Chapter Summary: Oh, my God! I ... what? I ... I ... raped Rosalie last night? I didn't. I swear to God! I didn't! I ...

I don't remember.

But the look in Rosalie's eyes when she said I didn't ...

Oh, my God. I raped Rosalie Hale.

I'm just like ... no. I'm worse. I'm worse than everybody else.

I woke up and the Sun entered straight through my eyeballs and sliced right into my head, and the pain, on waking was so intense I wanted to scream, but my mouth was dry as a desert and my throat was completely closed.

I threw my arm over eyes and pressed out the light from my eyeballs, and that only made the dull, thudding pain an intense agony.

God! Everything hurt. I mean: everything, but particularly my head.

I moaned in pain and tried to shift away from the light, but the light was everywhere filling the cabin.

In turning, I turned to Rosalie.

But she wasn't there anymore.

I whined. Alone, abandoned, and in pain, I wondered why was everything out to kill me!

"Take it easy, Bella; take it easy," Rosalie's calm voice floated over to me from the sink. "You're dehydrated."

Okay. Not so much alone, I guess. So that was one less worry, so to speak.

At the sound of her voice I took my arm down and looked toward her, to see if this wasn't a dream.

Mistake.

The light filtering in from the window above the sink, the 'scullery,' hit Rosalie and then flashed off her perfect skin like silent lightning bolts, but flashed, then stayed, burning their way right through my eyes into my brain.

I screamed in agony, and the scream itself torn its way out of my throat.

Kill me now, God!

Rosalie moved quickly, silent lightning inside a pool of silent lightning, and she was on me in a heartbeat. Why?

Her hand came over my eyes, pushing my eyelids closed, and her touch, the surprise of it, made me jerk and made me sick in an instant, and I heaved up absolutely nothing from my painfully empty tummy, ...

But then ...

Then the coolness, the coldness, actually, of her firm, steady hand over my eyes was an instant balm, and I relaxed as I let the cold-iciness of her hand burn through, no: melt through my burning eyelids and actually cool my eyeballs, actually seem to touch the inside of my skull and seep into my brain.

It hurt. It hurt a lot, but the hurt was way better than the agony I was experiencing.

I think I just discovered what it actually felt like to feel a 'good hurt.'

And then her God-damn luxurious scent blanketed me ...

Yeah. It was heavenly. Absolutely nothing like my morning breath and armpit-'stank' I felt just wafting off of me in waves.

She put me to shame, just by existing. That's what Rosalie Hale did. And it wasn't even her fault. She didn't even try at it. It was just ... because. It was just because, is all. That's just how things were.

"It's okay, sweetie," Rosalie's voice lilted consolingly. As she sang this reassurance, I felt her reach up above us, pulling the blanket off me as she did, then, ka-WHAM!

"Ow?" I whimpered, confused, and the impact of the sound hammering into my head.

"Sorry," Rosalie muttered tersely, "just once more." Then ... ka-Wham!

"Err!" I complained. The second hammer-blow hurt my head less than the first, but maybe only because I expected it. I don't know.

Rosalie's hand came back to me and cradled my head.

"Drink this," she said, putting a cup to my lips.

Water. Cool water trickled into my mouth then slid down my throat.

You don't know how sweet water tastes, how pure, until you're desperately thirsty for it. I sipped at it in tiny, little sips like a man whose throat had been closed off completely, wandering in the hot, dry desert for weeks.

Rosalie pulled the sheet covering what I found to be my naked body. I felt her return to the sink.

"Okay ..." was all the warning she gave, then ka-WHAM! ka-WHAM!

I pressed my arm back over my eyes. "Okay, ow!" I said.

I just put that out there, so Rosalie knew that sound hurt me.

Just in case she didn't know.

I knew she knew. I also knew I was being just a little bit mean, but, seriously, I wish she was pounding away at my head, so I would have something to take my mind off the pain.

"Finished?"

Rosalie's voice was by my side again, floating above me. I could sense the cabin was now dark. I dared to remove my arm from my face and take a quick peek out from slitted eyes.

