Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The rain pattered softly against the windshield as they pulled into the parking lot of Forks High. Mist curled around the buildings, dull red-brick structures barely distinguishable through the thick, gray morning. The entire place looked… small. Even smaller than she had expected. It looked like the kind of school where everyone knew each other’s middle names. Where someone like her would stand out whether she wanted to or not.

“Are you ready?” Esme asked, watching her carefully.

Gwendolyn drummed her fingers against her knee, the metal of her rings clicking softly. The weight of them was familiar and grounding. An old habit that gave her something to focus on instead of the noise pressing at the edge of her senses. Her gaze flicking over the handful of students huddled under the covered walkways. A girl sneezed from across the lot, the sound clear as if she were standing right next to her. The low hum of conversation, the scratch of wet shoes on pavement—it all pressed at her heightened senses, a dull roar beneath her skin. She sighed, trying to push the sensation down.

Was she ready?

For what? Small-town high school politics? Forgettable locker conversations? Staring? None of it was particularly intimidating. She wasn’t new to school. Just… this kind of school. The normal human kind. Forks High looked like something out of an old TV show—quaint, unimposing, too small to disappear in completely.

She wasn’t sure what answer Esme was hoping for, so she just shrugged.

A huff of warm breath brushed against her wrist. Gwendolyn glanced down, her fingers already resting on the center console, where Boo had stretched his head forward from the backseat. His thick black fur was a dark blur in her peripheral vision, deep amber eyes flicking up at her—expectant and waiting. Without thinking, she reached down, scratching behind his ear in a motion so familiar she hardly registered it. His tail gave a slow, solid thump against the backseat, the closest thing to reassurance Boo ever offered.

She knew Esme wasn’t just asking about school, though.

They worried about her. Not just because she was grieving—though that was part of it. It was the sharp edges she hadn’t learned to soften. Her temper. Her magic. Her curse. It sat there, in the back of her mind, like an old wound that hadn’t scarred over yet. Ticking down. Waiting.

Carlisle and Esme had taken her in, had treated her like family, but there was still that carefulness. That extra second of hesitation when she got frustrated, the way Esme’s eyes softened when Gwendolyn didn’t realize she was clenching her fists too hard. Carlisle and Esme never said anything, but she noticed the way they measured their words sometimes, as if testing the air for a storm they weren’t sure had passed yet. Like they were waiting for the moment the ground gave out beneath her feet.

Boo shifted again, pressing his head more firmly against her, sensing her thoughts. Maybe that was why he was still here. Everyone else was gone.

The thought came before she could push it down.

Macon.

He had been the only steady thing in her life, besides Boo. Her parents had been too obsessed with breaking the curse, unraveling the past, trying to carve a future that wouldn’t eat her alive. But Macon had just… been there. Calm. Warm. Steady. And then—just like that—he wasn’t.

She swallowed, forcing the thought away. It was too early in the day to go down that road.

Esme gave her a small, reassuring smile. "You won’t be the only new student today," she said, nodding toward a rust-red Chevy truck parked across from them.

Gwendolyn followed her gaze. A girl had just stepped out, dark hair tucked into the hood of her oversized jacket. She hesitated slightly before shutting the truck door, like she was bracing herself for something.

“Chief Swan’s daughter,” Esme supplied. “Isabella. She just moved here from Phoenix.”

Gwendolyn arched a brow. “So, I’m not the only new kid? That’s interesting.”

Small towns didn’t get many new faces. Two in one day was practically a phenomenon.

She watched Isabella for a second—small, a little awkward in her movements—before shaking off the thought and unbuckling her seatbelt.

Boo let out a low huff, ears twitching as if he were unimpressed with her lack of enthusiasm.

Gwendolyn smirked, scratching his head one last time before reaching for the door handle. "Alright, alright. I’m going."

☽ ☽ ☽

The front office smelled like stale paper and pencil shavings, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead. Gwendolyn had already sensed the movement before stepping inside—someone shifting awkwardly near the door. She moved aside instinctively, barely brushing past.

“Ah—sorry,” the girl stammered, stepping back.

Isabella Swan.

Up close, she seemed even more uncomfortable than she had outside, her expression guarded in a way Gwendolyn recognized immediately. The weight of too many eyes. That overwhelming newness that settled on you like an itchy sweater.

