Leah didn't speak as she moved.
The moonlight filtered through the trees in patches, dusting the undergrowth with silver.
Her body knew the path—barely rustling the ferns, weight light on her toes in the thin black toe shoes with their wolf-paw treads.
She liked the way they moved with her. Quiet. Functional. A nod to what she was. What she'd always been.
The forest was still.
Not the eerie kind of still, but the sacred kind—the kind that wrapped around your shoulders like an old prayer, letting you walk through memory without interruption.
Leah Clearwater moved without hurry, her footfalls quiet on the mossy ground. She didn't need to speak to know Embry was behind her.
He matched her pace like a second heartbeat—always had.
Her hair was braided back into two thick plaits, beads threaded in patterns that clicked softly against her jacket whenever she turned her head.
The braids framed her high cheekbones, fierce and proud.
Her hoodie was cutoff—raw edges at the shoulders, leaving her arms bare to the cool night air.
The beads were subtle.
Honoring. Her father had helped her choose them.
A single tattoo rested over her heart.
Not large, not loud.
A fingerprint. Harry Clearwater's. Shaped into the mark of a paw print—small, black, alive.
They'd left the others behind—Jared Paul and Collin at the beach, holding down home base.
Leah had said it plain: not every fighter belonged in the field.
It was just her and Embry now.
She didn't look back.
Leah wasn't the Alpha. But she was Second. And Jacob's trust was something she carried like bone.
She thought of him now.
Jacob, with his too-big heart, with the way he treated her strength like it was something sacred. He was the first one who didn't ask her to dim.
The first one who saw the rage, the wisdom, the cracked-open grief—and said, yes, exactly that. Not "calm down." Not "get over it."
Just Lead.
She respected him for it.
Loved him, in that rare kind of way you only love people who know your worst truths and still stand beside you when it counts.
And right now, he was with the baby.
Beaufort, she thought.
The name still felt strange on her tongue, but something about the kid's existence was growing on her.
He was clearly smart—sensitive, even. Jacob had said as much, but Leah saw it for herself the first time the baby met her wolf and didn't flinch.
Leah stepped over a root, scanning the curve of the woods, her pulse steady.
For a long time, neither spoke. But Leah could feel something—an edge to Embry's silence. It wasn't hesitation. It was something quieter.
Heavier.
When he finally spoke, his voice came out low, almost shy. "Lee…"
She turned her head slightly.
A signal. Listening.
Embry exhaled. "You ever… feel something pulling at you? Like, inside?"
Leah didn't answer.
Not yet. She kept walking.
Embry's bare chest rose and fell as he followed.
The moonlight caught the chainmail-like necklace around his throat—something handmade from woven materials, sturdy but strange.
His wide-cut black Dickies whispered with each step, his chin-length hair swinging slightly as he moved.
The silver glint of his septum piercing caught the light like a secret.
"I'm not saying it's… that," he said quietly. "But it feels close. And I don't want it to rule me."
That made Leah stop.
She turned slowly, brows raised.
Embry looked pained. Honest.
"I don't wanna end up like Quil. Just… snapped in half by something I didn't get to choose."
Leah nodded once. She understood. More than anyone.
She let herself think about Bella then.
Privately.
The way you do when no one can hear you.
She didn't hate the girl, not really. But Bella Swan was a goddamn magnet for chaos.
Wherever she went, people followed.
Fell. Burned.
Leah couldn't untangle how much of the rage she'd once felt had belonged to her and how much of it had simply been mourning, misplaced.
Because Bella had gotten to choose—and Leah? Leah had been chosen for.
Still, there was something wild and unknowable in Bella that made Leah wary.
Not bad, just… untethered. Like a storm that hadn't decided where to land.
She'd never said it aloud, but part of her had always been watching Bella out of the corner of her eye.
Waiting.
Not just to protect Jacob.
But because she didn't trust what Bella might become. What she might wake up.
Leah exhaled slowly through her nose.
And then, like a ghost sliding up from a memory, her father's voice surfaced.
"You know what the worst punishment is, Lee-lee?" he used to tease, tugging on the fishing rods she'd been told to prep as penance.
"Going fishing with you," she'd grumble.
But she always smiled when she said it.
Those were the moments she remembered most.
Not the anger. Not the phasing. Just her dad—casting lines, telling stories, watching the water like it held every answer.
Harry had never grounded her.
He'd just made her sit in the silence of patience. Of hooks and line and time.
He'd known how to hold her fire without putting it out.
Leah swallowed hard.
You'd be proud of me, Dad, she thought.
Up ahead, the trees opened to a stretch of sand, black and silver in the moonlight.
Behind her, Embry followed, his footfalls steady but respectful.
She could feel him watching her.
Just enough to be reassuring.
Not enough to crowd.
She gave no orders. She didn't have to.
The pack would follow her lead.
They all knew something was coming.
She crouched to press her palm to the ground. Just for a moment.
The soil was cold.
But steady.