Yep. Dark. So the agony on my eyeballs was just now all me. Joy.

"I was just about to ask you that," I muttered surlily.

Is that a God-damn word? 'Surlily,' for God's sake?

I was just a bundle of joy this morning, wasn't I?

I looked down blearily at my cup. It was still half-full, I reckoned.

"Working on it," I growled at her a curt, clipped answer.

Rosalie frowned, pursing her lips in an unpleasant frown. "Well, sit up, and finish this cup. Then you'll have to drink another full cup."

She pulled me up. I considered glaring at her, but I didn't know if I could risk it.

I risked a peek.

"Rosalie," I said, now very shy. "Why am I naked?"

Rosalie frowned down at me. "How much of last night do you remember?" she put to me.

I rocked my head; a gesture that made me feel sick, so I regretted it. "Ummmm, ..." I squeezed my eyes together in concentration. Another move I instantly regretted as pain lanced through my head. "Ow!" I whined, then ruefully opening my eyes, said: "Some?"

I asked that more than said it.

"Uh ... huh," Rosalie said slowly. I heard the slightest edge to her voice. It was something like caution, or distaste, or disapproval.

Okay. What the hell happened last night that I don't remember?

I looked at her. She glowed with a very cool light, a light that seemed to suck in even the just the little bit that snuck in from the curtained windows, then her body seemed to glow inside with it, not letting go the light, but still she glowed with ... power? something? But she was bearable to look at now, not refracting terrifying lightning bolts from her in a continuous stream of agony.

"But ..." I said finally. "Why are you naked?"

I don't remember any of that.

"Ah," she said, "The part you don't remember?"

This time I heard it for sure: the edge in her voice.

"Rosalie," I said, just so not up for crossing words, "please tell me what happened! Did it get too hot for you in the cabin ...?" I remember it being hot last night.

Very hot.

And her body, so cool, so smooth against my body, which was so hot, hot, hot, burning up with fever, or so it felt like.

Or at least that's what it felt like now. I couldn't stand being in my skin now. If I sat still, I felt the bed beneath me heat up uncomfortably from my skin.

I pondered this. "... Was I too hot for you?" I asked in a small voice.

She was so cold. I wondered if the heat from my body hurt her?

Rosalie just stared at me for so long that I started getting really hot under the collar. Which is an impossibility, because I wasn't wearing a collar. My hand went up, automatically, to my neck to finger it nervously.

And that's when it brushed against the choker.

And then I really blushed.

I had forgotten all about it, but there it was, around my neck, a snake: soft, supple, and unnoticeable until it was right there on your fingertips and then it had your full attention.

Rosalie looked at my hand, my neck. It had her full attention now, too.

"The one thing," she said, "that kept you alive last night."

"What?" I said, stunned.

Rosalie frowned, turning from me to attend to the breakfast-in-the-making in the skillet. My mouth watered as I watched her work, and I thought she was done with this conversation, she was quiet for so long.

"I was so ... close," she whispered, "just so close, so often, but ..."

She flipped the egg.

"Rosalie," I said. "I remember not ... " I blushed. "Not wearing my PJs, but I thought ... I thought I left my panties on. I mean ... what ..."

I looked away quickly.

"D-did ... did you... take them off, or ..."

"No."

Rosalie's voice was a quick, quiet riposte to my unsure stutters.

She kept her eyes fixed on breakfast, lifting the skillet from the stove.

"But ..." I said, "... where are they, then?"

Rosalie ladled the food onto a plate and brought it to the table.

She jerked her chin toward me. "You're sitting on them."

I stood quickly, stung by her words, and swept around, ignoring the sharp, stabbing pain to my head.

My panties were there.

Or bits of them were.

They were ripped to shreds.

I gasped. But what caught my attention was that Rosalie's ... thing, whatever you call it, her nighty ...

It was there, too.

Ripped to shreds.

I did some super-fast mental calculations, putting the pieces together.

I turned, very carefully and faced Rosalie.

She straightened up, facing me, unbowed, unashamed.

"Ro-..." I started, then I swallowed.

I suddenly wanted to scream, or to cry.

