Disclaimer: SM owns everything in the Twiverse but please don't steal my plot

A/N: I'm excited to welcome several new readers who are giving my Roseward a shot, yay!

Now let's check in with our poor Edward. I think he could use a friend or two.

Chapter 20: Never Meant for Me

Edward's POV

There it is.

Or more to the point, there it goes.

There she goes.

My reason for existing, my muse and master.

Fleeing from me as swiftly as her lovely limbs will allow.

And rogue though I am, arrogant and foolish at once, I am powerless to stop her.

Not after she uttered those four words, words I've heard only in her most private moments, spoken aloud to an ignorant other.

Words never meant for me.

Words I have earned.

I wanted too much, as I am wont to do wherever she is concerned, pressed too hard, prepared so poorly.

Realized too late.

To her credit, she permitted my impertinence, gave me leave to explain myself and my actions with little interruption.

Aside from that ill-timed accusation about my motives.

I slump closer to the stone floor, surprised I am not yet prostrate before the door through which she escaped, ready to worship when she returns.

If she returns.

A stabbing pain the likes of which I have not felt since the Influenza grips my head, and I press my fingers against my temples with enough force to split my skull.

And good riddance.

I close my eyes and recall our last few moments, searching in vain for alternate outcomes.

My story concluded, I idled against the wall by the door, the very breath of life expelled from my lungs. Were it not for the sight of her beautiful confusion, I might well have died a second, deserved death. She was my anchor, my only tether to this world, and I selfishly needed her to keep me here.

But she needed release—I could see it as plain as the tears she could no longer cry—and I would have been a fiend indeed had I denied her.

Yet I had not expected her chosen passport to freedom.

Even without my gift having fallen victim to my weariness, I would not have heard those words coming.

Words never meant for me.

"Please… let me go."

The first word guaranteed my surrender. But the final three were my undoing, the severing of my soul, whatever of it remained.

I closed my eyes, breaking the spell, and felt her incredulity and resolve coalesce as she prepared for departure. Sighing her gratitude in a sub-audial breath, there was a rustle of paper as she presumably tucked the letter back into the safety of her bosom.

Then a rush of wind and a slam of the door as Rosalie fled the house and likely my life forever.

And there it is.

There it goes.

The best of me, the totality of what I could and should have been.

There it goes.

There she goes.

Away from me.

And rightfully so.

Pushing against the floor, I recline against the wall, running my hands through my hair with enough force to render me bald. And as I replay our conversation for the fifth time, I realize my mistake.

I should have told her the truth.

This is not to say I lied—the very notion makes me physically ill—but that I told her a partial truth, a safe truth to preserve the fragile peace we have enjoyed undisturbed since the night she changed me.

The safe truth because the other is too volatile and would have exploded all over our entanglement, leaving nothing unscathed.

Told her the safe truth for the same reason I do everything I end up regretting.

I was afraid.

Afraid to face the truth.

At any given moment, there are several truths at play.

In the dead of winter, it is true that a human could freeze to death if unprotected from the chill.

But it is also true that many animals are never more alive than in the depth of a snowstorm.

And in the life of Rosalie and me, of all the truths at play, there is one overshadowing them all.

Rosalie does not trust me.

And I do not trust her.

Not in the ways which provide the foundation for lasting liaisons.

Not in the ways which precipitate real intimacy.

Not, I am loath to admit, as the doctor trusts his bride.

Yes, we laugh and tease. We flirt and play. She trusts me to respect her physical boundaries as I trust her not to abuse my patience. She trusts me not to expose our affair to the Cullens as I trust her to use her mildest insults when in their presence.

But she does not trust me with how profoundly she misses her family. She does not trust me enough to admit she still thinks of Royce and occasionally regrets her hand in his demise.

And I have secrets too.

I do not trust her enough to mention my memories of Mother's death, how they nip at my mind at the most inopportune times. I do not trust her with the tale of my rebellion and how I miss the potency of human blood more often than not.

