A/N: Just a reminder that lucky reviewer number 200 will get an extra special treat. Plus, I'm going to take the suggestion of reviewer BellaEdwardlover1991: Everyone who reviews this chapter will get a sneak preview of Chapter 17.

They're always awesome, but my betas Evelyn and MunkeeRajah were particularly helpful with this chapter. They never let me settle for anything less than my best!

Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight. I'm just messing around in her toybox for a while.

Chapter 16 – Truth

Leah POV

Men are lying sacks of shit. Even the good ones. Definitely the half-vampire ones.

And especially the mind-blowingly beautiful half-vampire ones that barge into your life, bowl you over with lust, make you feel hopeful and whole, swear they'll never leave … and then leave.

Three days. Three miserable, unending days. That's how long it had been since Nahuel had held me in the clearing, kissed me breathless, and promised he'd stay with me. It had taken him less than an hour to break that promise.

I didn't need the intuition of the imprinting bond to figure out why he wasn't with me right now. Part of me had always known that the day he found someone else to cling to, someone else to ground him, I would no longer be necessary. He'd never really wanted or needed me; he'd needed something to help heal the wound that his aunt's murder had ripped in his soul. I'd been a convenient bandage.

For all his passionate kisses, tender touches and affectionate words, I'd only ever been a temporary solution to his problem, and we both knew it. As soon as he realized his sister could become his new family, his replacement for Huilen, he'd shifted his allegiance to her.

I couldn't blame him. I'd always known I was a broken, fucked-up bitch. The fact that I was still buried under the continent-crushing weight of the imprinting was my problem, not his. The fundamental imperative of imprinting compelled me to give Nahuel whatever he needed. Right now, he needed me to stay the hell away from him, so he could have a chance at a family again.

So I went home alone, turned off my cellphone, and marinated in my depression and self-pity for three hellish, airless, dark days and nights. I waited for him to come to me, determined that when he did, I'd tell him everything.

One … two … three. The days crawled by and he never came.

I barely ate or drank and slept only fitfully, even though I was physically and emotionally exhausted. My ribs healed by the second day, but the pain lingered, burrowing deeper into my chest cavity. Eventually, its icy claws would close around my heart, and the rime would freeze each and every cell. Only then, when that wretched muscle was dead at last, would the pain finally stop. I sank beneath the sheer misery of missing him.

In the early morning hours of the fourth day, I dreamed of my dad, my subconscious replaying a childhood memory of a time when he had taken Seth and me for ice cream.

Seth, the greedy little weasel, had insisted on having a towering two-scoop cone. I played it safe and had my ice cream in a cup. With his very first lick, Seth dislodged both scoops, and the entire mass toppled to the ground. For five seconds, he just stood there, holding the empty cone and staring at his ice cream melting on the grass. Then his whole face screwed up like someone was pinching him, and he started to bawl at the top of his lungs.

"Help him out, Leah," Dad had said. I had known he wanted me to share my ice cream with my brother, but I was a little kid, too. No way was I going to give up some of my treat just because Seth was getting a payback for being greedy. So I took my spoon, carefully pried up the topmost scoop of Seth's ice cream—the part that hadn't touched the ground—and plopped it back onto his cone. The little bugger had stopped crying immediately and happily went back to licking his cone.

Dad had laughed and hugged me. "Good job, sweetheart," he'd said. The last moments of the dream were so vivid, so powerful, they woke me, and I could swear I felt the lingering pressure of my father's strong arms around me.

My adult brain knew Dad had been trying to turn that experience into a teaching moment. But instead of the lesson he'd intended, about compassion and sharing, my child self had drawn a different conclusion: Crying over a problem was a waste of time. Better to dig in with your spoon (or whatever tool you happened to have) and do something about it.

I'd been acting like a self-indulgent loser, and if my dad were here, he would kick my butt, hand me a spoon and tell me to get scooping. I had no idea how to fix all the things that were wrong between Nahuel and me, or if I even could. But wallowing as I'd been doing sure wasn't going to get me anywhere.

