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

Well... here we go. This is a long one, so hold on to your knickers.

Chapter 24: Zero Hour

Edward's POV

Nine days.

Nine days.

Though the earth spins and life continues around me, my mind, soul, and body have but one focus, one preoccupation among them.

Nine days.

Nine days.

I sit alone, retracing the scattered steps and decisions which led me to this place, this undefined place between dreams and reality where Rosalie has promised to meet me.

In nine days.

Eight days.

Seven days.

She has been careful to avoid being alone with me since we returned to the house that night. I cannot speak to her reasons as I have promised to stay out of her thoughts until invited again, but I am grateful for the reprieve.

For if I were to spend more than a passing moment in her presence, I fear I might combust.

Or fall to my knees in shameless gratitude.

Seven days.

Six days.

There is much I want to know, that I long to ask about our coming undertaking. Instinct, though no match for experience, is sure to guide where naïveté fails, but I wish to account for all possibilities, leaving nothing to chance.

But I am at a loss for how to accomplish this.

Six days.

Five days.

I contemplate my options, which are laughably few. Speaking with Dr. Cullen is impossible, and not merely because his disapproval is guaranteed. Taking him into such intimate confidence is a feat of which I am wholly incapable. Factor in my partner's identity, and the notion is almost blasphemous.

Mrs. Cullen is only slightly less repugnant, and that only because she is female and lacks that natural arrogance which I find so distasteful in her husband. Yet I cannot bring myself to speak to her about such matters, even if she fancies herself my mother.

Five days.

Four days.

It occurs to me to ask the source directly, to speak with Rosalie about her expectations, fears.

Desires?

But I am reluctant to increase any inherent awkwardness by discussing our enterprise prematurely. I can only hope my heightened senses will serve me well, leading me this way instead of that, driving us steadily forward to our destination.

A place of which I have never dared dream.

Until now.

Four days.

Three days.

I do my best to keep my mind from spiraling out of control, but my imagination cannot be quieted. My thoughts are as wild as my patience is thin, and though the days hasten toward our final hour, I wonder if I will survive the wait.

Three days.

Two days.

There is a note under my door when I return from my final hunt before the Cullens' departure. I scoop it greedily in my hands as if the very cup of life.

"I am preparing a place for us. When the moon rises, come find me."

I press the note to my face, inhaling her ripe scent. This explains her frequent, recent absences from the house and answers the all-important question of where.

I have imagined us all over the house—in the living room on the sofa, in the so-called kitchen against the wall, in the Cullens' bed for sport and spite.

But her decision to seal our bond away from here says something profound about her intentions, about her wish to make the night special.

And only about us.

Two days.

One day.

One more day.

The Cullens carry their suitcases to the door, needing them for show more than anything else as Carlisle plans to buy Esme anything her heart desires in London. His eyes are sharp as he appraises me, and I have never been more grateful to be the only telepath in the family.

"We shall return in two weeks." His eyes drift toward the section of the house I share with Rosalie. "Will you be all right until then?"

I stop short of glaring at him, wanting nothing to spoil my mood. "Yes."

"If anything happens and you need immediate assistance, call this number." He slips a piece of paper in my hand. "Eleazar and Carmen are friends."

I shove the note in my pocket, muttering my thanks.

I expect him to take his leave, but he continues to watch me, his all-seeing eyes searching my soul. And what he finds elicits a sigh.

"Be careful, Edward," His thought is strong enough to resemble a shout. "There are certain deeds one cannot undo."

My nostrils flare in annoyance, taken aback by his audacious accuracy. "Have a safe trip, Father."

The moniker brings him up short, and though he knows I hardly mean it, his attitude mellows nonetheless. "Thank you, son."

"We will bring you back something English," Esme says in a dreadful British accent. "Something posh and delightful."

Her excitement is infectious, and I surprise us both by laughing. "You do that."

She grins in response, her smile widening as Rosalie enters the room. "I am a perfect twelve in European gowns," she offers as she passes me. "Do not spread that number around."

"I wouldn't dream of it." Esme throws her arms around Rose, cupping her cheeks before kissing them both. "Embrace it," she says softly. And as she is thinking about dresses and designs, I cannot guess the reason.

Rosalie nods in return, and as I promised not to eavesdrop, I must content myself with the dark.

No matter. I have more pressing concerns.

Waving one final time, the Cullens finally depart. In one minute, they are driving down the mountain, and in three, they are completely out of earshot.

Leaving Rosalie and me alone.

She stands with her back to me, and I force my eyes to her heels, fisting my hands in my pocket to keep them chaste. As her toes turn toward me, I raise my eyes, meeting hers as she smiles shyly.

"Tomorrow."

I echo her expression, fighting the tremble in my voice.

"Tomorrow."

She quits the room, shutting herself in her private chamber, and I drag myself to mine, counting the seconds as if my life depends on them.

—B—I—

Tomorrow has become today.