Yeah. Been there.

Gwendolyn nodded once in acknowledgment, not bothering with small talk as she stepped past her toward the front desk. Mrs. Cope, the office secretary, looked up with a polite but distracted smile. “You must be Gwendolyn Ravenwood.”

“That’s me.”

She shuffled through a few papers before handing Gwendolyn a printed map of the school, along with her schedule. “Your first class is English with Mr. Mason. You’ll find that in building three—just follow the covered walkway outside. And welcome to Forks.”

“Thanks.”

As she turned to leave, she caught Isabella still standing near the desk, clutching a similar map. She paused, not really knowing why—maybe because she recognized the stiffness in the girl’s shoulders, the slight, invisible flinch at the weight of everyone’s attention, maybe because she remembered what it felt like to be the outsider—but she said, “Ignore the staring. It’ll stop eventually.”

Isabella blinked. “What?”

“The staring,” Gwendolyn said simply. “They’ll get bored. Just don’t make it interesting for them.”

She didn’t bother pulling the hood of her coat up and stepped back outside in the light rain, not waiting for an answer. But something in the back of her mind itched, an awareness that had nothing to do with the girl behind her. It was instinct, a pull, a presence on the edge of her senses, just outside the school.

Boo.

Without looking, she knew exactly where he was. Somewhere past the parking lot, just beyond the treeline, pacing and watching. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Technically, he was banned from school grounds. Carlisle had told her it would ‘raise questions’. Not that Boo cared. He was already moving, weaving effortlessly through the shadows. No one else would notice him, not unless he wanted them to.

She barely resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Of course he was keeping close.

☽ ☽ ☽

Classes were… fine.

Some students were staring—new people were rare in Forks, after all—but Gwendolyn barely noticed. That part wasn’t new. It never was. It wasn’t just that she was new. It was how she looked. Lean but strong, built for motion more than standing still. Wrapped in deep, layered tones — a long charcoal skirt brushing the tops of worn leather boots, a dark burgundy sweater slipping loose at the collar, sleeves pushed up just enough to show the rings crowding her fingers. And over it all, a deep green wool coat, heavy and sharp at the shoulders. Her hands — bare despite the cold — stayed shoved in her pockets, fingers curling around metal and stone. Rings, bracelets and necklaces layered like armor. Her long, navy blue curls were braided loose down her back, some strands already pulling free in the damp Forks air, curling like they refused to be tamed. And then there were her eyes. Pale blue. Too pale. The kind of blue that didn’t belong in oceans or skies or anything alive. Duchannes blue. The kind that didn’t soften when you smiled. The kind that marked you, whether you liked it or not. Maybe she didn’t blend in. But she never had before, so why start now?

The bigger issue was the noise. The shuffle of feet, the hum of conversation, the scratch of pencils against paper, the distant slam of a locker. It all bled together into a dull roar beneath her skin. A low, constant static in her bones, every sharp noise spiking like a needle under her skin.

By the time lunch rolled around, she was more than ready for a break. She slid into a seat at the Cullen table, setting down her tray and immediately digging into her food.

“Surviving?” Emmett asked, grinning at her.

Gwendolyn replied, “So far, no one’s thrown holy water at me, so I’d say we’re off to a good start.”

Emmett barked out a laugh, while Alice grinned at her over the rim of her soda cup.

Gwendolyn leaned back in her seat, eyes flicking over the cafeteria. Somewhere near the center of the room, a now familiar voice carried over the low murmur of conversation, louder than it needed to be, animated and unfiltered.

Stiles Stilinski.

She had ended up next to him in most of her classes without realizing it. At first, she thought it was coincidence, until she noticed the spot next to him was always empty in all her morning classes. It took her less than two minutes to figure out why no one else sat there.