So I hauled my stinky ass out of the bed I'd barely left for three days and got in the shower. I left the shower curtain open, even though water got on the floor. There was no way I was going to dredge up memories by closing that curtain.

By the time I finished in the bathroom, I nearly felt human again. I decided it was time to go back to work. I hadn't been to the tire store in more than a week, and the only reason I was still "employed" there was because the owner was a tribal elder who, like all the elders, cut wolf pack members a lot of slack. Even though I worked in the stock room, my usual shorts and T-shirt were still too casual, so I pulled on jeans and a button-front blouse instead.

As I left my bedroom, I realized the last time I'd been near anything that remotely resembled a meal was Esme's barbecue three days ago. I didn't let myself think about how that had ended. I was so damned hungry now that I was experiencing olfactory hallucinations. I could have sworn the aromas of fresh coffee, eggs, bacon and cinnamon rolls were wafting from the kitchen.

I stepped into the room and realized that, while I wasn't hallucinating, I almost certainly was crazy.

My nose hadn't lied: There were eggs and bacon sizzling in pans on the range. No cinnamon buns, though. That was Nahuel.

At the sight of him, my heart began thumping thunderously against my rib cage, as if the damned thing knew its reason for beating was standing not six feet away. Instead of blood, the traitorous organ was pumping hope, thick and sweet as syrup, through my veins.

My imprint stood at the stove, expertly scrambling the eggs and turning the bacon. Guess he really had been helping Mom all those times they chattered in the kitchen while she made meals. I didn't know why he was here, or what to say to him. All I was sure of was that I didn't want to do or say anything that would make him leave again. So I kept my mouth shut as I cautiously stepped into the kitchen.

He spoke, but didn't look away from his work. "Please sit down, Leah. Your breakfast is ready."

Seth and Jake had been able to repair our kitchen table after Nahuel and I smashed it the day he attacked Charlie. But the chairs had been unsalvageable. The new ones looked good, but were hard as hell to sit on, and I hated them. I sat anyway. I honestly didn't know what else to do.

I couldn't take my eyes off him. I was having trouble processing the reality of his presence in my kitchen. After days of pining for him, to find him here—let alone making me breakfast—was beyond weird. I watched him slide the scrambled eggs and bacon onto a plate that was already graced by four slices of perfectly toasted bread. He brought the dish and a bucket-sized mug of coffee to the table and placed both in front of me. Then he sat down in the chair directly opposite mine, crossed those incredibly long legs of his, and just looked at me.

And what a look it was.

Nahuel was never sexier than when he was angry. The look he was giving me now made it clear that all the previous episodes of rage I'd witnessed in him were like spring showers compared to the hurricane of emotion he was barely keeping contained.

I didn't know why he was pissed; after all, he was the one who ditched me for three days. But I wasn't going to call him on it and risk making him so angry that he walked out before we had a chance to begin bridging the chasm between us.

While my brain was cautious about his anger, my body had a different, more primal reaction. My hands began to shake with a combination of adrenalin and lust, and I clamped them between my thighs under the table to hide my trembling from him. When I made no move to touch the food or even speak, he casually pushed my plate a little closer.

"Please eat," he said, his voice silky and deadly. I'd been salivating like a hound at the smell of the food, but the menace brewing beneath his polite words instantly killed my appetite. I swallowed hard and hesitated with my hand hovering over the fork, trying to decide what to do.

"Eat, Leah," he said more forcefully, the ire in his teak eyes simmering like a kettle approaching its whistle point. "You will not have another chance to do so today."

His words confused and chilled me, but they gave me a hook to use to draw my own voice out of my trembling lips. "What is this, my last meal?" My joke was lame even to my own ears. "Why won't I get to eat again?"

He slowly leaned forward over the table, so close that his cinnamon-and-spice breath caressed my skin. I felt my eyes start to roll back into my head, and I had to force myself to focus on what he was saying.