She rose.
Embry stepped closer, like he wanted to say something. She turned to face him—
Before she could think, a shadow moved overhead.
Leah barely had time to blink.
And then—
Wind.
Not ordinary wind, but the kind that came before a storm. That came with wings.
Leah looked up.
And that's when the sky broke open.
A figure dropped fast, out of the clouds like a blade, red cape flaring behind her in a streak of movement too graceful to be an accident.
A leech was falling from the sky.
A blur of copper and white, of gleaming boots and a cloak like falling snow.
She wore a traditional Russian cape—long, thick, embroidered with silver thread—over modern clothing that clung to her with effortless elegance.
Her hair—copper-gold and wild—flared behind her like fire in motion. A beauty mark on her cheek caught the starlight like punctuation.
Time slowed.
She and Leah locked eyes.
And Leah's whole world rearranged.
Shock bloomed across Tanya's face—but it wasn't fear.
It was awe.
Then she hit the lake with a splash so clean it sounded like a hymn.
Leah didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Only breathed.
Then, in a whisper, she said: "Who the fuck was that?"
And somewhere in her chest, something ancient and sharp began to stir.
Jane couldn't remember the last time she'd felt… this.
Pleasantly overwhelmed.
It wasn't just the warmth in Seth's palm, or the way her knuckles still tingled from his kiss.
It was his grin—unrestrained, youthful, reckless in a way only the very mortal or very loved dared to be.
That grin made something ancient in her go quiet.
Her eyes—normally flat rubies—were dilated and dark, black bleeding into red like spilled ink.
A happy accident. Embarrassing, for someone of her age, her rank.
But she didn't look away.
Seth smelled like pine needles crushed under bare feet. Like the sun after a storm. Sandalwood, bark, breath.
To Jane, it was intoxicating.
To him, she smelled like rust and linen.
Like blood remembered and innocence stolen.
He didn't flinch.
She lifted one gloved hand, tracing the line of his jaw, the soft rise of his cheekbone.
Reverent. Almost confused. Like she was studying a piece of art made for her alone.
His breath hitched—but he didn't move.
With her other hand, she tapped the comm link behind her ear. It glowed faint green.
"Requesting… personal extension," she murmured, eyes still locked to his. "Other half located."
A pause. Then a low ping.
She clarified in the ancient tongue Aro preferred for formal records: "Soul half located. Greek model. Full-body confirmation pending."
Just before she could whisper the safe word, the earpiece blinked red.
She scowled. "Incoming."
Then tapped again.
"Ruby," he said dryly, using the codename she loathed, "you're stalling."
"I'm on assignment," she replied smoothly.
"I' was enjoying my to go meal when something interesting stumbled my way," he cut in. "Three potentials. One of them bit me. Mildly embarrassing."
Jane arched a brow. "You?"
"They're gifted," he said.
"Not werewolf. Not vampire. Something… tangled. One's a black wolf—female. Alpha-aligned. Another: mottled gray, bulk-built, scent's erratic. Third's smaller. Keeps vanishing."
"Names?"
"Unofficial. Samantha. Emilio. Bradley."
Her gaze flicked to Seth.
"And?"
"I can handle them. For now. But the moment's thin. K.A.V. will want them."
Of course he would.
A beat.
"You should return."
Jane didn't respond immediately. Her eyes flicked to Seth, still kneeling, still watching her like she was the miracle and not the curse.
"I'll return," she said quietly, "after I'm done."
Jane exhaled slowly and reactivated her initial transmission.
"Pending extension. Package discovered. Emotional entanglement unavoidable. Will remain to secure."
She cut the line.
When she turned back, Seth was still watching her.
Still waiting.
He took her hand again—gently this time—and began kissing up her arm, each press of his lips slower, softer, more reverent than the last.
Jane didn't stop him.
Didn't speak.
Only breathed.
For once, the world didn't require her attention.
It simply… allowed her this.
Eric had been trying to not watch them.
Whatever "them" had become.
But it was hard not to stare when a centuries-old killer was being kissed like a holy relic by a boy who still used a sock drawer.
Jane's eyes were black. Not inky. Not just red with hunger.
Black.
Eric's stomach twisted. Not in horror.
In anticipation.
He didn't understand it. Couldn't place it. A tension had been growing in his belly since the beach.
Since before the beach, if he was being honest—something seeded during his visit to a place he still couldn't explain.
A place where the rain smelled like home and the ground whispered back.
It was like something inside him was waiting. Watching.
Becoming.
Beside him, Alice moved suddenly.
She didn't look at him when she spoke. Her voice was soft, like silk over blade.
"Everything comes with a price," she said. "Even happy endings."
Eric frowned. "Yeah? What about futures?"
Alice finally turned. Her eyes were impossibly old.
"You're still thinking of futures like they're fixed," she said. "But they're more like constellations. Visible only after the explosion."
Eric bristled. "So what—mine was worth the blast?"