Stiles never stopped moving. Long limbs everywhere, like someone had stretched him out too fast and forgot to teach him coordination. He twitched, fidgeted with his pen, tapped his foot relentlessly, muttered things under his breath that were definitely not part of the lesson. And if she made the mistake of accidentally making eye contact, he immediately roped her into whatever chaotic train of thought was currently derailing in his brain. Even now, he was gesturing wildly as he talked, nearly knocking over his soda, his entire body moving with whatever dramatic retelling he was in the middle of. Across from him, Scott McCall just shook his head, amused, but still listening. Scott was… calmer. Steadier. Broad-shouldered, always steady like he belonged in his skin — like the quiet one in a group that didn't need to be loud to be listened to. He nodded every now and then, occasionally interjecting, but he wasn’t caught up in the same restless energy. Neither of them noticed her watching. Too caught up in whatever story Stiles was telling.

Gwendolyn wasn’t sure what to make of them yet. Stiles was… exhausting,but weirdly endearing in the way stray dogs sometimes were—loud, unpredictable, but not mean. Scott, on the other hand, was harder to read. He didn’t talk much, but when he looked at people, he really looked. Like he was paying attention to something you hadn’t said out loud, which was mildly terrifying.

But they hadn’t asked anything personal. Hadn’t pushed. That alone put them miles ahead of most people.

Gwendolyn exhaled sharply, dragging her attention back to her own table. “You know,” she mused, absentmindedly spinning the water in her cup without realizing it, “for people trying to blend in, you’re really bad at it.” She didn’t expect them to actually care what she thought, but it was baffling that a group of supposedly ancient, hyper-intelligent immortals had zero grasp of basic human behavior.

Emmett grinned. "We do alright."

"You do terrible," Gwendolyn countered. "Sitting in a tight, closed-off group, never eating, never talking to anyone else? You might as well wear shirts that say We are definitely not vampires."

Alice gave her a pointed look, flicking her gaze toward the swirling water. Gwendolyn blinked, realizing what she was doing, and dropped her hand. The water stilled instantly.

Rosalie, who had been picking at the cap of an untouched water bottle, finally looked up, eyes flicking over Gwendolyn’s dark blue braid that cascaded down to her waist. “Says the girl who looks like she walked out of a gothic fairy tale,” she said dryly. “You’re not exactly subtle yourself.”

Gwendolyn smirked, absently adjusting the thin chains around her neck—a mix of silver, leather, and something older, worn smooth from years of touch. Fair point.

“Yeah, but at least she eats,” Emmett added, grinning.

Edward, who had been unusually quiet the whole time, finally spoke, “Jessica Stanley is giving the new Swan girl all the dirty laundry on the Cullen clan,” he said casually.

Emmett chuckled “I hope she’s making it good.”

“Rather unimaginative, actually,” Edward replied, his tone dry. “Just the barest hint of scandal. Not an ounce of horror. I’m a little disappointed.”

Gwendolyn tilted her head, "And Swan? Is she disappointed in the gossip as well?"

Edward shrugged, but Gwendolyn noticed the slight furrow in his brow, a rare crack in his perfect calm. It wasn’t just annoyance. There was something else there. Curiosity? Frustration? Like he had been expecting something that hadn’t happened. Gwendolyn’s fingers twitched against the table. She knew that feeling and she didn’t like it.

Gwendolyn took another slow bite of her food, watching him. Yeah, something was bothering him. “I think you should try harder to act normal,” she said lazily, glancing around at the table, “if you all really wanted to blend in, you’d at least pretend to eat. Shove food down your throats, even if it means puking later. I mean, can’t venom just melt that crap away?”

Edward only rolled his eyes, but the muscle in his jaw twitched. He looked tense and distracted. Whatever was on his mind, it wasn’t this conversation.

Emmett sat forward, expression lighting up like a switch had flipped. “That’s actually a great idea.”

Gwendolyn snorted. “Here we go.”

“No, no—think about it!” Emmett’s grin widened. “We can’t digest it, right? But that doesn’t mean we can’t destroy it. What if venom does break it down? Like, full acid-style?”

Alice sighed. “Emmett, please don’t.”

“No, no, I have to try this.”

Rosalie groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “You are not going to eat human food just to see if you can melt it, Emmett.”

Emmett reached across the table, snatched a small roasted potato off Gwendolyn’s tray, and popped it into his mouth.

Gwendolyn froze mid-bite. “Did you just—?”

Jasper arched a brow. “Well?”

Emmett chewed thoughtfully. Swallowed. Shrugged. “Tastes weird.”