"Because when you are done with your breakfast, I am going to take you to your bed, and we will not leave it again today." He leaned back, releasing me from the grip of his intoxicating breath. "Perhaps not tomorrow, either."

Desire swept my body, swelling from my groin to race along every contiguous nerve ending, swamping my laboring senses. His sultry promise had stopped my heart for a few seconds, and when the damned thing started ticking again like a stop-watch on speed, it drove a surge of hormone-saturated blood to my brain.

I grabbed the fork and began shoveling eggs into my mouth. He silently watched me root like a pig.

My attention was divided between lustful anticipation and sheer astonishment at just how amazingly good the food was. That's the only explanation for how the shrill voice of my inner bitch was able to push its way out around a mouthful of eggs.

"You left me."

I was shocked at myself for letting that slip out. I was so glad he was here, I didn't care what had kept him away for so long. I gasped as if I could draw those inflammatory words back in along with a gulp of air. Unfortunately, in my attempt to reel back that accusation, I sucked eggs into my windpipe instead. I choked and coughed, bits of food spewing out with each hack. I forced myself to swallow the remainder of the mouthful, and grabbed the mug to wash everything down with the coffee.

Oh, THAT was just sexy as hell.

Shut UP you fucking sarcastic harpy. Haven't you done enough?

He interrupted my silent attempts to bitch-slap that nasty inner voice into submission.

"You should have told me," he said, his deep voice dripping with reproach.

My brain appeared to be on a five-second processing delay. "What?" I mumbled, only partially registering that his words didn't seem like an appropriate response to my accusation.

My dimness seemed to stoke the banked fires of his indignation. His anger flared, and the careful control he'd been holding onto began to smoke away. He leaned forward again, gripping the edge of the table with both hands. The muscles in his jaw twitched visibly as he struggled to rein in his fury.

"I should not have had to learn from another that you have imprinted on me," he hissed through clenched teeth. "You should have told me."

When I'd kicked myself out of my depression this morning, I'd been ready to accept the probability that I could never tell him. How could I risk giving him that kind of power if he no longer needed me? Now, it didn't really matter how he'd found out, whether it was Edward, Jake or even Seth who had given me up. He knew, and he'd already garnered enough information about imprinting to realize at least some of the implications of it.

Suddenly, what he'd said about not getting out of bed made sense in a whole new light. Apparently he thought being my imprint entitled him to fuck me.

Now, I was fuming, and my ire steamed away my caution. I threw the fork down, and it clattered off the plate, scattering eggs across the table and bouncing a slice of toast to the floor.

"When was I supposed to tell you? You disappeared for three fucking days," I snarled. "Right after you said you would never leave me, by the way. Now you waltz in here like you think we should just pick up where we left off three goddamned days ago?"

Outrage at the utter gall of his assumption pulled me out of the chair until I was standing, palms pressed flat to the table, leaning over him and shouting in his face. "You think you should get to fuck me just because you're my imprint?"

It was the boiling point for both of us.

Nahuel surged to his feet, rage carved on every line of his flawless body and face. Without warning, he seized a corner of the table and flipped it over. Food and cutlery went flying. The plate and mug crashed to the floor and shattered.

"Yes, I want to fuck you!" he roared, lunging forward so that we were nose to nose. "I want to fuck you because I am in love with you!"

I took a startled step backward, slipped on a clump of spilled egg, and landed ass-first on the floor with a loud, wet smack. I sprawled there looking up at him, amazed beyond words. After weeks of being afraid to let myself hope that he felt something for me—and three days of dying inside because I was sure he didn't—having him bellow his declaration in a moment of wrath was simply more than my brain could process.

The moment was surreal and overwhelming and just so very … us.

His revelation popped open the drain on my tank of ticked-off, but his temper was still at a full, rolling boil. He followed me to the floor, crouching over me on his hands and knees, his heat pushing me down amid cold, wet food and sharp shards of broken plate.

