from her father, since her mother and sisters all had considerably sprite soprano voices.

"Your heart rate ascended a bit a few hours ago," Carlisle observed.

"I know, I was just confused," Ophelia said.

Carlisle turned to her, confused himself. "About what?"

"Well, how would you feel if you were in the middle of the street one minute, closed your eyes, and then when you opened them, were in an all white room that slightly resembles the psycho ward?"

He nodded, agreeing that the I.C. gave one the slight feeling of insanity. "It must have all been very disorienting," he said.

"Yep."

No one said anything more for a few minutes as Carlisle went through the routine of checking over all the monitors and her blood levels. As he performed the evaluations, Ophelia watched him carefully, unsure of what to think of him. He was undoubtedly handsome, and kind, and compassionate. He gave her the feeling of ultimate security, like he would do anything to keep hurt and pain away from her. But, she hardly knew what Dr. Cullen was like as a person, not just a doctor. She only had what her parents thought of him to go off of, but she wanted to see for herself. Ophelia had to admit to herself that her parents, so far, were not wrong in their censures of Dr. Cullen.

Carlisle finished and looked up at her, catching her staring at him intensely. Ophelia blushed and looked down at her bandaged hands. "Sorry Dr. Cullen," she said sheepishly.

"You looked as if you were trying very hard to figure something out," Carlisle said.

"I was just trying to see if my parents were right in their praises of you," she admitted. "Can't say they're wrong so far."

"I'm glad I didn't disappoint. So far," he added.

Ophelia smiled, and suddenly started to feel very sleepy. As her eyes began to drift to a close, her mind was in a whirl, panicking at the inability to move her arms, and soon her fingers. "What did you give me Dr. Cullen?" she slurred.

"Something to ease the pain. I'll be back in a few hours," Carlisle said, a bottle of sleep-inducing drugs in his hand.

Ophelia's last sign of movement was a nod of her head. Carlisle had wanted to keep her awake longer and talk to her, get to know more of her, help her. But, his doctoral instincts always came first, and they had told him that she was of more importance than what he personally desired.

As he walked back to his office, he suddenly thought that her lilac scent had lessened considerably. Not enough for him to completely ignore her and the fire in his throat, but enough for him to hold more control over himself. Carlisle had known, the first moment that he'd smelt her, that she was his la tua cantante. He'd hoped desperately that he was wrong. Now, he knew that he couldn't have been any more right.