Twilight: Immortal Dusk

Swan Residence – Kitchen – Wednesday, 6:41 PM

Dinner smelled like grilled cheese, tomato soup, and low-stakes anxiety.

Bella stood over the stove like it might file a complaint against her at any second. The first sandwich had died an honorable death—burned into a smoldering crisp and sacrificed to the trash like a charred offering to the domestic gods. The second sandwich survived. Barely.

She slid the plates onto the table just as Charlie shuffled in, still in his sheriff's uniform, smelling faintly of rain, pine, and bureaucracy.

Charlie eyed the food like it had a warrant out. "Smells like you fought the toaster and lived to tell the tale."

"Yeah, well," Bella muttered, sitting down across from him, "it started it."

He chuckled low in his throat—one of those rare, dad-laughs that sounded like it had been filtered through ten years of unspoken feelings and flannel. "You didn't poison it, did you?"

"Only a little. Builds character."

Charlie took a bite. Chewed. Paused. "Huh. This is actually good."

Bella gave him a mock glare. "Stop sounding so surprised. I did more than just microwave ramen in Phoenix, you know."

"Didn't say you didn't," he said, spooning soup like it owed him money. "Just figured you'd rather starve than cook."

Bella took a bite of her own sandwich and managed not to flinch. Still warm. Still… edible. Small victories.

Silence stretched between them like it often did. Comfortable, with just enough awkward sprinkled in to remind them they were still figuring each other out.

Bella cleared her throat. "So… school's fine."

Charlie looked up, chewing. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I mean, nobody's tried to shove me in a locker yet, so I'm counting that as a win."

He snorted. "This isn't one of those CW shows. People around here just gossip behind your back."

"Ah. So it's a slow death."

Charlie sipped his soup, amused. "You'll live."

Bella twirled her spoon, then asked—too casual to be actually casual—"Do you know the Cullens?"

The air shifted a little. Charlie's spoon paused mid-scoop. "Carlisle's family?"

She nodded. "Yeah. They go to school with me. Emmett, Rosalie, Jasper, Alice, Katherine and Elizabeth…" She hesitated. "Hadrian. And Daenerys."

Charlie's brows lifted. "That's a hell of a name lineup. Sounds like a rock band."

"Right? Like they're on tour with Coldplay."

He gave a grunt that might've been a laugh.

"They're just… different," Bella added, voice softening. "Like, Vogue-cover perfect. They dress like they're in a catalog, they move like they're choreographed, and they never really talk to anyone. It's like someone put a family together in a Sims game and maxed out the charisma stats."

Charlie leaned back, face unreadable. "You don't like them?"

"I didn't say that." She stirred her soup again. "They're polite. Weirdly polite. Like... European royalty pretending to slum it in small-town America."

Charlie gave her a long look. "Dr. Cullen is a damn good man. Smart. Brilliant, even. The hospital wouldn't run half as well without him. We're lucky to have him."

Bella blinked. "I wasn't throwing shade at your local saint, Dad."

"You asked about his family," Charlie said evenly. "And yeah, they're not like the other kids around here. But that's not a bad thing."

Bella raised an eyebrow. "You're really defensive about them."

Charlie set his spoon down with a clink. "I was skeptical too, at first. Especially the big guys—Emmett looks like he could bench-press a truck. Hadrian? Like he was carved outta stone by someone with a serious crush."

Bella coughed. "You noticed that?"

"I'm not blind, Bells. The guy's built like a linebacker and walks around like he's protecting some kind of ancient secret."

"That… yeah, actually. That's weirdly accurate."

Charlie nodded. "Jasper's got a stare on him, too. Like he's constantly remembering 'Nam. Except he's too young for that."

"Exactly!" Bella pointed her spoon. "It's like he's got war flashbacks every time someone drops a pencil."

"But you know what?" Charlie's voice dropped a little. "They've never caused trouble. Not once. No calls from the school. No fights. No cops. They're polite, they're quiet, and they stick together."

Bella tilted her head. "Like a cult?"

