Twilight: Immortal Dusk

Cullen House – 3:38 PM

(The forest road near the cliffs, just past the turnoff from the highway)

The red 2005 Triumph Speed Triple 1050 purred through the pine-stained air like a wolf running silent. Fog clung to the forest, not quite brave enough to wrap around the motorcycle tearing through it. The road, slick with rain, twisted like a secret. But Hadrian carved through it like he'd been born in stormlight and asphalt.

His emerald eyes, glowing faintly behind the visor of his matte-black helmet, narrowed at the next curve—shoulder low, one knee nearly grazing the glistening pavement. Every motion was precision and grace and danger dressed in leather.

Daenerys clung to him from behind—not with fear, but with the kind of intimacy that spoke of shared chaos. Her gloved fingers curled at his stomach, anchored yet relaxed. She rested her cheek briefly against his shoulder, eyes half-closed beneath the shield of her helmet, like the world behind her didn't exist unless he brought it into focus.

At the crest of the last hill, the forest peeled away—and the Cullen house appeared like a mirage in the mist. Steel and glass rose from the mossy earth, all sharp angles and impossible beauty. The kind of place that looked like it belonged in an architecture digest—and a horror novel.

The Triumph slowed, its tires whispering over gravel as it came to a stop.

Daenerys slipped off the bike first, landing with the feline grace of a woman who'd forgotten how to be human a long time ago. She pulled off her helmet, her silver-blonde braid tumbling loose like moonlight unspooling. Rain sparkled in her lashes, and her violet eyes flicked toward the empty drive.

"Where's the Volvo?" she asked, voice dipped in velvet and challenge.

Hadrian tugged off his helmet, curls tousled from the ride, rain slicking over his cheekbones. He ran a hand through his hair, making everything worse in the best way.

"Gone," he said simply.

Daenerys quirked a perfectly sculpted brow. "Gone?"

She took a step closer, arms folding, eyes glittering with something too ancient to be petty. "Edward just left? Took off in the middle of the storm with a girl who smells like moon sugar and heartbreak?"

Hadrian exhaled, jaw tense. "He dropped Alice and the others at the turnoff. Told her he was heading to meet Carlisle. Said something about swapping cars."

"Hmm." She made a soft, amused sound. "Running."

Hadrian didn't smile. His mouth was a line, his eyes sharp as cut glass.

"He's shaken," he said, almost too calmly. "And he should be. Alice says he's headed to Alaska."

Daenerys laughed once—short, biting, beautiful. "Alaska? Of course. Hide in the snow. Pretend the girl doesn't still haunt him like a fever dream."

"She's not just a girl," Hadrian said, voice even but low.

Daenerys turned to face him fully now, lips parting slightly. "So you agree with me," she said softly. "He's already lost."

Hadrian didn't answer. Instead, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a thin black band. It looked like the kind of silicone bracelet you'd pick up at a Hot Topic clearance bin in Port Angeles—but the air around it shimmered faintly with latent magic.

He held it between two fingers, flipping it once. "I warned him," he muttered. "Weeks. Weeks, Dany. I wove the olfactory dampening charms myself. Made one for everyone. Simple enchantment—wear it, and you don't smell temptation. Jasper's never taken his off."

Daenerys's gaze lingered on the band, then drifted back to him. "Because Jasper has no illusions. He knows he's a wolf with a silk collar."

"Edward," Hadrian said, voice growing colder, "thought it was more noble to resist. More moral not to rely on magic. Because that's always worked out so well for us."

He dropped the bracelet back into his palm, then shoved it into his pocket like it burned.

"But now," he said, looking at her, "it's too late. He's tasted the scent. Alice says it's the sweetest blood she's ever seen him react to."

Daenerys was quiet for a beat, watching the trees sway in the rain. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter than before, edged with something older than the trees. "Do you think he'll kill her?"

"No," Hadrian said.