Today has become tonight.

And nine days is suddenly now.

Now.

I stand in my room, staring into the trunk where I keep my clothes. Though this night has occupied my thoughts incessantly for nine days, I never gave any thought to what I would wear.

As if it matters.

Though I now wonder, does it matter?

A man's attire says less about him than that of his curvy counterpart, but does it not send a message? Were I to dress as if heading to the symphony, would she think me insincere? And as I do not ordinarily dress for bed, abandoning the practice with my humanity, would she think it odd if I did so tonight?

The clock in the hallway chimes the hour, and I grab the first outfit my mind approves.

I shall not keep her waiting for trifles.

Taking a final look in the mirror, wishing there were more to see, I head toward the living room. She has been gone all day, but her letter promised I would find her when the time was right.

And the time is now.

Opening the front door, there is nothing in the trees. Not a ribbon or silky scarf to beckon me forward, and I stave off a flare of annoyance at the momentary delay.

Until I look down, and my dead heart quickens.

Scattered on the ground, trailing ahead of me are rose petals of every shade imaginable: pink, ivory, goldenrod, lavender.

And blood red, the most poignant and pertinent of all.

Gratification eclipses surprise as I follow the trail she has laid for my benefit and pleasure, each step bringing me closer to her.

To now.

Though my eagerness increases with every step, I somehow harness enough self-control not to break out into a full-fledged run. This night, this journey is seminal beyond its sensuality, and as its implications wash over me, I find my pace slowing.

Not out of trepidation but of respect, for the path I tread is sacred.

Ironically so, as this path leads me decidedly away from the holiness my maker so ardently tries to inspire. My former self would be appalled at what my current self is preparing… longing… aching to do tonight.

But as the trail of teasing petals ends, the thought flies away on the breeze. Time, space, and reason cease to exist as I come to a complete stop, basking in the sight before me.

Rosalie stands with her hands clasped in front of her, her golden locks wavy and wild in the evening air. Her eyes hold me captive, daring me to blink, and I am undone.

We have yet to begin, and I am already undone.

Though the fiery heat of her gaze is more than enough, her chosen attire is more than I can bear. She is draped majestically in a long satin confection designed only to tempt my fingers and intensify my desire.

The decadent jade fabric transports me back to that three-day vigil during which her body shed its mortality. This is the color I initially associated with her, the glorious shade in which she first invaded my dreams, and as I shamelessly drink in the sight of her, I am overcome with unworthiness.

I do not deserve her.

I do not deserve this.

Yet here I am, atop a modest plateau above an inaccessible plane in the mountains, standing before a woman who renders me speechless.

And Christ himself would be hard-pressed to make me move.

My eyes take their sweet time traveling up her body, and as I enjoy the return trip, I wonder what I should do first. Does she wish to talk? And if so, what about? Would it be presumptuous to take her hand? Or should I wait for her to…

"Edward?"

Her smoky voice obliterates all thought, and I raise my eyes. "Yes?"

"Come here."

Her wish.

My command.

I blur across the space between us, taking her in my arms as our lips meet for the first time in seven months and eleven days. The sensation is staggering, and I tighten my arm around her waist for fear of falling. I wonder how I lived without this, how I chose to live without this for so long.

And how I will ever let her go again.

Our mouths tangle in a collision of longing and lust, no longer bound by fear or reluctance. She wraps her arms around my neck, pulling me closer, and I ardently wish I could crawl inside her skin and abide there forever.

We kiss and nip for a moment or an hour or a day. As the universe has condensed into her taste in my mouth, it is impossible to tell. But as her soft sighs create a heady fog in my brain, I once again forget to care.

I walk her backwards to the smoothest face of the rock, noting her lips have yet to cease in their exploration of mine. Her hands grip my shoulders as she tilts her head, her nails digging into the fabric of my jacket. She wants this as much as I do, and the realization humbles and excites me beyond articulation.

I press my hips into hers, and she groans, the amorous sound flooding my soul. She pushes back, her sacred heat baptizing me in want, and her lips move against mine with renewed purpose. Her hands slide up my shoulders and lock around my neck as her bottom lip dips below mine. The slick softness of her tongue teases my inner rim, and when she finally slides into my mouth, the madness consumes me completely.

Without another thought, I cradle her to me and lay her on the rose-covered platform she selected for our coupling, taking my place beside her. I am grateful for her forethought, for the time she spent creating this oasis, but my lips are too busy ingesting her to speak.

As our kisses intensify, my fingers wander over the expanse of her abdomen, inching toward the knot at her waist. I take it in my hands, bracing myself for resistance.

But there is none.

I raise my head to look in her eyes, and she whimpers at the loss of contact. Slowly she meets my gaze, and her eyes darken another impossible shade. She licks her lips as her eyes drop to mine, and she says but one thing.

"Please."

She needs say no more.

