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

I am so very sorry for the delay. After we finally eradicated the MALWARE issue we've had since Christmas, I found it difficult to nail down Edward's emotions/mindset.

Now that he's talking to me again, let's see how things stand with Roseward since those fateful first kisses…

Chapter 16: Siblings at Play

Edward's POV

"You are rushing me," she says without looking up.

"I am not."

"I feel your eyes on me," she insists, her brows furrowed in concentration. "And that makes me feel rushed."

"I had hoped you would feel something more pleasant than rushed."

Her mouth clamps shut, fighting a smile as she glances at me from across the table. "You are distracting me, then, which is equally bad."

"My apologies, Miss."

"You are forgiven." She returns her attention to the board. "Now hush and let me think."

An easy silence falls as she stares down the smooth wooden pieces, and I marvel again at the sudden strangeness of my life.

It has been seven days, a half-fortnight since that night.

The night Rosalie changed me.

Physicality aside—though that in and of itself deserves eternal enshrinement—the night is significant for more philosophical reasons.

To wit…

"You saved me, Edward."

I still cannot wrap my mind around it.

She cast me as savior, as protector.

Not burden or barbarian.

Not even as nuisance or usurper as I had expected.

To her, on that night of firsts, I was the hero.

Her hero.

At first blush, the sincerity of her confession was rivaled only by its absurdity, and I'd had every intention of refuting her claims by insisting upon my baseness.

Until her eyes stopped me.

Their naked need unraveled my hesitation and rendered me useless for anything but another kiss.

This one doubly sweet as it confirmed the first.

In blessing me a second time, she proved to be inspired by something greater than gratitude, something intangible to which I have yet to put a proper name.

I have replayed each moment, recalled our tenderness with perfect clarity, yet the nature of its origins alludes me still.

Ordinarily such ignorance would reduce the event's significance to the petty and trite.

But when I remember her lips against mine, that indescribable balance of innocence and sensuality, I am flooded with a heat so terribly raw that it makes me afraid.

It is this fear that saves me from a state of perpetual arousal.

That and my vow of patience.

She trusts me to wait, and I will not disappoint her.

But the fear isn't strong enough to keep the desires completely at bay. And when alone, I let them wash over me, happily drowning in the memory of that night.

The night Rosalie changed me.

With a satisfied huff, my temptress rouses me from my musings and makes her move. I tilt my head in appreciation before rolling the die and bearing off another two of her pieces from the board.

Her fist strikes the table. "You are cheating!"

"I am not. I cannot know which numbers the dice will yield."

"Yes, you are." She leans back on the settee, preparing to pout. "You are reading my mind after promising you wouldn't. It is why you continue to best me in such a simple game."

Her ungracious losing is somehow endearing. "Would you like me to explain the rules again?"

"No, I would not." She crosses her arms beneath her chest. "I would like you to stay out of my head."

"I promised I would do so, and I am a man of my word." I look up at her. "Do you trust me?"

She unfolds her arms and arches a perfect brow. "That depends."

"On what?"

"On whether or not you behave yourself."

She's doing it again, using that deliberate doublespeak where she thinks and speaks the words at once, amplifying their impact.

It is impossible not to retaliate.

"Define 'behave.'"

Her rosy eyes flash. "You are playing a dangerous game."

"I thought backgammon was safe. Nothing like checkers with its pieces mounting one another."

"Edward!" Her hand flies to her mouth in mock shock. "Is that how you speak to a woman?"

"Not at all." My surprise is as strong as hers that I have spoken aloud. "I must have taken temporary leave of my senses."

"Indeed." She studies me as she scoops the dice in her left hand. "You should apologize."

"I am sorry, Miss Hale."

She is unimpressed. "Surely you can do better than that."

"All right." I meet and hold her eyes as I lean over the game board. The rattling rhythm of the dice falters as I lean over the game board. "Forgive my inexcusable lapse in decorum."

She is silent as I capture her hand and bend to it, my face hovering above her skin. "May I?"

There is an intake of breath then its slow release. "Yes."

I lower my lips to the back of her hand, pressing against it with gentle intent. Her skin is warmer than I remember, softer than I can comprehend, and I sigh escapes me before I can stop it.

She gasps, and I freeze, afraid my poor self-control has pressured her.

But she soon relaxes and whispers my name in kind.

I raise my eyes and find a smile, and I intend to bend to her hand again.

But the dilation of her pupils catches me off-guard, and I am lost in their crimson tide.

The game between us is now forgotten as she releases the dice and cups my face. She strokes my cheek with the pad of her thumb, and my eyes flutter closed. Her touch is as gentle as an angel's kiss, yet my skin is aflame beneath it.

My dead body awakens as she brings my face toward hers, and I brace myself for impact.

"I think Carlisle is right to include them. It is only right, as this affects them as well."

I stiffen in Rosalie's grasp, and she frowns. "What?"

"Mrs. Cullen approaches."