She turned to him, rain dotting the curve of her cheekbone. "Because he's strong?"

Hadrian took a step closer. Close enough for her to feel the heat rolling off him in the cool mist. "Because I won't let him."

Their eyes locked—emerald and violet. Earth and storm. The forest hushed like it was listening.

Daenerys's breath hitched. Not that she needed air. She tilted her chin just slightly. "So you're going to save the girl he's in love with?"

"If I have to."

"And what if that makes him hate you?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

"I've been hated by better men," Hadrian said. "And worse."

She stared at him, eyes dancing with something dangerous and warm. "You know you're being stupid, right?"

"I thought I was being brave."

"You're being you," she said, lips quirking.

"And you're still here," he murmured.

"Unfortunately." But the word was soft. A lie. Because her hand brushed against his as they stood there in the rain, like she couldn't help but close the space between them—even if it burned.

He turned toward the stairs.

"Let's go," he said, voice already pulling them toward the next storm.

Daenerys didn't follow immediately. She stood there, rain running down the curve of her spine, watching him walk like a man carrying the ghosts of five different lifetimes on his shoulders.

She whispered to no one, her voice trembling with prophecy:

"He's not ready for the storm she'll bring."

And then she followed.

—

Inside the Cullen House – 3:41 PM

Warm lights hummed. Rain whispered against glass. The silence inside was so thick it felt velveted, like the pause between thunder and lightning.

Alice and Jasper were curled together on the far edge of the long cream sofa. Her boots were up, toes tucked under Jasper's thigh, fingers knotted with his like a lifeline. Alice's eyes were distant, flickering faintly with that otherworld shine, her expression a mix of anxiety and knowing.

Jasper sat still, radiating calm like a scentless cologne. But his jaw was tight, and the hand resting over Alice's wrist twitched occasionally, like it was ready to reach for something it hadn't needed in years.

Near the fireplace, Emmett paced in slow, heavy strides. His black hoodie was half-zipped over a Hulkamania T-shirt, his boots thudding faintly with each step.

"You should've seen his face," he was saying. "Dude looked like he'd just tasted battery acid. Like... actual acid. Like—'I want to eat her and cry about it' kind of face."

Rosalie stood near the windows, arms folded, her posture rigid and beautiful. She didn't even glance at him. Her eyes were locked on the mist-wrapped trees outside, but her jaw shifted with the grinding of unseen teeth.

Katherine was perched on the bannister like it was a throne only chaos could sit on—black boots swinging, hoodie sleeves pushed up, silver chain glittering at her throat.

She popped a grape into her mouth, chewed like she owned the place, and said nothing.

Elizabeth, meanwhile, was leaned with aristocratic laziness against the kitchen island.

"Next time we let a boy with hair gel and a martyr complex skip breakfast," she muttered, "can we at least put the girl in a cage and not the guilt?"

The door opened.

The cold came with them.

Hadrian stepped in first—broad-shouldered, damp curls tousled by wind, leather jacket slung over one arm. He shook off the rain with the casual power of a lion entering a room already full of apex predators.

Daenerys followed two heartbeats later.

Silver-blonde braid trailing like a banner, violet eyes sharp with assessment. She peeled off her wet coat and tossed it over a nearby chair, like the room owed her space. Which it did. She smelled like fire and jasmine and wet pine. She looked like a goddess who'd decided to go slumming in a vampire den—and make them like it.

Alice was on her feet the moment Hadrian stepped in.

"He's not thinking straight," she said. "He's spiraling. I told him. If he stays... I see it. I see it. He kills her."

Hadrian nodded grimly as he tossed his jacket onto the banister beside Katherine. "Then it's good he left."

Jasper looked up slowly. His voice was warm honey over broken gravel. "Don't mean she's safe. If he comes back with that look in his eyes..."

Hadrian's gaze flicked sideways—to Daenerys. She didn't flinch. Their eyes met briefly. Violet to emerald. Thunder to stormlight.