“Congratulations,” Edward muttered. “You now have a lump of undigested potato sitting in your stomach. Enjoy that.”

Gwendolyn grinned, leaning forward. “Oh, no, we’re in it now. I want updates. Let’s see how long you can keep it down before you cave and throw it up.”

Jasper smirked. “I give him two hours.”

Alice shook her head. “One.”

Rosalie sighed. “Thirty minutes, max.”

Emmett sat back, arms crossed. “You all underestimate my dedication to science.”

Gwendolyn snorted. “Science? This is the dumbest experiment in the history of dumb experiments.”

Emmett grinned wider. “Then I guess I’ll be the first ever test subject.”

Gwendolyn leaned back, enjoying every second of this. The Cullens might be terrible at blending in, but at least they were entertaining. She should’ve known better than to relax though.

“So,” Emmett started looking at Edward, grinning way too wide. “What’s the verdict?”

Gwendolyn arched an eyebrow. “On what?”

“On you.” He gestured vaguely around the cafeteria. “The mysterious, brooding new addition to the Cullen circus. What are the humans saying?”

Gwendolyn rolled her eyes, “I don’t brood.” But Emmett ignored her, still leaning in towards Edward. The latter sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Nothing original.”

Emmett leaned in even more. “Come on. Give us the good stuff.”

Edward finally glanced up, expression flat. “The usual theories. They think she’s related to us. Some suspect adoption. One girl is convinced she’s your long-lost sister.” He paused. “And another is absolutely certain she’s secretly dating me.”

Gwendolyn grimaced, taken aback. "What?"

Across the table, Alice grinned behind her soda cup.

Emmett, meanwhile, nearly howled with laughter, slapping the table. “Oh, that’s good.”

Gwendolyn set her fork down with exaggerated care. "That is disgusting.”

Edward’s expression didn’t change, but his tone was deeply offended. “Agreed.”

Rosalie, who had been idly picking at the cap of an untouched water bottle, finally glanced up, her sharp gaze flicking over Gwendolyn. “Well, it makes sense,” she said dryly. “We’re all taken.”

Gwendolyn scowled. “That is not the logical conclusion.”

Emmett wiped a fake tear from his eye. “Oh man, I love this. How’s it feel, little sister? Being paired with Eddie?”

“Don’t call me that,” Edward muttered at the same time Gwendolyn snapped, “Absolutely not.”

Alice was giggling now, and even Jasper looked vaguely amused.

Edward shot a sharp glare in Emmett’s direction. “Fix your face, or I’ll rip it off.”

Gwendolyn, horrified, turned to Alice. “Please tell me your visions say this nonsense will die immediately.”

Alice just smirked. “Oh, I wouldn’t count on it.”

Gwendolyn groaned, dragging a hand down her face. Before she could recover, Emmett, sensing an opportunity, grinned wider. “Oh, and that’s not even the best part.”

Gwendolyn narrowed her eyes. “What now?”

Edward, clearly debating whether or not to answer, exhaled sharply before relenting. “There are a few who think you’re… intimidating.”

“Good,” Gwendolyn said immediately.

Alice snickered. “Not in a bad way.”

“More in a ‘I’d ask her out, but I enjoy living’ kind of way,” Emmett added, smirking.

Gwendolyn’s fork hovered midair. “You’re joking.” Of course they weren’t. She already knew how people looked at her—like she was a challenge, not a person. Like she was sharp edges and stormclouds, something to survive, not someone to know. They weren’t interested. Not really. Just curious. Maybe a little afraid. But it was never about her. She smiled anyway. It was easier that way.

Edward, ever unimpressed, just shrugged. “Hardly. A few of them are interested, but none of them have the nerve to talk to you.”

Alice hummed, amused. “It’s the confidence. The mystery. You’re basically the dark, untouchable new girl.”

Gwendolyn turned her glare on her. “Stop talking.”

Jasper, silent until now, finally spoke, his drawl laced with amusement. “It’s not just that. It’s the way you carry yourself.” He tilted his head, studying her. “You don’t walk like someone trying to fit in.”

Gwendolyn stared at him. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

Emmett leaned back, absolutely loving this. “Oh, it’s great. Half the school is terrified of you, and the other half wants to risk it all.”