Rosalie looks toward the window. When she catches the distant footfalls, she drops her head. "Perfect." Her mood is as sour as mine. "What is she thinking about?"

"Family meeting this evening."

"How diverting," she says with an elaborate roll of her eyes. "I suppose she should not find us like this."

"I suppose not."

I wait for Rosalie to remove her hands from my face, and she does…

… after planting a quick kiss on my mouth.

"Come." She grins at my startled expression. "Let us play something chaotic that will send her upstairs."

I watch as she rises from the settee and makes her way toward my piano, the heat from her lips still simmering against mine.

"Today, Edward," she tosses over her shoulder.

I come to my feet, commanded by her wish.

Immortal or not, Rosalie Hale might possibly be the death of me.

—B—I—

Her hands caress the ivory keys as we share the bench, and I am mesmerized by her technique and her selection.

'What?' she smirks at me mentally. 'A well-bred gal can't enjoy a minor chord?'

I hide my amusement in a snort and away from Esme's ears. Rosalie and I agree that whatever it is blooming between us must remain just that.

"Not for shame," she clarified upon our return seven days ago. "It's none of their damn business."

I had never heard her use such language before.

And I enjoyed the vulgarity far too much.

'How nice to see them getting along,' Esme coos as she makes her bed. 'I knew it would work between them, given time.'

I nudge Rosalie with my elbow and raise my eyes to the ceiling.

She nods her agreement. It is time for a squabble.

In the midst of Rosalie's playing, I sigh heavily.

"What is wrong with you now?" she snaps.

"You played the wrong note."

'Oh, Edward...' Esme thinks to herself. 'Please don't ruin it.'

"I did not!" Rosalie runs through the sequence again as Esme idles above us. "It concludes in A-flat."

"A-flat? Are you at all familiar with his work?"

"Oh, I see. Because I am a lady, my understanding of such matters cannot possibly compare to yours."

She narrows her eyes, their intensity burning me from the inside out.

'You're supposed to fight back not make kissy faces at me.'

Ignoring her sudden smile, and I resume my place in our play. "Lady is a generous term, is it not?"

"How dare you!" She slams the fall board over the keys and pushes the seat away with the backs of her legs as she stands. "Who are you to speak to me in such a way?"

I rise to meet her, my nose inches from her face. "I have no need to explain myself to the likes of you. This is my piano, and I have every right to question anyone who lays her unproven paws upon it."

She screeches, the discordant sound snaking down my spine. "You insufferable, obnoxious, unbelievably arrogant…"

Esme is at the threshold of the room in an instant, her chest heaving. "Rosalie! I… I have something about which I need to speak to you privately. Edward, would you mind quitting the house for a moment?"

I glare at Rosalie one last time. "With pleasure."

Esme nods at me nervously as I storm out of the front door, and I consider slamming it for emphasis. Their thoughts compete for my attention as I head toward the edge of my listening range.

'It is unkind of you to speak to Rosalie in such a way, Edward. And you should have let her play the song as she wished. I thought it was lovely.'

'Nice touch, referring to my paws... I nearly laughed aloud! But do you really think them unproven?'

Though the teasing is clear in the first part, I come to an immediate halt when I catch the uncertainty in the second, cursing my carelessness.

She is wild and unshackled and a worthy adversary in all things.

But I must take care of her emotions.

I rest upon a nearby rock, my mind fixated on the enchantress I left at home.

In the seven days since Rosalie changed me, I have learned a great deal about my nonsister.

A term she coined and enjoys.

For one thing, she is more cerebral than anyone suspects. Her mind is labrynthian and insatiable, and what seems like irritation is an impatience for knowledge. Though she enjoys the privileges of her considerable femininity, she envies what she deems "the masculine advantage."

For another, she is fiercely protective of the remnants of her human life: retiring nightly just after twilight, performing her evening toilette, even lying in bed as if to sleep.

Most surprisingly, we have much in common beyond our genetic code and current address.

She is a brilliant musician with a unique ear. Contrary to my earlier insult, her improvisation on the piano solo was nothing short of inspired.

Her fascination with the burgeoning automotive industry eclipses mine and is more remarkable besides as it centers on what lies beneath the hood.

And like me, she resents the good doctor, though for very different reasons.

"My life was not his to change, even in the interest of saving it," she seethed the other day. "He had no right." The vehemence of her feelings prevented me from sharing the secondary reason behind his decision.

I shall tell her. Just not yet.

The doctor's wife she does not mind as much, enjoying the superfluities of female companionship. But she is disinclined to take Mrs. Cullen into her confidence.

If not for my telepathy, I may not have earned the privilege.

"You already know what I'm thinking," she said the morning after that night. "I haven't the energy to block you perpetually."

Ironically she prefers to speak to me mentally, finding great amusement in my reactions.

'Juliet is an idiot.'

'If I were to light up a cigarette, would the doctor's head explode from the shock of it?'