"I'll watch her," Daenerys said, brushing silver strands off her cheek. Her voice was smooth and sharp. Like a velvet dagger. "For now."

Alice blinked. "You'll what?"

Daenerys walked into the room like she belonged there. "She's important," she said, voice unreadable. "To Edward. To this... chessboard. And if he slips..."

She let the words hang in the air like a guillotine.

Elizabeth raised a brow. "Or—and hear me out—we glamor her, wipe her memory, ship her to Iceland, and tell her the moose population needs help."

"Lizzie," Katherine deadpanned from her perch, eyebrow arched.

Elizabeth grinned, baring her teeth like they were an accessory. "Mostly kidding."

Emmett flopped down on the arm of the couch with a heavy thud. "So what's the plan, boss man?" His gaze went to Hadrian.

Every head turned. The room quieted. Even the rain seemed to hush.

Hadrian looked at each of them in turn. Alice. Jasper. Emmett. Rosalie. Katherine. Elizabeth. And finally—Daenerys. She tilted her chin up slightly, challenging him to blink first.

He didn't.

"For now," he said, "we don't escalate. No stalking. No accidents. No dark corners. Edward's gone. That buys us time."

"She's already suspicious," Rosalie said, her voice cool and exact. "Watched me like I was radioactive during gym."

Hadrian nodded slowly. "Then we don't give her anything else. No shadows. No disappearances. Just... be teenagers."

That earned a snort from Daenerys. She folded her arms and leaned one hip against the wall, eyebrow arched high enough to challenge gravity.

"You're adorable when you lie to yourself," she said, her voice full of silk and mockery. "All broody and optimistic."

Hadrian turned to her with a faint smirk. "Then it's a good thing I never lie to you."

She tilted her head, smiling slowly. "You do. But only when you want to kiss me later."

"Caught me," he said, voice low.

"Oh, I always do," she purred, eyes locking with his. "That's why you keep me around."

Katherine made a gagging noise. "Okay, that's enough CW smolder for one day."

Emmett pointed at them with a laugh. "I'm not even mad. I'm impressed. That was like, Notebook meets Underworld."

Elizabeth rolled her eyes, flipping her hair over one shoulder. "Please. If they start making out, I'm glamoring myself into a coma."

Hadrian turned back to the room, his voice iron again. "Until Edward makes a decision, we protect the girl. We keep her alive. We don't let this turn into a feeding frenzy or a tragedy."

"And if it does?" Jasper asked, voice low.

Hadrian's smile vanished.

"Then I end it."

No one spoke. Not even Daenerys.

The silence settled heavy. The house full of golden-eyed immortals and one storm-born queen didn't breathe.

For a second—just a second—it felt like family. Like home. Like something ancient and breakable was trying to stay whole.

And above them, in the attic, Alice's visions pulsed like lightning trapped in a snow globe.

Because the storm wasn't coming.

It was already here.

And its name was Bella Swan.

—

Forks General Hospital – Carlisle's Office – 4:12 PM

Rain tapped at the windows like it was trying to get inside.

Carlisle Cullen stood near the tall glass panes, one hand in the pocket of his white coat, the other absently holding a pen like he might perform surgery at any moment. If statues could exude quiet disappointment and parental warmth simultaneously, he would've been in a museum.

Edward Cullen stood just inside the door, looking like a Louis XVI portrait reimagined by Tumblr in 2005. Bronze hair in wet, tortured curls, charcoal pea coat clinging to his frame like a sad poem. Timothée Chalamet energy in full force—cheekbones sharp, posture slouched, soul leaking out of his eyes in real time.

He tossed a set of car keys onto the desk like they were cursed.

Carlisle raised an eyebrow. "Are we dramatically throwing keys now? Is that a thing?"

"I almost ate someone today," Edward said, deadpan. "Forgive me if I'm a little theatrical."