Gwendolyn’s eye twitched. “I hate this school.”

Emmett clapped her on the shoulder, grinning ear to ear. “Look on the bright side, Gremlin. At least they didn’t think you were dating me.”

Edward exhaled sharply. “This semester is going to be insufferable.”

“Tell me about it,” she muttered.

☽ ☽ ☽

After her first day of classes, Gwendolyn stepped into the damp afternoon air, relieved to spot Esme’s familiar car waiting at the curb. The rain had settled into a steady mist, curling around the parked vehicles like breath against cold glass. She barely made it two steps before she heard the soft thud of Boo’s heavy paws on wet pavement. He slipped out from behind a row of trees, his massive frame moving too silently for something his size. He barely glanced at the students around them, just kept his deep amber eyes locked on her.

She smirked, already expecting him. “I hope you at least tried to stay hidden.”

Boo didn’t respond, just huffed, ears flicking, before slipping into the backseat of Esme’s car like he belonged there.

Gwendolyn slid into the passenger seat, tugging her coat closer around her. “No mobs, no torches, no burning stakes,” she said dryly. “I’d say it went well.”

Esme smiled, but her eyes lingered on Gwendolyn for just a beat too long, careful, studying for something left unsaid. Maybe she looked tired. Probably did. She hadn’t really slept. Or at least, not without waking up halfway through, heart pounding and throat dry.

Boo shifted in the backseat, his fur brushing against her shoulder as he curled up again, like he knew.

The drive home was quiet, the familiar hum of the tires against wet asphalt almost soothing. She let her head rest against the window, watching the trees blur past. Her notebook sat in her lap, still flipped open to the same page she’d been doodling on all day—ravens.

Small ones, mid-flight, wings stretched wide. A larger one, head turned, feathers caught in rough, sharp lines. A half-formed silhouette, shadowed and undefined.

She hadn’t even pretended to take notes. What was the point? She wasn’t going to graduate. She wasn’t going to get a degree, or a job, or a future. Not when her curse was already waiting for her.

She could hear Esme’s voice in her head already—school is important, just in case.

In case what? In case she miraculously broke the curse before it broke her?

She sighed, running a finger over the rough edge of the paper. Maybe that was why she kept sketching the ravens. Not because they were beautiful. Not because they were clever. Because they felt like something real and inevitable. Something old and sharp and real. Something that wouldn’t wash away with the tide. Something hers.

Ravens didn’t belong to anyone but themselves. They circled battlefields and old bones. They watched things decay. They survived. Maybe that was what she wanted or what she pretended she didn’t. To carve something into her skin so deep, so permanent, it wouldn’t matter what the curse took. It wouldn’t matter if she turned dark, if she broke, because at least that would stay hers. Another mark she chose and not a scar left behind.

She could already feel where the ink would go—on her back, surrounded by protective sigils and runes. She'd just have to finish the full design one day.

Maybe that’s what being a Ravenwood was anyway. Cutting yourself open before anyone else could do it for you. Leaving marks before they could leave them worse.

And still, she was here. She had given in. After weeks of Esme’s gentle persistence, Carlisle’s quiet logic, Alice’s vague insistence that "it’s better this way," she had finally caved. School wasn’t her choice. It was the price of keeping the peace, but not for herself. For them. Because when she arrived in Forks last autumn, she was not okay. Not something easy or clean they could tuck into their perfect family portrait. She hadn’t slept more than three hours a night for weeks. She’d left burn marks in the wood of her bedroom floor at the Cullens’ place the first time she woke up from a nightmare, heart hammering like prey. She didn’t sit still. She didn’t eat properly. She walked the woods for hours until Boo forced her home because staying inside felt like suffocating.

She wasn’t moping. Gwendolyn Ravenwood didn’t do quiet sad grieving. She did reckless magic. She sketched until her fingers cramped. She jumped cliffs without looking back. She stole one of the Cullens’ car, once, just to drive until the road bled into nothing but ocean. She avoided mirrors. She avoided Esme’s soft looks of worry. She avoided Carlisle’s patience. But eventually, she sat at that kitchen table, stared at a mug of tea she didn’t want and said, “Fine. School.” Not for herself. But because peace was cheaper than fighting forever.