"Like a family," Charlie corrected, not missing a beat. "The way a family should be."

Bella sat back, absorbing that.

"They're… nice," she admitted after a beat. "Strange. But nice. And all stupidly attractive."

Charlie huffed a laugh. "You should see Dr. Cullen. Women at the hospital go nuts. One nurse broke a thermometer just trying to flirt with him. Another dropped a bedpan."

Bella made a face. "Oh my god, please stop. That's going in my nightmares."

"Don't say I didn't warn you."

She shook her head, smiling despite herself, then looked toward the window. The tree line beyond the backyard was cloaked in mist and secrets.

She lowered her voice, mostly to herself. "They don't blink like normal people. And they move like they're judging everyone's posture."

Charlie leaned back and sipped his soup like a man who'd seen weirder. "Some people are just built different, Bells."

Bella kept staring out at the woods, where shadows seemed a little too still. Where watching felt like more than just a feeling.

"Yeah," she said quietly. "They are."

—

Forks High School – Thursday – 10:11 AM

Hallway Between Bio and Trig

Status: Crowded, vaguely moist, and emotionally turbulent—like puberty in architectural form

Bella Swan was attempting to escape the third wave of hallway traffic when Mike Newton swooped in like a Labrador retriever who'd sniffed affection in the air. He skidded to a stop beside her, his messenger bag thumping against his cargo pants, which were—tragically—tucked into his sock on one side.

"Bella!" he grinned, like her name was a surprise party he'd just thrown for himself.

She flinched. "God, Mike. Warn a girl next time. I almost iPod'd you in the face."

"Hey, that's vintage tech now," he said, pointing to the silver brick in her hand. "Is that a Nano or—"

"Classic." She held it up. "U2 edition. I was going through a phase."

"Still are, judging by your all-black hoodie vibe."

"I like to dress like I'm always five minutes away from disappearing into a forest and starting a grunge band."

Mike laughed too hard. "See, this is why you're awesome. You don't even try to be."

"Thanks… I think?"

He jogged a step ahead of her, walking backwards now, just to make sure she had no chance to escape. "So, listen—I had this idea."

"Does it involve glitter body spray and regret?"

"What? No. Maybe. Listen." He smoothed down his already perfectly messy hair. "La Push. Ocean Park. Two weeks from Saturday. It's like a Forks tradition."

Bella raised an eyebrow. "You want me to go to the beach. With you. In Forks."

Mike held up both hands like she'd just accused him of a war crime. "With us. Not just me. It's a group thing. Jess, Eric, probably Angela. Tyler's trying to convince his mom to let him borrow the van again even though he still thinks blinkers are optional."

"So a rolling death trap, a bonfire, and damp teenage optimism."

"And marshmallows," Mike added helpfully.

"Obviously."

He stopped walking backwards, now keeping pace beside her. "I just thought… you know. You're new. You haven't really seen the ocean yet. Like, properly seen it."

"I saw it in Phoenix. It was warm, blue, and didn't smell like seaweed and depression."

"This is different," Mike insisted, eyes lighting up. "There's driftwood, and cliffs, and like—seagulls with anger issues. It's atmospheric."

"It's wet."

"It's tradition," he said with mock solemnity. "And I promise no one will make you play volleyball. Unless you want to. I mean, I've got a mean underhand serve."

"I don't doubt that. You strike me as someone who still quotes 'Dodgeball' unironically."

"Only the important parts," he said, puffing out his chest. "'If you can dodge a wrench—'"

Bella snorted. "'—you can dodge a ball.' God, I walked into that one."

Mike grinned like a kid who just got a whole sleeve of Oreos to himself. "So… you'll come?"

She gave him a side-eye. "Maybe."

"Maybe?" He looked wounded. "That's like, soft rejection territory."

"No, no, it's a conditional maybe. Which is better than a hard no. I just need to consult my schedule of being antisocial and allergic to fun."