Alice's smile faltered for a heartbeat. Just enough to make it real.
"You'll see it soon," she said. "Why you matter."
She stepped closer, leaned in until her lips barely brushed his ear. "Rain. That's what you said your favorite smell was, right?"
Eric froze.
Her whisper deepened.
"Embry."
His body went stiff. His breath caught.
But before he could speak, a sound pulled his attention.
The soft glide of tires on wet road.
Carlisle's car.
⸻
The black Mercedes rolled to a gentle stop at the edge of the field. Its shine looked almost out of place here, among moss and pine.
The clearing stilled.
Jane's head turned toward it instantly, eyes narrowing. Every vampire in the clearing shifted in her direction—not out of fear. Out of deference.
Eric had never seen anything like it.
Carlisle Cullen stepped out first.
Still in that same black wool coat from the funeral. Still too elegant, too precise for Forks. His hair was tied back, neat. A satin ribbon glinting black under the stars.
Esme followed.
And for a moment, no one moved.
Carlisle nodded toward Jane. Nothing dramatic. Just a subtle tilt of the head.
She inclined hers in return.
And then, as if a spell had broken, the clearing exhaled.
Jacob lay low beneath a bramble of pine, dirt clinging to his fur in thick smears.
He'd rolled in it earlier, instinctively, the way wolves did when they needed to mask their scent.
Tactics 101. The earth didn't reject him. It welcomed him back.
His russet coat looked like shadows between roots. Long hair glinting only where moonlight kissed it—barely there. Even the wind didn't know he was watching.
His ears twitched, catching the light murmur of Paul's mental voice patrolling home base.
Jared and Collin were still down on the beach, human, laughing with half-drunk out-of-towners. But Jacob? He stayed in the woods.
Watching.
His tail swished, slow and quiet.
Carlisle's car had pulled in minutes ago, smooth and unbothered. The way immortals moved—like they had all the time in the world because they'd taken most of it already.
Jacob watched from his vantage as the vampire stepped out, still dressed like grief, that ridiculous dramatic wool coat draped over his sharp frame.
Esme followed, soft as dusk, carrying warmth in her hands the way some people carried weapons.
But it wasn't them Jacob was focused on.
It was her.
The ruby-eyed girl. The one Seth hadn't stopped looking at. The one who had touched him like she wasn't afraid to care.
The moment she saw Carlisle, she turned. The whole clearing shifted. Not a sound, not a word—just deference.
The others looked at her like she was something sacred and terrifying.
The Volturi girl.
Jane.
Jacob narrowed his eyes.
He didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Not yet.
He was still trying to piece it together. What she was doing here. Why his kid packmate—his youngest brother in all but blood—was looking at her like that.
the Pixie was the one who had orchestrated the smoother outcome, Jacob knew.
He could smell her scheming from a mile away. She was the reason things hadn't fallen apart.
The reason everyone had been warned before this moment even happened.
And it hadn't always been that way between them.
The Pixie and him.
He thought of the first time they'd really talked. Not just barked at each other.
After his first real night terror. He hadn't been able to sleep.
Had wandered onto Cullen land out of desperation, all ribs and restlessness.
The house had been abandoned, but Alice was there.
He'd frozen.
But instead of turning him away, she'd looked at him like he was something useful.
Said the migraines stopped when he was close.
That being around him made it easier to bend her visions around the wolves.
Just for a few seconds.
Just enough to choose.
And now?
She was choosing again.
Jacob watched her turn toward Eric—dark-eyed, pale-skinned, dressed for mourning and retribution both.
The kid reeked of grief and something older. Magic, Jacob's instincts whispered, even as logic tried to swat it away.
"I hope the price was worth it," Eric snapped. "It was my friends. Their futures."
Alice's smile was small. Pained. Ancient.
"Even clean hands carry blood," she said softly. "It wasn't just the others. It was us. Me."
Eric flinched like she'd slapped him. But he didn't back down.
Alice didn't either.
She leaned in slightly, and her voice dropped like a blade being sheathed.
"You have the scent of rain in your bones. The one you're looking for?"
Her eyes flicked distant. "His name is Embry Call."
Jacob's ears flattened.
Eric inhaled like he'd been punched.
Then—movement.
From the west.
Two figures jogged into the clearing, and Jacob's whole body went alert.
Leah.
And Embry.
Jacob didn't move. But he saw everything.
Leah froze the second her eyes fell on Jane. On Seth. On their hands.
Her body locked.
Heart sank.
He felt her heartbreak before she said a word.
Her gaze flicked to Seth—her baby brother. Still too innocent, too young.
And then her voice, raw and low:
"I hope that's Kimberly," she said, "for Mom's sake."
But they all knew it wasn't.
Jacob's heart thudded hard against the dirt.
Across the clearing, Eric's eyes found Embry's.
Recognition.
Electric.
Something old. Something not yet named.
And from his place in the woods, Jacob closed his eyes briefly and thought:
Everything's about to change.