A soft shift of fabric, and then Esme’s voice, quiet but warm. “That’s beautiful.”

Gwendolyn blinked, startled. She hadn’t realized Esme was looking. Her gaze flicked down at her open notebook. The last raven she had drawn was different—wings curved inward, talons flexed, mid-dive, like it was caught between falling and flying. For a second, she considered closing the notebook, brushing it off.

Instead, she just said, “It’s nothing.”

Esme hummed lightly. “It doesn’t look like nothing.”

For a moment, it was just the steady hum of the car, the soft scratch of Boo shifting in the backseat.

Then Esme, always careful, always gentle, asked, “How were your classes?”

Gwendolyn scoffed, flipping the notebook shut with one hand. “You mean besides art?”

Esme didn’t push, just gave her that soft, knowing look.

Gwendolyn sighed, slouching deeper into the seat. “I survived.”

Esme didn’t argue. She just smiled lightly, turning her focus back to the road. But the moment stuck with Gwendolyn.

By the time they pulled into the long drive leading to the Cullens’ home, the unease had already settled into her bones. Something was wrong. The house was unusually too quiet. The second she stepped inside, it hit her like a wall. The silence wasn’t empty, it was charged. Boo slipped past her, taking his place near the couch, his ears twitching. He felt it too.

Alice and Jasper stood near the couch, their expressions carefully composed, but too still. Too stiff. Gwendolyn’s stomach twisted. She hated when they did that. The way vampires just froze when something was wrong, like statues waiting to shatter.

She dropped her bag by the door and took a seat on the couch, Boo curling at her feet. Esme leaned against one of the walls, watching everyone, worry evident on her face. Gwendolyn broke the silence, “Okay… what’s with the doomsday vibes?”

Alice hesitated, just for a moment, “Edward left.”

Gwendolyn frowned. “What do you mean, left?”

Jasper exchanged a glance with Alice before answering. “He—he’s struggling. With the new girl.”

“Swan?” Gwendolyn said, confused. “What does she have to do with anything?”

Alice hesitated. “…Her blood. He almost killed her in biology.”

Gwendolyn stilled. The words wrapped around her like a vice.

He almost killed her.

Her throat felt tight, her breath too sharp in her lungs. Because she knew what that felt like. The ache in the gums, the dry burn in the throat, the way hunger coiled deep in the bones like something living. The way scent could turn from curious to desperate in an instant. But more than that, she knew what happened when someone lost control. She had seen it. The hollow, animal madness in her father’s eyes. The snarl, raw and not human. The frenzy. And the aftermath—when the blood was gone, when the screaming stopped, when only the horror remained.

Her stomach twisted. A sharp, dry heat surged in her chest—too fast, too much. She squeezed her eyes shut for half a second. The lights above flickered again, longer this time. A glass on the table vibrated, just enough to rattle. Boo stood, muscles taut, positioning himself between her and the rest of the room. Not hostile, just… guarding.

“Gwendolyn,” Esme said softly.

She exhaled—shaky, forced—and the room stilled. Just like that. But the quiet that followed wasn’t peaceful. It was tense. She didn’t look up, didn’t need to. She could feel their eyes. Measuring her. Waiting for her to slip again.

This wasn’t the same. Edward wasn’t the same. Right?

But then again, her father hadn’t been the same either.

Until he was.

Her jaw clenched. The thought lingered longer than she liked. Because she knew better than anyone—some things couldn’t be fought forever. Some things weren’t a matter of willpower. Sometimes, the choice wasn’t yours. And one day, she wouldn’t have a choice either.

Boo shifted closer, his body warm against her leg. She clenched her fists. She knew what it meant when someone left like that. It wasn’t just distance. It was a fracture, a countdown to something breaking. No one left because things were fine. They left because they were running out of time.

“So, he just left?” she asked, her voice quieter than before.

Alice nodded. “He’s going to stay with the Denalis for a while.”

A sharp scoff came from the other side of the room. Rosalie was curled in an armchair, legs tucked beneath her, arms crossed. Her golden gaze flicked to Alice, unimpressed, “Coward.”

Boo growled softly, as if agreeing. Emmett shot her a look, but Rosalie only lifted a brow, “He should’ve controlled himself. He’s had nearly a century to practice.” Her tone was clipped, sharp. “Running away doesn’t solve anything.”