Carlisle didn't flinch. "But you didn't."

"Details," Edward muttered, pacing toward the window. "She walked in and it was like—like someone set fire to the air. My throat... my everything. I couldn't think. If Elizabeth hadn't distracted me with whatever vaguely threatening riddle she was muttering—and if Katherine hadn't cracked a joke about draining the principal—I swear to god, Carlisle—"

"You don't believe in God."

Edward turned sharply. "Fine. I swear to you, then."

Carlisle smiled faintly. "That's worse."

Edward ignored that. "It's not supposed to be like this. One moment and I'm—I'm this close to murder in broad daylight. At school, Carlisle. With witnesses. With… gym teachers."

Carlisle moved behind the desk and folded his arms. "Gym teachers don't count."

Edward's mouth twitched. He hated that Carlisle could still make him want to laugh when he was trying so hard to self-destruct.

"I'm serious."

"I know you are." Carlisle stepped forward. "But Edward... you're always serious. That's your problem."

"My problem is Bella Swan's blood," Edward snapped. "It's like heroin cooked in nostalgia and violin music."

Carlisle tilted his head. "Very specific."

Edward groaned and ran both hands through his rain-soaked hair. "It's not funny."

"No, it's not. But you are."

Edward spun to face him. "I wanted to kill her. And not in the 'I'm brooding and tortured' way. I mean… viscerally. Tear-out-her-throat, drain-the-body, ancient-monster style. And then she looked at me—just looked—and I forgot how to function. I wanted her blood, Carlisle. And somehow... her attention even more."

Carlisle went still. That soft, glacier stillness that said he was both listening and remembering a century's worth of bad decisions.

Then, quietly: "And you think leaving will fix it?"

"I know staying won't."

Carlisle walked over and took the keys off the desk, weighing them in his hand. "Running isn't the same as choosing."

Edward raised an eyebrow. "You gonna start quoting Nietzsche now?"

Carlisle gave him a dry look. "You hate Nietzsche."

"Only because he's right."

There was a long pause. Then Carlisle reached into his desk and pulled out a manila envelope.

"Plane ticket. Denali. Tanya and Eleazar are expecting you."

Edward stared at it like it might bite him.

Carlisle sighed. "You're not the first one of us who's been drawn to someone this way, Edward."

"Not like this," Edward said. "I've never felt anything this consuming. And it's not love—don't start with that. This is hunger pretending to wear poetry."

"You sure?"

Edward hesitated.

Carlisle stepped closer, voice quieter now. "Because I've seen you in love, Edward. You were softer then. Still arrogant, but gentler. This… this isn't just thirst. There's something else underneath."

Edward took the envelope. Slowly. Like it might turn to ash in his hands.

"She doesn't even know who we are," he murmured. "She looked at me like I was human."

"That's the problem, isn't it?" Carlisle said. "You want to be."

Edward's laugh was short and bitter. "I want to be something she can survive."

Carlisle moved to the coat rack and took down his own car keys. The silver Volvo winked through the window behind them.

"Take the Mercedes," Carlisle said. "I'll drive yours back."

Edward hesitated at the door, fingers tightening on the envelope.

"What if… what if I do come back?"

Carlisle didn't look surprised.

"You will."

Edward gave a half-smile. "I don't suppose Tanya has a spare room without a wall full of mirrors and Russian poetry?"

"She redecorated," Carlisle said. "It's worse now."

Edward chuckled. A real sound. Then his shoulders curled in, as if the weight of what he was about to do finally hit.

"You think this is cowardice?" he asked softly.

"I think it's instinct," Carlisle replied. "But don't let it become habit."

Another pause.

"Edward," Carlisle said, gentler now, "you could be strong enough to stay."

Edward didn't turn around. "But what if I'm not?"

"Then come back when you are."

—

Outside – Forks General Parking Lot – 4:27 PM

The rain had shifted from polite to relentless — not a downpour, but a needle-threaded mist that clung to skin like regret.