Mike beamed. "I'll take it! And hey, if it helps, I'll even bring your choice of snacks. Trail mix? Pop-Tarts? Sour Patch Kids?"

"You're bribing me with sugar."

"Obviously."

Bella sighed, but there was a faint smile tugging at her mouth. "Alright. Maybe I'll show up. Sit on a log. Look mysterious."

"You already do that without trying."

She rolled her eyes. "Careful, Newton. That almost sounded like flirting."

He held up both hands again. "Who, me? No way. I'm just saying, if a misty forest goddess shows up at our bonfire, I'll pretend I had something to do with it."

Bella laughed—surprised at herself—and shook her head. "God help me, I might actually go."

"Forks has that effect on people," Mike said with a wink before pivoting toward Trig.

She watched him walk away, his hoodie riding up slightly over the waistband of jeans that were just barely acceptable in 2005.

La Push, she thought. Salt, sand, teen drama, and unflinching eye contact over burning marshmallows. What could go wrong?

She slipped her earbuds back in, the melancholy twang of Death Cab for Cutie filling her ears, and headed off to class with a muttered:

"Cool. I've just been recruited to a beach cult."

Still no Edward Cullen.

But this time there was no Hadrian. Or Daenerys. Or any of the high-cheekbone enigma squad.

But maybe… soon.

—

Forks Hospital – Sublevel Three – Morgue

Thursday, 10:37 AM

Fluorescent buzz. Death in the air. Something wicked walking.

The door groaned shut behind them, cutting off the muffled hum of the hospital above. Down here, it was just tile, chill, and the sort of silence that belonged in churches or nightmares.

Daenerys walked two steps ahead, her boots clicking with a tempo that didn't belong in a morgue. She moved like a queen even when surrounded by death—back straight, chin high, silver-blonde hair braided intricately around her head like a crown forged of dragonfire and rebellion. Her violet eyes flicked around the room with the sharpness of a blade honed in war.

"This place smells like a funeral home made love to a janitor's closet," she said, wrinkling her nose. "Antiseptic and cowardice. I hate it."

Hadrian followed her in, emerald green eyes scanning the space with quiet calculation. He looked like he belonged on the cover of a mid-2000s rock album—broad-shouldered in a worn grey hoodie, dark jeans, and an air of low-grade menace that made fluorescent lighting feel intimidated.

"That's what humans do," he murmured. "Drown death in bleach and hope the stench of guilt doesn't stick."

"Hope," Daenerys said dryly, "is a fragile lie."

Carlisle Cullen stood over the gurney with practiced stillness, like a portrait done in ivory and patience. He looked like he belonged in some ancient Scandinavian legend rather than a small-town morgue—golden-haired, too graceful, too calm for someone surrounded by corpses and silence.

"Aberdeen," he said, finally glancing up. His voice was soft, but it carried like a hymn. "Female. Twenty-nine. Backpacker. Third one this month. All within twenty miles of Forks."

Daenerys arched a brow. "Let me guess. Bear attacks?"

"That's the official story," Carlisle said as he pulled back the sheet. "That or a cougar. Apparently, I've become quite the local authority on imaginary predators."

Hadrian stepped closer. His eyes dropped to the body, and he frowned.

The woman was pale, mottled blue-gray, like porcelain cracked beneath winter ice. Her throat bore the puncture marks of a predator's kiss—precise, clean, devoid of chaos. And her arm… bruises like ghostly fingers pressed into the skin, circling the bicep.

Daenerys' expression flattened. "That's not an animal."

"That's a message," Hadrian added. "And not a polite one."

Carlisle nodded, removing one glove to point at the bruising. "No human could leave marks like this without breaking bone. Whoever did this wasn't fresh-turned. This was control. Purpose."

"Nomads," Daenerys guessed, folding her arms. "The sloppy, selfish kind."

"Or worse," Hadrian said. "The hungry, arrogant kind."

Carlisle let out a slow breath, as if even he could feel the shift in the air. "They're hunting in Cullen territory. I don't think it's coincidence."