I tug at the silken tie, amazed at its ready submission, and unwrap the gift fate has bestowed upon me. She rises that I might remove her robe as I assist her in discarding my jacket. Though eager to resume our kiss, I must delay to appreciate the beauty before me.

The sultry gown is the same shade as the robe but cut to enhance her shape. Thin braided straps support the high sweetheart neckline with its diamond detailing. The smooth fabric continues seamlessly to the curve of her calves with only a simple satin sash to define the waist.

I have never seen or imagined anything so magnificent, and my eyes long to feast upon her until the sun rises and sets again. But as she cups my face and brings my mouth again to hers, I am forced to admire the gown with my hands only.

With one hand, I should say, for my skin tingles with need for her bare skin. My left hand comes to rest against her neck, sliding down to caress her shoulder. As she arches into me, my mouth trails open kisses from her chin to the fragrant hollow beneath her jawline. Fisting her gown strap in one hand, I slide it off her shoulder, baring her skin to my lips and tongue. She leans her head back, exposing herself, and I am awed by her desire and trust.

Her flavor unravels in layers as I taste her—wild jasmine, black orchid, smoky vanilla—and with each pass of my tongue, I become more intoxicated. Her soft moans are a holy chorus around me, and as I lick and nip at her warming flesh, she whispers my name as if a prayer.

"Edward?"

"Yes?"

"Edward."

Her supplication has become a statement.

She wants for nothing.

She wants everything.

And I shall give it to her.

I shall give her my all.

As I kiss my way back to her lips, I roll above her, resting on my forearms to keep us briefly apart. With ease and intent, I lower my hips to hers, and we gasp at the contact. My arousal is painful as it brushes against her, and I bury my face in her neck to keep from crying out.

She is too soft, too good.

Too much.

She begins to rock below me, her legs falling slowly apart, and I roll against her in kind, my body commanded by her every wish and whim. I pull the strap off her other shoulder, my lips teasing the skin above her neckline.

The skirt of her gown billows around my legs, reminding me of what separates us. Sliding my hand down her leg, I push the fabric up and away, liberating her lower leg. There is more to be explored, higher ground as it were, but I delay, contenting myself with her ankles and calves.

As I tease her skin with delicate caresses, she pulls my shirt out of my pants. Her hands slip beneath the fabric, inching toward my stomach. And as I brace for the unprecedented contact, I break my promise and slip into her mind, yearning to know her thoughts.

"His skin is on fire."

Yes, honey. I burn for you.

"How he trembles beneath my hand!"

I am yours to handle as you wish.

"I can do this for him. I must."

What?

"It is why I was created."

"What was that?"

Her hand stills on my ribcage, but she does not release me. "What?"

I stiffen in her arms, raising my head. "What did you mean by that?"

"I… I didn't say anything."

I sit back on my knees, my voice even. "I heard you."

She pulls away from my stomach, covering her mouth with her hand. "You promised you wouldn't."

I deserve her chastisement but remain undeterred. "What did you mean, Rosalie?"

She scoots backward, tucking her knees beneath her skirt. "I do not know what you mean."

"Are you…" I drag a shaky palm down my face. "Are you… are we here because you feel… obligated to me?"

"No!" Her voice is heated but lacking conviction. "Not the way you're thinking."

"Tell me at once."

Her eyes flash at my tone, but she does not respond.

I shut my eyes. "Rosalie, please."

"What is there to say, Edward? Esme told me why Carlisle changed me, that yes, he wanted to save me from dying before I'd begun to live, but he also desired me to be for you what she was for him. I was flabbergasted, not knowing what to say, but then she said you..."

"When?"

"What?"

"When did she tell you?"

She looks away. "Does it matter?"

My stone heart drops into my belly. "Yes."

"Edward, I hardly think we should…"

"When?" I demand.

"Ten days ago!"

Ten days ago.

Ten days.

Or

The day before we had nine days to go.

"It doesn't matter," she hurries on. "I had already made my decision by then, so her admission had very little to do with… where are you going?"

I am on my feet, my jacket in hand. "It doesn't matter."

"Edward!" Her panic stalls me as she grabs my arm. "Do not leave me here. Not like this!"

I turn to face her again, her beauty stealing the life from my soul. My hand starts to caress her cheek, but shame halts me, and I drop it at my side.

Useless. Just like me.

"Cover yourself," I murmur instead. "There is a chill in the air."

Her bottom lip trembles as her eyes shine with unsheddable tears. "Edward, please."

I should not leave.

I know this in my bones.

But I cannot bear to stay.

Not anymore.

"Don't." Her grip on my arm is painful. "Please don't."

"It is done, Rose." The words are barely audible. "Let me go."

She gasps, dropping my arm as if a flaming pillar, and I take my cue.

I step off the rock without a backward glance, destination anywhere but here.

This is probably the last thing on your mind right now, but here's the link to my inspiration for Rose's gown (the pink one on the left): .

So uh… what do you think?