And so lacking are we, I cannot reveal my deepest secret, the truth with the greatest potential to annihilate us and make her despise me forever.

If she does not already.

I rub my eyes and fold my hands, knowing neither action will do any good. This is a marvelous mess of my own making, and there is nothing to be done until Rosalie decides my fate.

I stare at the axe where it idles above my neck and wait.

—B—I—

"He is alone, Carlisle."

Mrs. Cullen's wilted whisper rouses me from my stupor, and I fly to my room to escape her inspection. Though they are a half-mile away, I cannot face them.

Not when I am the reason they will lose their daughter.

I stare out my rear window, startled to discover it is night. Recalling my annoyance at the earlier dawn, I realize a full day has passed.

And Rosalie has yet to return.

To his credit, the doctor does not reveal his knowledge of my activities on Rosalie's behalf. I had it on good authority he had taken his wife into his confidence. But his casual comments suggest he shares her ignorance though they both know he does not.

Though I pay little attention to the dynamics of their union, this omission by mutual consent fascinates me. How can she know he harbors a secret and not be alarmed? How can he keep something from his beloved without being wholly consumed by guilt?

In truth, Mrs. Cullen's feminine instincts understand enough for her to suspect my involvement with Mr. Hale's letter. But she would never mention to me what I have never mentioned to her, and her silence intrigues me almost enough to seek her counsel.

Almost.

The Cullens are nearly at the front door, and I freeze in indecision. I do not wish to remain trapped with their curiosity and concern pressing upon me, but leaving this house before Rosalie returns is an intolerable option.

Before my mind fully decides, I am at the piano, my twitching hands ghosting above the keys in appreciation. These elegant ivories have never let me down, and before my nonsister invaded my life, they were my sole companion and friend. With my recent blunder fresh in my mind, they become an outlet for my angst, the receptacle for my reflexive rage.

Mrs. Cullen gasps aloud when the first furious chord cuts through the silence, gripping her husband's hand for support. They share a look, saying nothing, and warily enter the house.

The front door shuts with an audible click, but I continue to play, pouring my anguish into each murky measure. The stormy symphony swirls around me, plunging my soul deeper into despair. There is no comfort to be had, no respite from the pain, and the notion pleases me as I deserve no such relief.

"We have to stop this." Mrs. Cullen sits on their bed, her rising empathy inciting me to pound the keys. "He cannot take so much upon himself."

The doctor pauses as if preparing for the undressing I expect and deserve.

"I know, dearest." He takes her hand, lacing their fingers together. "His tenderness is a blessing, but I fear he only sees it as a burden."

"Do you think it can change?" Her concern is palpable. "That he will come to see himself as we do?"

"Yes," her husband says with conviction. "When he becomes the sole source of another's joy, when he allows himself to be loved, he will realize how richly he deserves it."

His compassion is so unexpected, I stop playing at once. An unfamiliar warmth spreads through my chest, and were I human, I would have wondered if my heart were in mortal danger.

What is he doing? Why does he speak as if he cares for me? I know he changed me to keep an ill-advised promise to Mother, that he is disappointed in my recklessness and brooding. Why would he pretend otherwise for her sake?

Is that the key to lasting happiness? Falsity and facades? Hiding your soul behind a fortress of lies where nothing of significance can harm you? Could Rosalie and I be on to something in our refusal to lower our defenses?

Is there a "Rosalie and I" to consider anymore?

The query rouses the tempest within me, and I let it overtake me with no regard for anything else. Mrs. Cullen lays her head on the doctor's shoulder, their silent prayers exacerbating my torment.

As the sound and the fury crash about me, I wonder where Rosalie has gone.

If she has gone.

She is cagey enough to linger on the periphery of my gifts, far enough out of range where I cannot hear or feel her, but close enough to gauge my mood as only she can.

And what if she were to come upon the house and hear such a ruckus? Would she understand my wrath is self-directed? Would she hear the shame between each line and space?