Daenerys cocked her head, a smirk curling one corner of her mouth. "Maybe they forgot the golden rule."

"Don't. Hunt. Here," Hadrian intoned. "We should tattoo it on their foreheads."

Daenerys gave him a sideways look. "You volunteering to hold them down, or do I get to have fun too?"

Their eyes met, a charged silence stretching just a little too long. Carlisle coughed politely.

"If they've come through Denali, Tanya might have seen them. Esme's reaching out now," he said, trying not to smirk at the obvious spark. "But I'd rather deal with this before the Volturi smell the blood."

Daenerys pulled the sheet back up, her movements surprisingly reverent. "You think they haven't noticed already? If they haven't, they will. And if they do..."

Hadrian stepped forward, his tone suddenly darker. "Then the fire doesn't stay in Forks."

Carlisle hesitated. Then, almost delicately: "You two… have been different lately. Quiet."

Hadrian glanced at Daenerys.

"We've been watching," he said, voice low. "Forks isn't just cloudy anymore. It's shifting."

Daenerys nodded, her voice almost too soft for someone so fierce. "There's a scent in the air. Like a story that hasn't chosen its ending yet."

Carlisle raised an eyebrow. "Bella Swan."

"She smells like fate," Daenerys said, eyes narrowing. "Like the universe tripped and spilled something important right in the middle of your quiet little town."

Hadrian's lips quirked. "And the nomads… they're the flies circling it."

Outside, the wind stirred through the trees.

And far away in the forest, something old watched the town of Forks… and waited.

—

Cullen Residence – Living Room, Thursday – 8:14 PM

Location: Deep in the Washington woods, where secrets breathe behind timbered walls and velvet shadows stretch long under chandelier light.

Lighting: Warm and moody—lamplight filtered through amber glass, casting golden halos on polished mahogany and centuries-old secrets.

The Cullens had gathered.

Hadrian leaned against the window frame, arms folded across his chest like a knight carved in shadow and starlight. He was still in his jacket, jeans slightly damp from the drizzle outside, emerald eyes gleaming like bottled lightning. The kind of look that made people stop mid-sentence and forget what they were saying.

Daenerys lounged like she owned the room—and possibly the entire state—draped along the corner of the velvet couch with the poise of someone who'd conquered kingdoms and heartbreaks. Her silver-blonde hair fell in lazy waves, catching the light like strands of quicksilver, and her violet eyes… gods, those eyes. They weren't watching the room. They were watching him.

He glanced at her once. A tiny smirk curled at the corner of her mouth. He looked away first. She won.

Carlisle stood at the mantle, arms crossed with the solemnity of a king in exile. Clean-cut, perfectly tailored, and with that old-world poise that said "I've performed surgery in six languages," he observed the gathering with glacial calm. But the sharpness behind his eyes—Scandinavian ice hiding a battlefield—told a different story.

The others filtered in, one by one.

Esme, serene as ever, moved with the quiet command of a woman who could hold broken pieces together with nothing but a smile and sheer will. She offered Hadrian a look—a mother's calm and a general's warning.

Emmett followed, massive, broad-shouldered, hoodie half-zipped over a tee that read Got Blood? He parked himself on the arm of a chair like the couch would collapse if he sat all the way down.

Rosalie didn't sit. Of course not. She stood near the doorway like a fashion editorial shot waiting to happen. Her eyes scanned the room with the cold precision of a sniper. She looked like she'd rather be anywhere else—unless that place had mirrors.

Alice slipped in like a thought, barefoot and fidgeting, her pixie cut still slightly wind-tousled. She perched on the edge of a chair, knees drawn up, humming under her breath like her visions were a mixtape only she could hear.

Jasper hovered near the wall, all angles and tension, jaw clenched like it had something to say. His Southern drawl barely softened the steel in his spine.

Then there were the girls:

Elizabeth—leaning forward, eyes narrowed, legs crossed like a woman halfway into a plot she already knew she'd win.