His voice dropped to a low, lethal growl. "I am in love with you," he repeated, his seething eyes daring me to disagree. "You are mine. Mine! And I am yours."

He straddled my thighs, sitting back on his heels, imprisoning my legs beneath his weight. My eyes dropped to the crotch of his jeans, where his erection was straining against the denim. That can't be comfortable. There was no mistaking what he wanted, what he intended.

His hands went to my shirt front, and he began tugging open the buttons, his movements rough and jerky.

"You had no right to keep this from me," he snarled. "I thought I was losing my mind. I thought I was becoming like my sire, desiring a human woman to the point of insanity."

His fingers were shaking so badly now that he couldn't negotiate the remaining buttons. I reached up to do it for him. He brushed my hands away, grabbed two fistfuls of my shirt and yanked. Buttons shot across the floor. He didn't even bother trying to unclasp my bra, instead breaking the front hook with a single powerful snap.

I thought my bared breasts might calm him, or at least slow him down; after all, Nahuel loved my tits. But his fury and lust were driving him into a frenzy, and his hands went straight to the fly of my pants. He unzipped me, his long fingers gathering the waistband of my jeans and underwear as he began to drag them down my body. When he couldn't get them over the curve of my ass, he paused and growled his frustration. His eyes, feral and barely focused, found mine.

"Help me," he demanded.

And oh, how I wanted to lift my hips. Let him rip off my jeans and just pound into me until neither of us could move. Dear God, how I wanted that! But damned if I'd let him fuck me in anger, and definitely not on a kitchen floor covered in cold food and shards of ceramic. We both deserved better than that.

I didn't think I'd be able to reason with him, though. He was breathing in sharp, shallow pants, his body all but vibrating above me. He was too far over the edge for me to successfully talk him down. So I did the next best thing I could think of: I put my hands on the center of his chest and shoved. I'm strong, and he wasn't expecting it, so I had no trouble toppling him backward off me.

Now it was his turn to flop on the floor, stunned and confused, as I disentangled my legs from his and stood up. Surprise and a hint of disappointment bled into the anger in his eyes. He thought I was going to shut him down again.

Holding his bewildered gaze, I shrugged out of the remnants of my shirt and bra. My jeans and panties were next. When I stood nude before him, my clothes in an untidy pile on the linoleum beside him, I gave him a slow, hot smile. I carefully stepped away from the food and broken dishes scattered on the floor. I stretched my arm out and offered him my hand, palm up.

"Are you coming?" I asked quietly.

He was off the floor and on me in a heartbeat. His mouth crushed down on mine, his tongue demanding immediate entry. His natural grace seemed to have escaped him. He was all awkward hands and legs as he tried to speed-walk me backward down the hall, while devouring my lips as if we'd been apart for months instead of days. If we kept moving like this, we would be on the floor and going at it in the hallway, which would be only slightly better than the kitchen floor, but not nearly as wonderful as my bed.

I buried my fingers in his hair and used my grip to pull his mouth away. His eyes were dazed, his breathing so rapid and shallow that I wasn't certain his brain was getting enough oxygen to process the English language. It surely wasn't getting much blood, because every spare drop in his body was trapped in that awe-inspiring bulge behind his zipper.

"Pick me up," I ordered. You'd think having his lover tell him to carry her to bed would be a mood killer for him. Apparently not. He swept my legs around his waist. One hand slid under my ass for support and the other clutched my back roughly. I would probably have five finger-shaped bruises later.

He tore down the hall and banged my bedroom door open so hard that it ricocheted off the wall and slammed shut behind him. Tripping over his own feet two steps from the bed, he ended his mad dash by hurling us both down on the mattress. Before my back was done bouncing on the comforter, his lips and hands found my breasts. He sucked a nipple into his mouth and drew on it hard.

"Oh my God." Electricity shot from the point where his mouth moved on me and scorched straight to the juncture of my thighs. Suddenly, I was as impatient as he. I grabbed the shoulders of his shirt and yanked. "Off. Now."