Or would she assume I resent her reaction and further delay her return?

The thought of causing her additional injury sends an arctic shiver down my arms to my fingers which immediately cease their raucous play. Mellowing into a soothing sonata, I apologize to my percussive partner and pray I am yet able to convince my nonsister to speak to me again.

Or at the very least come back home.

—B—I—

It is the evening of the third day.

My inhumanity renders me incapable of fatigue, but I am weary of waiting for Rosalie's return. Not because this piano bench has been my constant home since the moment I began to play. Nor because Mrs. Cullen's sympathy is somehow stronger in its silence.

But because I am powerless to do anything but wait.

There are no moves to make, no favors to elicit. Even were I close enough to Dr. Cullen to request his assistance, the situation is too precarious to involve a third person, even one acquainted with the details.

As it stands, he is steeped in the belief that he too is to blame.

"I should have warned you more sternly," he thinks every few hours. "Better explained the risks."

I no longer bother to object, respecting his need for self-flagellation.

But I will not share the burden of guilt.

It is mine and mine alone, and I will cherish it as evidence of what Rosalie and I once shared.

For I assume it is all I have left.

I am bridging into a new movement of the reflective piece I have played seventy-two ways since yesterday when I hear it.

The one thing I never expected to hear again.

The one thing I need to hear most.

"Edward."

Soft but sure, cautious and controlled.

A microcosm of everything she is.

I am on my feet before her mind finishes my name, awaiting her command.

But her thoughts turn to the fading fall foliage around her, leaving me at a loss.

With no other plan, I do the only thing I can think of, the only thing that makes any sort of sense.

I return to the place she left me.

Blurring to the center of the living room floor, I ignore the stares of the doctor and his wife, unable to calm my needless breathing.

She is closer now, though she moves with deliberation. She acknowledges each tree, counts the points on each leaf.

And spares me not a thought.

My fists ball at my sides with the need to crush something, to release this swelling knot of fear and longing in the pit of my belly. At the rate she travels, I could fell half the forest and still return in time for her entrance.

But I cannot move without her consent and will not speak to seek it.

Mrs. Cullen decides to give us some privacy, but I still her with a look, afraid the slightest situational shift could frighten my Muse away.

She is outside the house now, her feet on the stone path leading to our front door, and I am alarmed when she does not pause. Her trek continues up the stairs, and she turns the door handle before I know how to react.

If I thought she was beautiful before, she is positively luminous now, as if she has spent the past three evenings bathing in moonlight.

My jaw goes slack, and though words fly through my mind on ready, regretful wings, I am unable to speak as her guarded eyes hold me captive. I lick my lips, preparing to force their cooperation.

But I needn't have bothered.

"You wrote my father."

I blink at her voice, swallowing past the ache of missing it. "Yes."

"You told him I was alive."

Her expression reveals nothing, but one-word answers seem best. "Yes."

"You told him I would not come back, that I could never see him or my Liam again."

Though her voice falters on her brother's name, she does not relinquish her grip on my attention. "Yes."

With a low growl, her nostrils flare, and I drop my gaze to the floor. I am faintly aware of the Cullens' presence and their rising fear of a physical confrontation. Laying a harsh hand to either of us is a distasteful prospect, but neither could they allow us to destroy each other over a well-intended gesture.

Their concerns intensify when Rosalie strides across the gap between us with her hands outstretched as if to choke. Mrs. Cullen comes to her feet, though her husband prevents her from blocking Rosalie's path as she desires. Dr. Cullen's distress becomes a fervent prayer that Rosalie will see sense and decide not to attack me.

I pray I survive with most of my limbs intact.

But their thoughts on the matter disappear from my consciousness as Rosalie's hands close not around my throat but my face. And the Cullens cease to exist altogether when she strokes my cheek with a sigh and presses her exquisite lips to mine.

WHOA! Talk about your unexpected welcome! What's behind this response? And what will The Cullens say? Find out next time, dear readers! xoxo