Katherine—expression unreadable, but there was something coiled behind her stillness, something sharp. Both of them spoke with faint Highland lilts, like ancient echoes.

"Three dead," Jasper finally said, voice low and even, "in as many weeks. All marked as animal attacks."

Carlisle nodded once. "Too clean. Puncture marks match. No mauling. Just… drained."

"Elegant little executions," Rosalie muttered, arms crossed, jaw set.

Daenerys tilted her head, voice like silk drawn over steel. "They're drinking. Not feeding. That's different."

Her gaze flicked to Hadrian. "And they're doing it here. In our woods."

Alice's eyes fluttered shut. "I tried seeing them again today. But it's fog—like static between stations. No decisions. No plans. Just movement. Constant and chaotic."

"They're hiding," Hadrian said. "Experienced. They know how to throw off trackers… even psychic ones."

"Should we hunt them?" Katherine asked, her Scottish brogue sharp, like the word hunt wasn't hypothetical.

"No," Rosalie snapped. "Not yet. We don't know who they are. Or what they want."

"Three humans are dead, Rosalie," Esme said gently, but there was iron beneath the lace.

Rosalie shot her a look. "And if Edward hadn't bolted to Alaska, maybe we'd have more eyes on this."

The air shifted. Tightened.

"Leave him," Emmett said. Not defensive. Just tired. "He did the right thing."

"He ran."

"He removed temptation."

Rosalie folded her arms tighter. "So noble. Meanwhile, Bella Swan's still haunting our lives like a ghost we won't bury."

Daenerys's eyes cut to the empty chair in the dining nook. "She's not the problem."

"No," Emmett said. "We are."

Everyone looked at him.

He exhaled, slow. Heavy. Haunted.

"I've smelled blood like that before. Once. Back in the '80s. Montana. Sweet. Too sweet. Like sugar and static. I thought I could handle it. I was wrong."

No one spoke.

He looked at his hands like they still held those kids.

"It was a brother and sister. Playing by a stream. I blinked, and they were gone. I didn't think. I moved. That smell—it's not just temptation. It's madness. It's a switch."

Esme reached for his hand. He let her.

"That's what Edward was afraid of," Emmett finished quietly. "And he was right. Bella's blood… it's dangerous. Not just for him."

There was a beat of silence, broken only by the sound of the fire crackling.

Carlisle cleared his throat. "Edward's choice was self-control, not abandonment. He gave us space to think clearly. So let's do that."

Alice stood, pacing now. "They're testing us. This is bait. Provocation. A challenge."

"And they're getting bold," Daenerys murmured. "They've grown used to no consequences."

Hadrian pushed off the window. "That ends now."

Daenerys stood too, slow, sinuous, like a lioness unfolding. "We warn them?"

"We warn no one," Hadrian said, eyes on her, voice low. "We hunt them. Quietly. Efficiently. We end it before it spreads."

She took a step toward him, something sparking in the air between them. "You're sure?"

"I'm sure if they stay, they'll try again. And next time, it could be worse."

Her lips curved. "I do like it when you get bossy."

"I'm not bossy," he said, barely a whisper. "I'm right."

"You can be both," she replied, voice like a slow burn. "It's charming."

Jasper, very much the third wheel now, coughed. "The Volturi—"

"Won't hear a whisper," Daenerys said, not looking away from Hadrian. "Unless we screw up. And we don't screw up."

Katherine turned to Elizabeth. "I'm in. You?"

Elizabeth grinned. "Please. I was born for clandestine murder in designer boots."

Rosalie rolled her eyes.

Esme's voice cut softly through the tension. "We protect this town. These people. It's who we are."

Everyone nodded.

Hadrian finally looked around the room. "Then it's settled."

The Cullens weren't just the shadows anymore. They were the sharp teeth in the dark.

The wolves in marble skin.

And the woods would soon learn—

This family bites back.

—

Cullen Residence – Hadrian and Daenerys's Room – 8:56 PM

Lighting: Amber warmth from a bedside lamp, filtered through soft linen curtains. Rain whispered against the windows. The air buzzed with storm tension and something even older—something sacred, electric, hungry.