He pulled away just long enough to allow me to drag the shirt over his head. As soon as it was gone, he crushed his body back down on me, sealing his searing, slick skin along the length of my naked form. His lips recaptured mine.

I could identify the specific spot on my hands that most ached to touch him. Right there, where my fingers met the pads of my palms. His back was damp with sweat, not from exertion but because his desire, like mine, was burning him alive. I smoothed my hands down his muscled back. My fingers dove beneath the waistband of his jeans, and I molded my palms around the curves of his perfect ass. The silky heat of his skin was the most delicious thing I'd ever felt. I wanted more.

My bold exploration of a part of his body I'd never touched before drove him wild. He was panting again, grinding the bulge in his jeans against the hottest, wettest point on my body. He shifted his weight to the side and began fumbling to open his zipper. He shoved his jeans and boxers down just far enough for his erection to spring free, and rolled back between my thighs.

"I am sorry, ñi piuque," he gasped. "I cannot wait." His head dropped to my shoulder, his breath hot and ragged against my neck.

Idiot vamp-boy. What was he apologizing for? I'd had a month of anticipation. Every kiss, every touch, every heated look had been an erotic caress building up to this consummation. I could live without more foreplay, at least this first time. But I wouldn't last another second without him inside me.

Gripping his perfectly sculpted rear, I urged him forward. Even though I was expecting it, craving it, I still cried out when he pushed into me with a single powerful stroke. He drove in deep and held himself there. I could feel every inch of him pulsing thick and hard inside me.

Six years of celibacy had tightened my body, and he was stretching me to overflowing. I'd known he was big; I'd seen his naked erection before. But I hadn't expected his size would have me teetering on the razor's edge between pleasure and pain. Instinctively, I drew my knees higher, bringing my feet all the way to his hips, trying to find the friction and angle that would topple me back toward bliss.

A strangled groan escaped his lips. "Don't move. Don't move." He panted against my throat. "If you move now, I will be done."

I squirmed, rotating my hips around the point where his body speared into mine. I needed him to move, needed him to stoke the fire that was slowly burning my mind to ash. "Let go, baby," I encouraged, breathing in his ear. "Just let go."

The mating drive of the imprinting bond was lashing him now, flogging at the frayed remnants of his self-control, yet still he held back. His hands clamped painfully on my hips, forcing me into stillness. He was practically sobbing now, his voice shaking so badly I had trouble comprehending his words. "Not without you."

I understood what he wanted. God knew I wanted it, too, but I'd rarely climaxed from penetration. And it sure wasn't going to happen if all he did was lay there. How the hell could this man fuck and frustrate me at the same time?

I balled my hands into fists and gouged my knuckles into his shoulder blades to keep myself from clawing his back. I ground my heels into his ass cheeks to drive him even deeper. Tension was thrumming through his body; I could feel the vibration of it where his flesh pressed above me and within me. Damn him for holding back, even now. Especially now!

"Oh my God, Nahuel, if you want me to come, you have to move…unh!" Mid-rant, my demand dissolved into a grunt of delight as he withdrew and slammed back into me. And held again.

I whimpered in frustration and finally sank my nails into his back. This time I begged. "Please, baby. Please!"

A massive tremor rippled through his muscles, and I felt the last shards of his control shiver away.

He began to move in a frantic, choppy rhythm, working himself into my body in hard staccato thrusts, as if he craved the friction but couldn't bear the separation of withdrawing for more than a fraction of a second. His arms slipped beneath my back. Gripping my shoulders from behind, he used the leverage to force my body down harder, keeping counterpoint with the upward pounding of his hips.

His mouth never left my skin, licking and sucking along my collar bone, up the length of my throat, across my jaw. I wove my fingers into his short, silky hair, urging his mouth toward mine. His every exhalation poured his cinnamon and spice breath into my lungs.