Edward Cullen stood beside the black Mercedes SUV like it wasn't a car but a coffin with Bluetooth. The vehicle was sleek, clinical, and absurdly expensive — a thing designed to glide over asphalt with no sound, no guilt, no soul.

Perfect for a monster.

He opened the door and slid into the driver's seat with that otherworldly grace that made humans think he moved like a dream — not knowing it was muscle memory from a hundred years of pretending he wasn't built for violence.

The leather was soft, cool, and smelled like Carlisle — antiseptic, pine, something faintly herbal and old-fashioned. Like a monastery hidden inside a Volvo showroom.

Edward let out a slow breath he didn't need.

His hands — pale, elegant, pianist-perfect — settled on the steering wheel. One drummed the leather absentmindedly. The other clutched the manila envelope like it held something radioactive.

His jaw clenched.

He didn't want to leave. Not really. But want had nothing to do with it anymore.

He glanced toward the hospital.

Carlisle stood in the window of his office — tall, composed, radiating that calm that only came from two centuries of watching the world spin itself stupid. He wasn't waving. He never did. He just stood there. Steady. Unmoving. The North Star in a white coat.

Edward blinked. Once. Just once.

Then he looked away.

The keys clicked in the ignition — mechanical, comforting, too normal for what this moment was. The engine purred to life like it knew how to be quiet, like it had secrets of its own.

The headlights cut through the mist like twin truths he didn't want to face.

She was still out there. Bella Swan.

With her heartbeat like a hymn.

Her scent like a hymn's shadow.

And her voice — already curled around something inside him he couldn't name yet.

Edward pressed his foot to the gas, and the SUV rolled forward with eerie smoothness, like it didn't need roads.

He didn't blast music — not yet. The CD in the dash was stuck on Clair de Lune, anyway.

Of course it was.

He pulled onto the wet road, taillights bleeding into the mist like the last breath of something beautiful.

He didn't look back again.

If he did, he wasn't sure he'd be able to leave.

And if he stayed…

Someone would die.

—

Bella's Bedroom – 6:08 PM

Soundtrack: The Killers' "All These Things That I've Done" drifts softly from her battered CD player, a soundtrack for a girl stuck between worlds.

Rain rattled against the windowpane, its staccato beat a steady soundtrack to a Forks evening that stretched too long in shades of gray. The kind of night where the trees outside looked like they were holding their breath—and maybe waiting for something to break the silence.

Bella sat cross-legged on her bed, knees poking into her chest, but she wasn't cold. Not really. The flannel blanket wrapped around her shoulders—her mom's—was soft and familiar, a small island of warmth. But inside, her thoughts churned restless waves.

Wuthering Heights lay open across her lap, its worn pages trembling every time the wind slipped in through the cracked window. She'd been "reading" the same chapter for nearly an hour, but the words were just noise now. Just meaningless scribbles compared to the echo of one face in her mind.

Edward Cullen.

She could almost see him again—the way his golden eyes had darkened, shadows pooling there like fire ready to flare. The way his body had stiffened, like she'd unknowingly tripped a silent alarm.

What did I do? she wondered, heart hammering too loud in her chest. Did I say something wrong? Sit too close? Smell like rainwater or... mistake?

Her fingers curled around the edges of the book, nails pressing into the paper as if physical pain might drown out the ache in her chest.

"Get a grip, Bella," she muttered, voice barely above a breath, eyes locked on the ceiling like it held the answers. "You're not losing it."

She glanced down at the book again, the chapter title a cruel reminder: "The Storm Approaches." Figures. Nothing ever went smoothly in these stories. Cathy and Heathcliff had probably been doomed before the first page. Just like her.

Her gaze drifted to the small bulletin board above her desk—photos, ticket stubs from last summer's concert, a crumpled postcard from her mom's trip to the coast, and a faded watercolor moon taped askew. All mundane, all safe.