"Rosalie ... you did this?" I asked very quietly.

She stared right back at me.

"No," she said.

She did not break eye contact. Not for one second.

"Rosalie Hale," I said louder, my voice cracking. "You tell me, and you tell me true. Did you do this? Did you ... take ... advantage of me while I slept?"

"No," she said.

"Then ..." I took a deep breath.

I was totally exposed to her and her unflinching glare. We were both naked, but she stood proud, and I was scared out of my mind.

"Then ... who did this?" I asked.

Suddenly, I was very, very afraid of the answer.

Rosalie was, too.

She didn't show it.

But she was afraid.

"You did," she said.

"I ..." I said.

I blinked.

"I did?" I said.

"Yes," she said.

I wanted to look back at the shredded clothes, to confirm that they were real, because now I couldn't believe anything anymore. This was just so surreal.

"I did?" I said again, disbelief creeping into my voice.

"Yes," she said.

I blinked.

oh, my God, a little tiny voice whispered in my head.

Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Oh, my ...

My throat started to seize up.

"Rosalie," I said, not trusting my own voice any more. "Di-did I ... take advantage of you?"

Rosalie didn't react.

I shut my eyes, hard.

And I saw it.

Me, screaming, scratching, crying, ripping, and Rosalie trying to hold me away, and then, ... and then ...

"Did I ... rape you?" I breathed, barely a whispered thought I didn't dare even taste in my mouth.

I opened my eyes, looking at her intently.

"No," she said.

Then she looked away, quickly, a lightning-flash break of eye contact. Then she looked right back into my eyes.

Deliberately.

I died inside.

I sat down hard on the bed.

She had just lied to me.

...

"D-d-d-d-d-d-d-d-dddon' TOUCH ME!" I wailed.

"Sh, sh, sh, Bella," Rosalie whispered in my ear, consoling me. "You'll fret yourself, and over what? Nothing!"

I was wrapped in Rosalie's arms, and legs, cocooned in her. And I hated it. I hated her touch, because I hated her touching scum: her rapist.

"Nothing? NOTHING?" I screamed. "I raped you! That's nau-nawt nutthin'; that's ..."

"Bella," Rosalie implored, "no. No, you didn't. I said you didn't, Bella. I said you didn't."

"You LIED!" I screamed. "Oh, my God! OH! My GOD! I'm ... I'm scum! I'm worse'n Royce. I'm ..."

Rosalie carefully put her hand over my mouth.

"Sh, sh, sh, Bella," she said. "I didn't lie."

"MMmmmm!" I screamed into her hand.

"Bella," Rosalie said quietly. "Please. Listen to me, hm? Will you please listen to me?"

"Mm!" I huffed.

"Listen?" Rosalie asked.

She waited patiently for the storm of emotion in me to go away.

And, eventually, the worst ... passed. My body still shuddered and my breaths were ragged, but Rosalie's encircling arms and legs had prevented me from doing myself harm.

I didn't know if I hated her for that: protecting me from me.

I drew a long, ragged breath through my stopped-up nostrils.

It was actually really hard to breathe at all.

"Listen," Rosalie said, and carefully removed her hand from my mouth.

I gasped in big gulps of air.

And I listened.

Rosalie said nothing.

"I'm listening!" I said grudgingly and a little bit impatiently.

I regretted that. I was angry, and I wanted Rosalie to explain, to make it all better, to make this horrible realization go away.

But she wasn't doing that. Was she making me suffer? I was suffering! Did she enjoy this?

It ... didn't ... feel like she was enjoying this.

"Shh, Bella," Rosalie whispered.

I squirmed in her arms.

I couldn't move, not even one inch.

"Sh, sh, sh," she hushed quietly.

I bit my tongue, biting back a nasty retort. I mean: how quiet did she want me to be?

Very quiet, I supposed. My heartbeat slowed, and my body relaxed into hers.

It felt ... amazingly good. No, not 'good.' It felt right.

If there were nothing else, just her and me, this is how it would be: her holding me into her like this.

Then I tensed. But there was more than this moment. There was last night. And what happened.

"What happened, Rosalie?" I asked sadly.