The door clicked shut behind them.

Hadrian didn't speak. He just stood there, back to her, jaw clenched, fingers twitching like magic and memory were crawling under his skin.

Daenerys didn't move at first. She let the silence stretch. Taut. Heavy. Like the final breath before a kiss... or a battle.

Finally, she said, "You know you can't brood your way through this forever, right?"

Hadrian exhaled slowly. "Wasn't planning to brood."

"Mm-hmm." She pushed off the door and began pacing—barefoot and barely restrained. Silver hair tumbling down her back in tousled waves, violet eyes glittering beneath thick lashes. She wore one of his shirts—black, oversized, slightly rumpled—like it was lingerie spun from shadow. "Just… staring into the storm like a superhero with commitment issues?"

A slow grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Didn't know you were auditioning for Psychic Girlfriend #1 tonight."

"I don't audition, Hadrian." She moved toward him, hips swaying with regal confidence. "I cast people. And I only keep the ones worth watching."

He turned to face her—finally—and that one look nearly made her breath hitch.

Hadrian Wayne. Six feet and change of restrained power and reckless devotion. Emerald eyes glowing faintly, his shirt slung loose over sculpted muscle and dried rain. He looked like a myth halfway through writing itself. And he was looking at her like she was the fire he'd been walking through just to feel alive.

"You're angry," he said, stepping closer. "Not just at the nomads. Not at Bella. You're angry at me."

Daenerys stopped just in front of him, their chests almost brushing. "You locked me out."

"You needed to focus."

"No, you needed control," she said, voice low, sharp as dragonglass. "And you thought avoiding me would help. You thought ignoring this—us—would make the hunger go away."

"I wasn't trying to ignore you," he said, gaze flickering to her lips. "I was trying not to lose you."

"You don't lose me, Hadrian," she said fiercely. "You fight with me. You burn with me. You choose me."

His hands came up slowly—tentatively—one cradling her jaw, the other pressing to her lower back like he needed to make sure she was real. "You think I haven't missed you?" he whispered. "I've been going insane. Every night I wanted to touch you. But I didn't trust myself."

"Good," she breathed. "Don't trust yourself. Trust me."

He kissed her then.

Not gentle.

Not patient.

Just real.

Like the world had been waiting for this moment to exhale.

Her hands flew up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer. He lifted her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his waist like it was second nature. Lips locked, breathless and biting, they crashed into the wall—like gravity itself had given up trying to keep them apart.

"You still smell like ash and lightning," she gasped between kisses, her lips dragging along his throat. "Like every bad idea I've ever wanted."

"And you still taste like a dare I'm never going to win," he growled into her skin. "Gods, I missed your mouth."

"Then use it," she whispered against his ear, biting his lobe lightly. "Before I start screaming out of frustration."

He laughed—low and wrecked—and carried her to the bed.

—

Later. Much later.

Sheets tangled. Rain still fell. And Daenerys was curled on his chest, fingers lazily tracing the old scar near his collarbone.

"You realize we're going to have to keep doing this every time Edward abandons responsibility, right?" she murmured.

He smirked. "You saying sex is your solution to vampire-induced angst?"

"I'm saying I am your solution to vampire-induced angst," she replied smugly. "Sex is just a very effective side effect."

Hadrian chuckled. "Remind me to write that down and sell it to Jasper as an anti-anxiety slogan."

She arched a brow. "Only if I get royalties."

A knock thudded at the door.

Then Emmett's too-loud voice: "Hey, you two done breaking the bed yet? We can hear you in the garage."

"Go away, Emmett!" Daenerys shouted, not bothering to sit up. "Before I burn your Xbox!"

From somewhere outside: "Rude!"

Another knock. Softer this time. Alice.

"Also, can you not kill Bella tomorrow? Thanks!"

Hadrian groaned. "We need a sign. Something like 'Do Not Disturb: Unholy Dragon Sex Happening Inside.'"