'Pity foxes are so small. I'll bet their blood is as desirable as their fur.'

'Good night, sweet Liam.'

I heard that last thought three nights ago after she retired to her room. She usually invites me into her mind with a demure clearing of her throat, but on this occasion, I mistook a stifled cry for a summons.

Her youngest brother's cherubic smile was bright in her mind, and I immediately pulled out at the sight of it. 'William' is his given name, but she calls him otherwise out of affection. He is beloved by everyone he knows, but his sister is his favorite person in the entire world.

And the feeling is more than mutual. She loves him maternally, completely.

Eternally.

I shall not admit to my accidental eavesdropping for fear of embarrassing her, but her familial longing still gnaws at my frozen heart.

The sound of an approaching car brings me out of my Rosy reverie, and I recognize the doctor's thoughts. I wait until he passes before rising from the rock and returning to the house.

—B—I—

The doctor sits across from me in the living room, his thoughts guarded as Rosalie enters from the salon. Her face reveals none of her amusement regarding her conversation with Mrs. Cullen.

'Your perch atop the pedestal is safe,' she tells me. 'Although appalled at your "unseemly conduct," Esme assures me you are the best of men and worth getting to know better. I am beginning to believe she desires you herself.'

I gasp aloud at the notion, earning me a curious look from my master. "Is something wrong?"

"No." I ignore the laughter in Rosalie's mind. "Just lost in my thoughts."

Rosalie winks as she passes behind the doctor, and my eyes say what I cannot. 'You will pay for that.'

She understands my glare, and her tongue darts out in reply. 'Do your worst. I'm not afraid of you.'

Her insolence delights me, and I paste a scowl on my face as she sits across from me, folding her hands neatly in her lap. 'You may openly despise me now.'

I snort aloud, earning a disapproving glance from Mrs. Cullen as her husband calls us to order.

"Thank you both for coming," he says. "I realize you have other things to do."

"We have a decision to make," his wife interjects, "and I thought it best made together."

Rosalie says nothing, and I roll my eyes. "Well?"

"We have been in Rochester for seven years," Dr. Cullen begins, "much longer than we usually stay in one place. But circumstances prevented us from leaving sooner, and…"

"Your point?" I ask before he can mention my four-year absence. Rosalie should hear about that from me…

"It is time to leave."

"Leave?" Rosalie echoes. "As in leave Rochester?"

"I'm afraid we must," Esme says softly. "Our agelessness is impossible to hide anymore."

My nonsister nods, but her thoughts are in frantic disagreement. "Of course."

"And this is why we wanted to speak with both of you," Dr. Cullen continues. "We would like your opinion on where we go next."

"You steal my humanity, but you can't pick a new city?"

Esme gasps at the outburst though her husband appears unsurprised. "Rosalie, I am sor…"

"Do not placate me with belated apologies, Father Cullen." She sneers the moniker, her eyes like red flint. "You made your choice."

The pain in her voice makes my chest ache, and I grip the sides of my chair to keep from crossing the room to hold her. "What are our options?" I ask instead.

He glances at Rosalie before addressing me. "We haven't been to Europe as a fam- er, as a group, so England is an option. So are a few cities in Germany and Russia. And there's always…"

"I am not leaving this country," Rosalie says in a low, taut voice. "I am already condemned to the underworld. I will not surrender my citizenship as well. Beyond that, I don't give a damn what you do."

She rises from her chair and quits the room, and my eyes cannot help but follow. Dejection mars the elegant line of her shoulders, kindling my anger toward the doctor. This is his fault entirely, and Rosalie is correct not to let him forget it.

Esme comes to her feet and volunteers to speak with her. As she proceeds upstairs, I envy her freedom to do so. She closes Rosalie's door, and I tune them out, having no desire to overhear their conversation.

If she wishes to confide in me, she will do so when ready.

"Do you have a preference?" the doctor asks me wearily. "In regards to our next destination?"

I look away with a shake of my head, nearly overwhelmed by the urge to crush him for hurting her.

"Very well. I shall discuss it with Esme and inform you both once we decide."

He leaves me alone in the living room, his attention divided between Rosalie's pain and a thick, open text on his desk. As he approaches the staircase, he focuses on the latter image, seeking solutions for a difficult pediatric case.

"Wait."

The doctor pauses mid-step, unsure he heard correctly. 'Are you talking to me, son?'

I ignore the endearment and focus on the question. "Yes. I need to speak with you."

His face is composed when he re-enters the living room though his mind has gone blank with shock. This is the first time I have initiated conversation since my return, and he is floored by the occurrence.

He resumes his former position, sitting upright in the chair to mask his nerves. "What can I do for you?"

I lean forward and rest my elbows on my knees. "It's about Rosalie."

Hmmm… what do you think Edward wants to speak to Carlisle about? And how do you think things are progressing between Edward and his nonsister Rose? Let me know! xoxo