"What do you remember?" she asked.

"You know." I hissed. "You were there!"

"Yes, I was," she said. "So I do know. And, no, you didn't rape me, Bella, okay? But I need to know what you know, okay?"

"You ..." I said, gulping. "... I didn't?"

I couldn't say the rest.

"No," she said firmly. "You didn't."

I didn't believe. Or, actually, I didn't want to. "I can't see your eyes," I said.

"Why does that matter?" she said.

"I can tell if you're lying."

Rosalie was quiet at that.

"How?" she asked.

"You look away when you lie," I whispered.

"Ah," Rosalie said.

Then she was quiet again.

I wondered what she was going to do now. But she didn't leave me wondering for long.

Rosalie shifted on the bed, and lifted herself up and over me, and then, there she was, facing me, eye to eye.

Now I couldn't look at her.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, not looking at her.

"For what?" she demanded.

I shook my head and swallowed. "God!" I said.

That was all I could say.

If I had imagined the worst thing I could do to Rosalie Hale, after what she had been through at the end of her life!

I couldn't imagine doing this to her.

"Bella," Rosalie said. She put her hands onto my cheeks and forced me to look at her, or, didn't force me to, but captured my face in her hands, and my eyes in hers, and I couldn't look anywhere else. "For what?" she repeated.

"Fo-for ... raping ... you," I said and I swallowed.

I was this close to tears, and I was doing everything I could to hold it in.

"Bella," Rosalie said intently, "you ... didn't!"

Then I looked at her. I really looked at her, and I counted the seconds before she would look away ... one ... two ... three ...

And ... she didn't. Not this time. She so didn't that I almost didn't believe that she did the first time.

But she did. I saw.

"Th-then," I swallowed again, pulling in my reserves, "how come you looked away before when I said that, and you said I didn't but you looked away. You did! I swear!"

I drew in a ragged breath.

Rosalie's mouth twitched into a wry grimace. "So you don't remember?"

"Remember what, Rosalie, please!" I burst out.

"Bella," Rosalie said, calmly, measuring me. "How much do you want to know?"

"GOD!" I shouted, "everything!"

Rosalie chuckled drily. "Of course," she said.

The she lay back in the bed, looking up at the rafters, then she blew out a long, slow, tired sigh.

"So," she said abruptly, businesslike, glancing at me, then looking back straight up. "Do you remember tearing off my bodice?"

"God!" I said, shocked, "no!"

She just didn't warn a girl with her questions, did she? She just dove right in.

Like that should surprise me anymore. But it did.

"So you don't remember why you said you were doing it?" She asked the ceiling.

"No," I said, looking at her face, so detached from everything.

She glanced at me really quickly, then returned to studying the ceiling. "Huh," she remarked.

"Rosalie ..." I pleaded.

"You've done this before," she said. She looked at me. "Don't you remember?"

"No ..." I said.

"That night?" she said.

What night? I wanted to scream.

Rosalie sighed. "You said," she said, "that you were hot, and you ripped off my clothes ... well, my shirt, at the time, and you put your head to my ..."

Rosalie bit her lip and was quiet, then, she continued, "... to my chest, and the relief from you was so ... palpable that ..."

"Rosalie," I said carefully. Something didn't add up. "You let me rip off your clothes?"

Rosalie glanced at me guiltily. "Wellll..." her voice trailed off. "I ... Last time, yes, because you rather surprised me with your ... " she smirked, "tenacity, but this time, I wasn't going to let you. I was prepared, you see, but then ..."

She grimaced and looked away.

"But then ...?" I said, dread filling my voice.

"Well," Rosalie seemed to amend herself quickly, "then you surprised me, is all."

I glared at her, hard. I saw the lie even as she formed it. The lie, or the cover-up, or whatever it was.

And I hated it.

"How." I said coldly.

I didn't ask.

I demanded.

Rosalie grinned at me, ruefully. "How much do you ...?"

The voice died in her throat.

If looks could kill, Rosalie Hale would be dead. Again.

She smiled sadly. "Give me your hand," she said, holding out hers to mine.