"I'll carve it into the door," Daenerys said sweetly. "In Valyrian. With fire."

And for a moment, the war outside didn't matter. The Volturi didn't matter. Bella Swan didn't matter.

There was only this room. This warmth. These two stars, circling each other, burning brighter in the dark.

—

Cullen Residence – Hadrian and Daenerys's Room – Friday Morning – 7:34 AM

The pale morning sun tried to creep through the rain-streaked windows, but it was barely more than a suggestion—a watercolor glow across the stone-gray linens and the soft haze of lavender, magic, and heat still clinging to the air like the aftermath of a thunderstorm.

Hadrian stood in the kitchenette, shirtless, barefoot, and radiating the kind of post-apocalyptic smugness that only a man who had wrecked the bed (and maybe the drywall) last night could pull off. His plaid pajama pants hung low on his hips, revealing the deep V-cut of his abs and that barely-there trail of dark hair that had been the subject of many a devout prayer in this very room. He flipped a pancake with a flourish that was entirely unnecessary but very much appreciated.

Daenerys sprawled across the bed like an empress after battle—sheets tangled around her legs, one knee bent like a half-invitation, Hadrian's black t-shirt sliding off one shoulder. Her silver-white hair was a tangle of defiant curls, and her violet eyes blinked slowly, lazily, like a lioness waking up in a sunbeam.

"So," she murmured, voice still wrecked from last night—husky, low, dangerous. "You cook now?"

Hadrian didn't look back, just smirked as he flipped another pancake. "I always cooked. You just never let me finish. Something about you crawling onto the counter halfway through."

"In my defense," she said, stretching luxuriously, "you were very climbable."

"Still am."

"Mmm." She sat up, letting the sheet slide down just enough to make his knuckles tighten on the spatula. "Come here."

"Pancakes," he reminded, like that would stop her.

"You," she corrected, voice silkier than sin. "And that thing we haven't done in a long time."

Hadrian arched a brow as he set the plate down. "You'll have to be more specific, Fireheart. We've done a lot of things. Some of them twice."

She gave him that look—all teeth and bedroom eyes. "You know. The sacred vampire ritual. The one that usually ends with me screaming your name and clawing the mattress."

He tilted his head, pretending to think. "The one that almost set the bed on fire in that Sicilian villa?"

"The very same."

"Dany," he said, voice dropping, "you want to sixty-nine first thing in the morning?"

She leaned back on her elbows, smiling like the cat who'd just eaten the very best canary. "We're vampires, darling. We don't get tired. We don't need coffee. And right now, I want you more than I want a diplomatic summit with the Volturi off a cliff."

Hadrian crossed the room in three steps, climbing onto the bed with the kind of grace that should have been illegal. "This is why they fear us," he whispered, pressing her back into the mattress.

"Because I can wrap my thighs around your face like a crown?"

"Exactly."

She giggled—the sound sinful, breathy, and totally Dany. Then she dragged him down by the waistband, whispering, "Show me you remember the angle."

He growled low in his throat, kissing her like a promise, like a curse, like a prayer that ended in blasphemy.

"I remember everything."

And then it was limbs and mouths and the ancient magic of trust and teeth and tongue.

Because when immortals made love, it wasn't about release. It was about reverence.

—

Downstairs – Cullen Kitchen – 8:20 AM

Alice blinked, her juice halfway to her lips.

"Okay," she said flatly. "That was either an earthquake or Hadrian and Daenerys broke another mattress."

Emmett wandered in, rubbing the back of his head. "You mean the 'somebody call an architect' situation happening upstairs? Yeah. My money's on the ancient dragon queen and her wizard sex god."

Rosalie didn't look up from her magazine. "If they shattered the headboard again, I'm billing it to Aro."

Katherine walked by with a bowl of cereal, sighing in her Scottish drawl. "At least someone's getting action around here."

Alice took a sip. "I give it fifteen more minutes before they come downstairs looking like they invented orgasms."

They were wrong.

It only took ten.

---

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