“He didn’t run away,” Alice snapped. “He’s trying to fix it.”

Rosalie rolled her eyes. “Sure. And when he comes back? What then? This girl still exists, and he still wants her blood.”

Jasper, standing near the fireplace, barely said a word. He looked exhausted. Gwendolyn didn’t blame him. He had to be feeling everything. Esme, standing near the kitchen, finally spoke, her voice gentle but firm. “He’s doing what he thinks is best.”

Gwendolyn let out a slow breath, leaning against the back of the couch. This was going to be a disaster.

Alice was watching her. “He’ll be back,” she said, but… there was something off about it. Hesitation. Not uncertainty. Alice was never uncertain. But she wasn’t comforted by her own words.

Gwendolyn exhaled sharply. “Great. So, we’re just supposed to sit around and pretend this isn’t a disaster waiting to happen?”

Rosalie let out a bitter laugh. “Finally, someone with sense.”

Emmett elbowed her lightly. “That’s debatable.”

Gwendolyn crossed her arms, irritation sparking. “We should leave.”

What were they even doing here? Playing house while one of them lost his mind over a girl whose blood drove him mad? Staying in Forks was a time bomb. She didn’t care how much they insisted they had the situation under control—Edward had already bolted. That said everything. They were vampires. Immortal. They could go anywhere, vanish for a decade, come back later when the temptation was gone. Why stay? Why flirt with disaster?

Her words were met with silence.

Alice looked away. Esme frowned. Jasper’s expression remained unreadable, but the way his shoulders tensed told her enough.

Rosalie, however, scoffed, “Absolutely not.”

Gwendolyn turned toward her, “Rosalie—”

“No,” Rosalie snapped. “This is Edward’s mess. Why should we have to leave because he can’t handle himself?” She shot a glare toward the empty space where Edward usually stood. “I have never slipped. Not once. Neither has Carlisle. Or Alice. Or even Jasper, for that matter, and his control is the worst of all of us.” She huffed. “So why does he get an excuse?”

Gwendolyn hesitated. That was a fair point. “But if he does lose control—”

“Then he should be the one to leave,” Rosalie cut her off sharply, golden eyes burning with intensity. “Not us.”

Gwendolyn opened her mouth to retort, but Rosalie wasn’t done. She turned her sharp gaze on Alice. “Do you see him fail?”

Alice’s mouth opened slightly, then closed. “…No, it’s all blurry now.”

Rosalie’s smirk was cold. “Then why are we panicking?”

Jasper, who had been silent for most of the conversation, finally spoke. “Because we all know what happens if he does.”

Rosalie rolled her eyes. “Then he stays away from her.”

Gwendolyn let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “You think he’ll just do that?”

Rosalie’s jaw tightened. That was the problem, wasn’t it?

Alice broke the silence. “He’ll be back.”

Jasper didn’t say anything, but his eyes flicked to Gwendolyn for just a second — measuring. She clenched her jaw. He felt it, didn’t he? The way her pulse had spiked, the way her stomach had twisted at Alice’s words. He didn’t push, he didn’t have to.

Rosalie scoffed. “Of course he will.”

Gwendolyn exhaled. “And when he does?”

Esme spoke then, her voice quiet but firm. “Then we handle it as a family.”

All eyes turned to her. Esme wasn’t often the one to step into arguments, but when she did, her presence was absolute. She wasn’t angry—she was unshaken, her gaze filled with something deeper than frustration. “I will not let us become a fractured family, not even for a few years,” she said, looking at Rosalie first, then Gwendolyn. “We have been together for too long. We have been through too much. Edward is one of us, and we will not cast him aside because of this.”

Rosalie’s lips parted slightly, but Esme held up a hand. “You love Forks,” Esme acknowledged gently. “And I understand why. But I will not allow us to break apart over this.” She looked at Gwendolyn now. “And I understand your fear. I do. But running isn’t the answer, sweetheart. If Edward comes back, we will handle it. Together.”

And just like that, the argument was over. For now.

Gwendolyn’s hands curled into fists. She was convinced this would end in disaster. She wanted to argue. She wanted to push, because hadn’t she already lost enough? Hadn’t they already seen what happened when someone lost control?