Not like the way Edward had looked at her.

Not just anger or confusion.

Fear.

That searing gold in his eyes wasn't warm like amber—it was raw, untamed, like wildfire licking at dry leaves.

And now he was gone. Silent. Vanished from the halls and classrooms without explanation.

The thought tightened her throat.

She closed the book with a soft sigh, the leather-bound cover thudding against her knees. Tonight, the story wasn't hers to read.

Wrapped tighter in her blanket, Bella shifted to the window, eyes tracing the tendrils of mist winding through the darkened trees behind her house. Forks felt like a fairy tale that had lost its happily-ever-after—like the monster was already here, hiding in plain sight.

And for reasons she couldn't yet grasp, the monster wasn't Edward.

It was her.

A shiver ran down her spine—not from the cold, but from the terrifying, thrilling mystery of it all.

—

Woods adjoining the Swan house – 6:25 PM

The rain had eased to a fine mist, the scent of wet pine and earth thick in the air. The fading daylight tangled in the trees, casting long shadows that flickered like ghosts.

Hadrian shifted his weight, his emerald eyes sharp and scanning, but there was a softness there too—like a corner of his mind was somewhere else entirely. His cloak, dark and heavy, barely stirred in the humid air. His bronze hair caught the last stray beams of sun, giving him an almost mythic glow—like a hero carved from the dusk.

Daenerys leaned against a tree trunk, silver hair a shimmering contrast to the shadowed woods, her violet eyes glinting with a mix of challenge and something softer. She folded her arms, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of her lips, barely restrained.

"So," she said, voice low and teasing, "you're really going to sit out here like some brooding forest statue until Edward decides whether he wants to snack on Bella or not?"

Hadrian's mouth quirked. "Someone's got to keep an eye on the monster," he said, "and the girl he's obsessed with. Besides, I figured I'd give you the honor of watching my back. You're good at this… being the fire in the cold."

Daenerys pushed off the tree, stepping closer, eyes narrowing playfully. "Fire in the cold, huh? Is that supposed to be a compliment or a warning?"

He matched her step, close enough that the mist curled between them, charged. "Both," he said quietly. "You're the one with the dragon blood and the killer instinct. I'm just the guy trying not to look like he's thinking about you when he should be watching the woods."

Daenerys's laugh was soft, almost like a secret. "You do that pretty well, actually. You're too handsome to be brooding this much."

Hadrian's smile flickered into something real, eyes catching hers. "If I'm too handsome, I guess I'm screwed."

They fell into a silence that wasn't awkward — the kind that speaks louder than words.

Then Daenerys's gaze flicked toward the window of Bella's room, tension creeping back into her voice. "She's quiet. Too quiet. You think Edward's really gone?"

Hadrian's jaw tightened. "Doesn't mean he's safe. Hunger's a hard master. But Alice's visions..." He glanced sideways at Daenerys. "We'll know soon enough. And if Edward makes a move—well, I hope you're ready to burn the place down."

Daenerys smiled, fierce and warm. "Oh, I was born ready. Just try not to get yourself killed, hero."

He reached out and brushed a stray silver strand from her face, the gesture light but electric. "You're the only one I want watching my back."

Her eyes flickered down to his hand for a moment, then back up, violet meeting emerald with a spark that outshone the dimming light.

"We'll keep her safe," she promised. "Together."

And for a heartbeat, the storm outside faded — all that mattered was the quiet alliance of two warriors standing in the mist, waiting for the unknown to come.

—

Swan House – Kitchen – 7:49 PM

"Did you, uh… want ketchup?" Charlie asked, mid-chew, nudging the bottle toward Bella with his elbow like it might bite him if he got too close.

Bella blinked at her burger, which she'd been dissecting into quarters for no real reason. "Sure," she muttered, then added, "Ketchup's kind of the universal dressing for awkward silences, right?"

