"I'm Seth, by the way," he said suddenly, turning around to face her retreating form. Without even looking back, she replied, "If I wanted to know, I would have asked you. What does that say to you, Seth?"

His top teeth clashed violently with his bottom teeth in a painful display of his inner wolf's strength. An invisible hand seized his throbbing mind and squeezed, nearly leaving him breathless. His hands were clenched, nails digging into the hard flesh without an ounce of restraint. He was more than aware of her fragile body, just human without any kind of supernatural assets ground deep into her genetic code. He knew that there was a difference between threatening, or by God, hurting a man or a woman. Perhaps it was a long, deep driven-in and inky and black kind of chivalry that propelled his fists to his sides, preventing him from retaliating with force.

But he could do it. Within a second, or hell, even less than that. And she would never know, not with her normal perception and lack of instinct (seeing as she was close with that little parasite). Her spine would be easy to snap, barely even a twist of his fingers, clamping onto the membrane and shattering it. He could do it. He could do it.

The feeling in her legs would recede, and the pain would set in. She wouldn't know what happened, wouldn't really care, in all honesty, because she would be in such agony. (But, he wondered, would she still feel it if her movement in her legs gone?) He could do it.

His heart began to beat even faster than its original pound, crippling his lungs with feverish intensity. His tongue probed his lower lip, wetting it with his saliva. He blinked quickly, balm setting itself serenely over his eyes. Seth brought his and up, watching the veins caress his skin, feeling the adrenaline, tasting the air without even opening his mouth. His shoulders, taut with the want to pounce, slowly began to ebb, along with the rest of his more primal desires. He regained control of his mind and his senses, rocking on the back of his heels.

"It says that you're a bitch," he responded, a smart smile quirking his dark lips. A metronome kind of thrum pumped up against his chest. "I never would've thought that you'd be one, though," he admitted, "but then again..." His brows raised partially. "You did get dumped by that Cullen cunt. 'What does that say to you?'"

She turned and smiled painfully in Seth's opinion. He noticed rather bleakly that one side of her lips raised more than the other side, but immediately shoved that thought away. She tilted her head to one side, her hips moving with the movement, and placed her hands upon them. "It says that you're right. I understand, Seth."

He frowned. "That's not the response I was hoping for."

She suddenly laughed, a soft, quiet kind of laugh. "So I'm finally beginning to get it. You're the bully, right? Not satisfied with what you have so you have to taunt others to get some kind of backwards satisfaction out of it?" She pursed her lips. "Funny – up until very recently, I've felt the same. Seth, I – I... don't be alarmed, but I think this is some kind of divine intervention." She raised her hands to the sky. "By God, let's celebrate!"

Her hands dropped to her sides and she smirked – a full-on, blistering little smirk. Just the sight of it did enough to aggravate Seth, and he stepped forward. "Oh, you're funny," he snapped, "so funny to make fun of God, eh? You're going to Hell, little girl."

She fluttered her eyelashes. "Only if you'll escort me."

He chuckled, finding himself strange for doing so. She had made him laugh. Not very many could do that with his kind of taste in humor. He walked forward more, his confidence bolstering his mindset. He found himself just a foot away from her, regarding her in a calculative, somewhat approving look. He grinned. "Funny." he repeated.

Her head cocked to the side again. "That's obvious, isn't it? But that doesn't matter now. Let me ask a question or two." Without even waiting for his approval (in which he was annoyed), she demanded, "I'm curious; why did you just look like you were about to kill me (Right on the money, honey, Seth thought) and now you're all nice. Is someone a tad bipolar?"

He rolled his eyes. "Something like that." He blinked. "Let's just say that I can't control my emotions that well. Most of us on the reservation can't..."

"I see," she mused, a speculative look upon her features (quite plain, in fact). "Doesn't matter, just as long as you know that only the strong-willed can contain those emotions."

"Oh, really? What makes you say that?" he wondered. Another step closer.

"I'm saying that those who aren't that smart can't usually help themselves," she told him, very aware of the proximity of their bodies. Some kind of feral craving swept up her strangely, but she ignored it.

"I see..." he murmured, leaning down, unable to help himself. Her taste was on his tongue, fiery, needy, like animal magnetism.

"What are you doing?" she growled, pushing away from him, the traces of his eyes on her skin. He instantly realized his mistake and shook his head, cursing himself for his lapse in all fucking common sense. His fingers, listless and crawling, played with the loose strings on his jacket in something akin to eight-year-old anxiety. He sneered.

"Nothing."

His lips are chapped, Bella thought.

She had been staring at them for too long. It wasn't like she didn't know her own body functions. She knew she was staring at him, yet a human weakness would not let her look away. She banished her abominable behavior and looked away, back to the truck. He followed her gaze and smiled brutishly, practically feeling the hum of her uneasiness. He could smell it in the air, taste it with his tongue, pick it out in a mass of people. There was something different about her, and that would never go away. Her face, her personality, her scent, her essence could not fade from his mind no matter what he tried to distract himself with.

What a quandary.

"I'll see you later, Kid," he said, voice evilly soft, like a demonic lull. Her eyes snapped to his, and in that one look, chills erupted up and down her spine, and she felt the scars of their presence tacking at her cord. He wet his lips again.

"Bye," she whispered, hurrying off, leaving him staring after her, a smile creeping up onto his lips.

"What fun." he muttered, just now acknowledging that he had smelled her.

So I referenced my absolute favorite book, The Shining. Bite me. Was shamelessly inspired by Imogen Heap, the best goddamn artist on this fucked-up planet. -Maggie agrees, bitches-