Our rutting soon flushed out my mounting pleasure, and my body raced toward it like a powerful predator pursuing the most succulent prey. I sprinted after it eagerly, reveling in the thrill of the chase. The supple flex of muscle. The sensual slide of skin on skin. The heady scent and sonorous breath of my mate as he raced beside me. I closed in on my quarry, gleaming canines bared, knowing this would be quick and good, so delicious.

But in the seconds before my jaws snapped shut, my prey turned on me, fearsome and ruthless. And I realized that I'd never been in control of this hunt. I'd been lured toward this moment, and the beast that was about to spring on me wasn't simple sexual gratification.

This was creation, and it far surpassed the mere mingling of DNA. This was the conception of a new whole, drawn together from the broken parts of two fragmented souls. And the Leah who'd chased this kill, who would have turned tail and fled if she'd ever recognized the truth of what she pursued, would not survive this moment of conception.

This was transformation—complete, primal and eternal.

And with that realization, the pleasure pounced. Ran me to ground, sank its fangs deep into my quivering flesh, and pierced straight to my soul. Shook me into ecstatic oblivion. When the jaws of the beast finally relaxed, it left me satisfied and replete and not the same woman I'd been before.

When my senses returned, I found his eyes fixated on my face. He'd been holding back to ensure my pleasure, but now the fading inner tremors of my orgasm were massaging his straining flesh. His pace became impossibly faster, his thrusts forcing our melded bodies higher on the bed. His back arched, his arms locked straight, and with a roar, he poured himself into me.

I'd been wrong that nothing was sexier or more beautiful than an angry Nahuel. In the moment of his release, his face was simply perfection.

He collapsed on top of me, still lodged within me, his head nestled on my breasts. We lay like that, peaceful and entwined, long enough for our breathing and heart rates to slow, matching their pace in perfect rhythm with each other. He had to be as satisfied and exhausted as I was, but even so, his magical hands simply could not be still. His fingers stroked gently up and down my arm, traced my collar bone, caressed the dip between my breasts until I caught his hand and brought it to my mouth. I kissed his fingers one by one, and then held his hand there at my lips. My other hand stroked his damp hair.

He sighed happily. "Thank you, ñi piuque," he murmured.

Curiosity wormed its way through my contentment. "What does that mean?" I asked. When he didn't answer, I tugged sharply on his hair, thinking he might be falling asleep.

He grunted. "Hmmmmm?" It was the least eloquent thing I'd ever heard him say. I found it totally adorable.

"That name you always call me. What does it mean?"

He lifted his head to look at me, and my pulse quickened. These were not the eyes of a man who was tired or satisfied. His expression clearly said he wasn't even close to finished with me yet. My mind finally registered the fact that neither his climax nor our minutes of rest had killed his erection. As if in silent confirmation of my thoughts, he flexed his hips, pushing that delicious hardness deeper.

Note to self. Recovery time for vamp-boy: zero minutes. Thank you God!

He smirked at my gasp, and his low voice was a sensual purr. "I did tell you that we would not leave this bed today, did I not?"

My body responded to his sultry teasing with a ferocity that shook me. Instantly, I was ready, eager to lose myself again in mindless pleasure. So I was slightly out of step when the passion in his teak eyes softened to tenderness.

"My heart," he whispered, gently caressing my sweat-matted hair away from my face.

I uncrossed my eyes and blinked at him in confusion. His smile was loving and patient.

"My heart," he repeated. "It means 'my heart.' "

As he lowered his lips to mine and began moving within me, I realized that I'd been wrong yet again.

He hadn't made his first declaration of love today in a fit of anger.

He'd been saying it all along.

End Note: So was it as good for you as it was for Leah? And just so you all know how committed I am to this story and all my readers, I wrote this chapter while my hubby (who, after 16 years together, can still get me hot and bothered with a look) was away on a week-long trip. That's right. I wrote a sex scene when my steady supply of nookie was on the other side of the world. How's that for dedication?

RL is going to encroach on my writing time next week, so there will probably be a bit of a longer lag between this chapter and the next. As always, thanks for reading and reviewing.