I looked at her, and carefully extended my hand to hers.

We were holding hands now?

No. It wasn't a 'precious moment.'

Rosalie flipped my hand over, so that it was palm up, then she said. "You surprised me because you ... took your hand, and you struck me, here, across the cheek, hard."

Then she put my palm to her face, on her cheek, where I had hit her there, I guess, and she held it there for a second.

"Oh, my God!" I said, snatching my hand away.

I looked at my palm. Was it ... redder? It stung from her touch ...? Or did it sting from more?

Much more.

I had slapped Rosalie Hale? Last night?

I couldn't believe it. But the scary thing was ... maybe I could.

"And ..." she said through the sound of my heart beating loudly in my head, "... I'm sorry, Bella," she added quickly, "but Royce did ... that ... and I guess ... well, I actually did: I froze, because ..."

Her voice drifted away, and she was still looking at me, or, no: her eyes were vacant now, looking past me and through me, caught up in her memory.

I gulped. "Oh, God, Rosalie!" I said quickly, "I am so, so ..."

"And ..." she said, a wry smirk on her face, "th-that's when you ripped off my ... clothes, I mean. You saw the advantage, and ..." she shrugged sadly, "and you took it ... just like ..."

She swallowed now and looked away.

"Just like Royce," I said gravely.

Guilty.

Guilty as charged.

"Yes," she said softly, so lost in herself.

Then, something changed inside her, some wellspring of resolve she tapped into, because, suddenly, she recollected herself, and then she looked at me, really looked at me, and said, "But ... no."

"What?" I said, confused, drowning in my own guilt so that I didn't hear what she was saying, properly.

"I said, 'but no,' Bella, because," she said, "Royce wasn't satisfied with ... anything that I could give. He took. But you were. You ... put your ... head to my chest, and you sighed, and you were ... satisfied ..." She paused, and then thoughtfully, so that almost a smile ghosted her lips, and with that, she added: "content. You were ... content."

I looked at her, stunned. Believing, because I saw it, in her face. There was contentment ... happiness ... she was hiding it from me, but it was there. I didn't hurt her.

"I ..." I said, utterly confused.

Rosalie smiled at me, sadly, then, very, very gently, drew me to her, and she kissed me on my forehead.

And, drawing back, she regarded me very gravely, and whispered: "Thank you."

And smiled.

And then she was out of that bed so fast I couldn't even breathe because the air around where she had been was surprised she was gone.

And she walked away from me, just like that. She walked away, and seeing her, her back to me, her back, and then her back where it curved down to her hips, – God! She's so beautiful, so perfect in every way! – I felt myself being pulled away with her, each step she receded was a step of agony I felt in my very being because it was her pulling away from me.

And I'm ashamed to say ...

This:

If she had stayed in this bed with me, if she came back to me, ...

I would've raped her.

I swear to God. I would have taken her with everything in me, her consent or no. I wanted her that badly: it hurt so bad that I needed to have her right now, and it was a good thing, for her, that she left the bed as she did, because I would not have stopped myself.

And it was a terrible, awful thing for her leaving me.

Because I knew what I was losing.

My very soul.

Rosalie took my soul with her.

And I didn't want it back. Ever. I wanted her to keep it always, so the only way I could have it was to be with her, always.

"Rosalie ..." I called, every single bit of my longing ringing in my voice.

She stopped. "What?" she said softly.

She didn't turn. She didn't look at me.

"C-come back. Come back here," I said.

"Hm," she hummed thoughtfully. "No."

"Why?" I said.

"Ha."

It was a sad little laugh she barked. Then she continued on, away, away from me, back to the stove. She removed the emptied frying pan from the stove and brought it to the sink, carelessly discarding it. She bent her head over the sink, silent, for a long, long time.

"Rosalie ..." I said sadly. "Why? Wh-what does that mean?"

Rosalie lifted her head and looked out the window above the sink. "'Again,'" she said, "'if two lie together, then they have warmth; but how can one be warm alone?'"

She turned, leaning against the sink and looked at me intently.

She said those words with such ceremony, like they were bigger than her.