Charlie huffed a soft chuckle, more air than sound. "Well, I was gonna say it's just good on fries. But yours works too."

She gave him a wry half-smile and finally took a bite. "This is good," she said, mouth full. "Like, suspiciously good. Did you make this or is there a secret diner under the floorboards?"

Charlie leaned back in his chair, all plaid flannel and dad slouch. "Don't sound so surprised. I can cook. You're not the only one with opposable thumbs in this house."

Bella raised an eyebrow. "Okay, but you burned toast last week."

"That was tactical smoke," he said with a smirk. "Part of the ambiance."

They ate in companionable quiet after that, save for the occasional clink of silverware and a grumbled curse when Charlie dropped a fry in his lap. Bella didn't say much else, not about the boy with the haunted stare or the way her thoughts had spun all afternoon like a scratched CD stuck on one track.

But Charlie didn't press. He just nodded like he understood anyway.

—

Bella's Bedroom – 8:41 PM

The bathroom mirror was fogged, but Bella didn't bother wiping it clean. She stood in the quiet steam, towel wrapped around her, hair dripping onto the floor like melted thoughts. She looked like a ghost—bare shoulders pale, eyes darker than they'd been this morning. Or maybe she was just imagining that.

She dried off and slipped into a threadbare shirt and her oldest sleep pants, the ones with the fraying drawstring and the faded "Volterra Music Fest 2003" logo she didn't remember acquiring. She tugged on the flannel blanket like armor, sat at her desk, and fired up her ancient desktop with the clicky keys.

Hey Mom, she typed. Everything's okay. Just tired. Miss you. Love you.

She stared at the blinking cursor.

Her fingers hovered for a moment… then she added:

Forks is weird. The people are weird. School is… fine. There's a guy. Not a guy guy, just a weird guy. He stared at me like I ran over his dog and then reversed over his hopes and dreams. It was intense. Or maybe I'm just projecting. Anyway, love you. I'll call soon.

She hit send before she could overthink it, then shut it down like it might bite.

—

Bella's Bedroom – 9:12 PM

She climbed into bed and buried herself in the flannel blanket like it might have the answers she was looking for. The Killers had finished playing, and now the stereo was just a soft hum, like the house itself was trying to lull her to sleep.

The rain outside had gentled to a whisper, but inside her chest was a storm. She turned over, then back, then again. Her pillow was too warm. Her brain was on fire.

Edward Cullen.

It wasn't even that he was good-looking. Okay, he was absurdly good-looking, like... ancient-poem good-looking. Like if Adonis and a thundercloud had a baby and gave it cheekbones. But it was more than that.

It was the way he'd looked at her.

Like she was a puzzle. Or a threat. Or maybe both.

Bella closed her eyes.

And he was still there, behind her eyelids. That crooked jaw. Those gold eyes that weren't warm at all. That expression like she'd just ruined his life by breathing.

"Ugh," she groaned into the pillow. "You need a hobby, Swan. One that doesn't involve hallucinating."

Sleep came eventually, but it was fitful and weird and filled with fragments—eyes in the dark, cold hands, a meadow lit by moonlight.

Outside, the mist curled low through the trees.

And far beyond her walls, other eyes were watching.

Waiting.

Guarding.

—

Hadrian's phone buzzed softly against the damp bark where he had set it down, the screen lighting up with a message from Alice.

"Bella is safe. No danger. For now."

He exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction. Beside him, Daenerys glanced over, violet eyes narrowing in curiosity.

"What's the verdict?" she asked, her voice quiet but laced with relief.

Hadrian smiled—a rare, unguarded curve of his lips.

"Safe," he said simply. "At least for tonight."

Daenerys stepped closer, linking her fingers with his.

"We watch until she wakes," she said softly. "And then, we figure out what comes next."

Together, they stood beneath the whispering trees, the night deepening around them, and the fragile peace holding firm—for now.

---

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