Disclaimer: Stephanie Meyer owns everything in the Twiverse. But this plot is mine :)

So Rosalie has a question. Let's see how Edward responds.

Chapter 8: Rosalie's Request

Edward's POV

I do not need the gift of telepathy to read Rosalie's mind.

Her anger and thirst for vengeance are painted across her flawless face as if in thick, black ink.

And her demand for my assistance equally so.

"I want them dead, Edward," she repeats. "And I want you to help me."

"Why?"

Her eyes narrow. "Why do I want them dead?"

"Why do you want my help?"

"Excuse me?"

"I mean, how could a boy like me be of any use against five men?"

I regret the baldness of my reply, but it is too late to retract it now.

Rosalie hides her surprise but, as expected, does not apologize. "Are you really going to whine about some comment I made two weeks ago?"

My gaze turns cold. "And do you really think insulting me will sway me toward your cause?"

"I don't need to sway you." She takes an elegant seat at the opposite end of the couch. "I already know what you'll do."

"Is that so?" I close my eyes again. "Enlighten me."

"You will do exactly as I say."

"And why is that?"

"Because you don't want to disappoint the doctor."

Her arrogance is amusing. "You overestimate his importance to me."

"Do I?" The couch shifts as she angles herself toward me, and I do not appreciate her invasion of my personal space. "You act as if you hate him, yet you live under his roof, use his surname, and respect his requests. If you were truly disgusted by his civility, you would have left him long ago."

I realize she does not know my history, that she has not inquired about me at all. So her accidental observation is not intended to be malicious.

But a reminder of my rebellion is the last thing I need after my earlier encounter with Dorothy.

The newborn has said too much.

I come to my feet. "We are done here."

"Edward, I need you to…"

"This conversation is over." I retrieve my copy of Taming of the Shrew from the table and return to the couch, fingering the bookmark at the start of Act Four. "Kindly shut my door on your way out."

I am focused on my book, so I do not see Rosalie rise from the couch. But the movement is so swift I believe she has taken the hint.

Until she plucks the leather-bound book from my hand and throws it through the window, arresting my full attention as the glass falls to the floor behind me.

"Do not dismiss me, boy."

I am in her face in an instant. "Do not patronize me, little girl."

"I am not a little girl."

She is primal and petulant all at once, and I chuckle. "You certainly throw a tantrum like one."

"I am asking for your help!" Her outburst startles me. "You know what those animals did to me, the atrocities they committed at my expense. Yet you stand there and dismiss my plea, refusing to help. What kind of man does that?"

Her eyes are pained as she waits for my response, and I run an agitated hand through my hair and turn away.

She is not my mate.

She is not even my friend.

She is nothing to me, and I owe her no explanation for my decision.

But her query claws at my insides, demanding a reply.

What kind of man, indeed?

I keep my back to her as stare out of the broken window. "I am not who you think I am."

"Who are you, then?"

She cuts me again despite her softened tone, and a jagged stream of self-hatred spills into my soul. "I am someone who can do you no good."

"But you can, Edward." She advances, laying a hand on my shoulder. "I know you can."

Her touch burns through the wool of my jacket and the cotton of my sweater, and I steel myself against the shiver rippling across my back.

But it changes nothing.

"I cannot," I whisper.

"You can," she hisses. "But you choose not to."

She snatches her hand away, rescuing me from the flames, and I find it easier to speak. "Killing those savages will not satisfy you. It will not give you the peace you need."

"Don't you tell me what I need!"

The force of her shout throws me back against the sofa, and she follows, leaning over me with blazing eyes as she pours out her fury. "You don't know what it's like to have a pack of drunken animals attack your body like a piece of raw meat. To have your modesty mocked and your chastity stolen while the man you love laughs at your tears. My skin may be hard and frigid, but I will carry their sickening stench in my pores for the rest of my immortal existence. And no matter what you may have seen or done since you stepped into this life, you have never experienced anything like that. So don't you dare presume to know what I need because you have no earthly idea!"

She is a hair's breadth from my face, her chest pressing against mine with every labored exhale.

I want to clarify my comments, to explain I am helping her by not helping her, but my brain is otherwise occupied.

Her heightened emotions intensify her natural scent, and amid the raw chaos it unleashes in my mind, I am struck by a shocking fact.

I want her.

I want to fill my arms with the curves of her back, close the minimal gap between our bodies, and press my lips to hers.

I want to suck the bitterness from her mouth, to expel her demons with my tongue and touch.

I want to make her over and make her whole.

And I want to kill myself for the thought.

No woman is less deserving of such loathsome longings than the one who leans above me, and I am crippled by the depth of my depravity.

Cursing my existence from alpha to omega, I sigh heavily at my deplorable failings.

Rosalie closes her eyes, and a rumbling groan fills her mouth.

Afraid of what telepathy might tell, I assume she has guessed my sin and is preparing to destroy me.

And I relax at the notion, certain that I deserve to die.

'Mmmm… he tastes like candy.'

I gape at her in startled stupidity, thankful she does not see me.

She is tasting my breath.

I just exhaled, and she is savoring the taste of my breath.

This cannot be happening.

I slip inside her mind as it curls around assorted images of my lips and hands, wondering how they would feel against her skin.

And her body warms at the thought.

I close my eyes, swallowing the moan rumbling within me.

I must be feverish with guilt.

Or having a psychotic break.

Because this cannot be happening.

Not between us.

And certainly not now.

Not after she has spoken so frankly about her brutalization.

It would be perverse.

And pointless.

In fact, I can think of few occurrences that would be less appropriate right now.

And yet…

I open my eyes at the sound of her lips parting and watch with total fascination as her gaze returns to mine.

"Edward..."

Her tongue sneaks out to swipe her bottom lip, and I want to sample them both.

But there is a greater want, a more pressing need.

Her explicit permission.

I will not act until I have it.

"Yes, Miss Hale?"

Her eyes darken to an impossibly deep shade of red at my proper address, and a growl escapes me before I can stop it.

She shivers at the sound, sending a corresponding tremor through my entire core.

I feel her in every plane of my body as she presses closer, her supple curves melting against my wanting flesh.

Her lusty eyes dip to my lips as my hands hover above her waist, my fingers itching to touch her somewhere.

Anywhere.

But still I wait, needing her to ask me.

The moment seems never-ending.

And then.

She whispers.

"Please..."

It is unavoidable now.

Madness or not.

Mine or not.

I will have her.

And relish every minute of it.

"Rosalie?" Mrs. Cullen calls from downstairs.

The interruption sends Rosalie flying across the room as I recoil against the couch, each of us landing silently as our chests heave in mutual shock.

"Come, dear!" the doctor's wife continues cluelessly. "I have something for you."

"I'm, uh…" Rosalie swallows hard to clear the thickness from her voice, her eyes unblinking as they watch me. "I'll be right down!"

We stare at each other in frustrated futility, trapped in the awkward suddenness of silence.

Mrs. Cullen knows I am also home but believes we are in separate quarters as always.

And must continue to believe so.

Though her breathing has normalized, Rosalie's mind is so saturated I can make out nothing useful.

She is a room of white noise.

I cannot let her leave things this way, so I hold up both hands and ask her to wait.

But Rosalie slowly shakes her head and retreats to my open door, her eyes burning me until she turns at the threshold and takes her leave.

I collapse at the waist, resting my head between my knees as I count her footfalls to the first floor. As the physical distance between us grows, Rosalie's mind becomes a readable flurry of emotions from regret to rage.

But for all their variation, they are united on one critical point.

'Edward and I will finish that conversation.'

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