"What does that mean to you, Bella?" she asked.

"Well, ..." I floundered helplessly. It sounded like ... I don't know, ... why marriage made sense, if you lived all alone with your wife in a cabin in the middle of the woods.

Kind of ... you know: like us.

"When I held you last night, Bella," Rosalie said, "your body kept getting hotter and hotter. Do you know why?"

"Um ..." I said.

"It was because," she said, answering her own question, "your little body was fighting harder and harder to stay alive, even as I sucked the very life from you with each one of your heartbeats."

I drew in a sharp breath. "You mean...?" and my hands flew to my neck again.

The choker was still there, and I didn't feel any ... you know ... bumps on my neck around it.

Rosalie shook her head sadly, answering my fear, but not reassuringly.

"So," she continued, "I covered you with the blanket, and I went, and got a flower, and held it through the night, as I held you as you slept ... to show you."

Rosalie turned back to the sink, and, lifting one of the flowers out from the bunch we had picked yesterday, she turned back to me, holding it delicately in her hand.

The flower petals were pure white, not only that, but the leaves were bleached, too, somehow. I don't recall we picked a white flower, and it seemed bigger than the others.

I looked at Rosalie, helplessly. "To show me what, Rosalie?" I asked quietly.

She smiled bitterly, then she blew.

The delicate flower turned to a cloud of dust, disintegrating into the air between us.

I blinked twice, rapidly. "How ...?" I gasped.

"All night," she said, "the flower fought to stay alive, and just holding it – as I held you, Bella – I sucked the life from it, even as it fought to live. No, the more it fought, the more it died ... it simply burned itself up, and that heat, that energy sunk to the lowest, coldest point it could find." Rosalie smiled. "Me. It happened slowly, over time, minute-by-minute, hour-by-hour, but that's what happened. Just like with you. You were so ... hot last night, and you burned yourself up against me, and I just ..."

She broke off quickly and turned away.

"And I just sucked the heat from you, Bella, and you just ... you just gave it to me. That's why you're dehydrated now. That's why your hangover is so painful, isn't it? It's not just because of the alcohol. It's because of me. I am colder than you," she whispered, "I am colder than the snow; I am colder than ... everything, everything that breathes, and lives, ... has any kind of energy, coherence, anything at all: even stone. I suck the life of everything I touch. Slowly, but surely, or, mercifully, ... in one, swift strike. Either way: it's inevitable."

I saw the edges of Rosalie's mouth turn up in a sad grin. "You can't love me, Bella, for I am Death, and to love me is to die. It may take days, or weeks, or months, your body fighting it the whole time, struggling so bravely to live, but because of your very life, all you can do is give, until you can't anymore, a dried up, emptied husk, no more life within you, and because of my unlife, all I can do is take, but I can never, ever stop taking. You can fight and burn up and age and age so quickly, fighting it, but ... no: it's inevitable," she repeated.

"Is that your one word, Rosalie?" I said.

Rosalie was quiet for a long time, her back to me a study in sadness.

"No," she whispered.

Then she straightened up, looking between the cracks in the curtains outside. Looking at the flowers. Looking at I don't know what: anything. Nothing.

"Eat your breakfast, Bella. Then bathe. Then, we'll talk."

Then she just stilled herself and said no more. A stone. She was gone, lost in her thoughts, lost in her inevitability. She was lost, but worse, I was lost, too, and now I didn't know how to find my way back into the fight. A fight that Rosalie said was pointless, anyway.

I drew the bed sheet around me, a makeshift slip, and walked sadly to the table.

Breakfast awaited me there.

A/N: Well, that.

But then this:

"When two lie together, ..."

Rosalie isn't telling Bella a lot of what happened last night. Yes, Bella did complain of heat, and her head hurting, and yes, she did rip off Rosalie's clothes, to get to the coolness below. And no, Bella did not rape Rosalie. So, it's all ... accurate. And nothing what happened last night escaped Rosalie's lips.

And it never will.

That doesn't mean Bella won't find out. Somehow. She seems to find things out that nobody else does. Or things find her that find nobody else.

Either way.

It's ... inevitable.