She could still feel their eyes on her, even after the argument had ended. It wasn’t just the silence—it was the weight of it. The way Jasper’s shoulders tensed. The way Alice’s fingers curled, restless. Like they were waiting for something. Like she was going to snap next. Like they weren’t sure how much time she had left. Gwendolyn let out a sharp breath, shoving away from the couch. She needed out. Before she said or did something she’d regret.

☽ ☽ ☽

The cold air burned in her lungs, her feet barely touching the ground as she cut through the trees. Branches that should have snagged against her coat shifted at the last second, bending just out of reach. The wind bit at her skin, but she welcomed it, let it scrape away the static that had been building all day. Boo followed, keeping pace effortlessly, a dark blur at her side.

She pushed herself faster, the trees blurring together, the pounding of her feet matching the steady rhythm of her heart. Like she could outrun it. If she moved fast enough, the unease wouldn’t catch her.

Before she knew it, she had reached the cliffs. The trees broke away, and she skidded to a stop, boots crunching against damp earth. Her breath still felt tight in her chest. But here, at least, the weight was hers alone to carry. The ocean stretched out before her, endless and untamed. The cliffs were jagged, rough beneath her fingers as she reached out to steady herself. Below, the waves crashed hard against the rocks, sending up misty plumes of white foam. The sky was a heavy shade of gray, but the water was a deep, restless blue, stretching into the horizon, shifting, never still.

The wind tore at her hair, whipping strands of it loose from her braid, and she let it. Like the ocean itself was trying to pull something free.

She just sat there, feet dangling in the abyss, watching the ocean churn, listening to the waves beat against the cliffs, gripping at the edge of the rock like she was waiting for it to pull her forward.

It was always the cliffs first, the beach came later. The first of every month, without fail. Always the same.  Always after Ceelia’s visit.

The Council hadn’t done anything yet. But that was the problem, wasn’t it? Yet. One day, they’d find what they were looking for.

And maybe that’s why she came here. A ritual, even if she wouldn’t call it that.

Because standing here, watching the ocean rage below, made her feel like something still tethered her to the earth. Because if she was here, she wasn’t somewhere else. She wasn’t sitting in that house, replaying the conversation, picking apart every glance, every hesitation, wondering if this was the month they decided she wasn’t worth the risk. Because at least out here, her thoughts weren’t clawing at her the way they did in bed. Sleep didn’t help anymore. Not when her dreams were just as loud as everything else.

Here, she decided. Here, she could breathe.

She thought about going to the beach now, about taking the long way down, walking along the shoreline. But she knew herself too well. She wouldn’t just sit on the sand.  She’d start tracing patterns in it. Then, maybe, she’d start writing things she didn’t want to think about. Things she’d end up staring at until the tide washed them away.

Instead, she stayed where she was and she wondered—

Would Edward actually come back like Alice promised?

And if he did… Would that really be a good thing?

If he had left because he was afraid of what he might become… was that fear enough to keep him from becoming it?

Her arms were crossed tightly over her chest, her nails digging into the fabric of her sleeves. The only thing keeping her grounded was the soft weight pressed against her, Boo, his massive head resting against her leg.

He wasn’t just watching, he was reading her, the way he always did. He never spoke, never demanded anything, but she could feel his quiet presence in the spaces between her thoughts. That’s how it had always been with him, from the very beginning.

She had never known a world without Boo. He had appeared when she was four—a gift from her uncle Macon. Not small. Not a puppy. Full-sized from the start, silent and unmoving, like a shadow carved out of something older than the house itself.

She had woken up to find him at the foot of her bed, staring, as if he had always been there.

Not a pet. Not just an animal. Something more.

A creature that had never left her, because he was never meant to.

He was too big, too knowing. Too steady, like something ancient had settled inside his bones. And sometimes, she caught him staring like he was waiting for something she hadn’t figured out yet.

He was larger than any normal canine, with thick black fur that seemed too long for a regular breed, brushing against the earth as he moved. His build was powerful, almost wolfish, but there was something else about him, something uncanny. His eyes weren’t just sharp; they were knowing. Deep, intelligent, with a flicker of something she couldn’t name. It was like he understood things he shouldn’t. Like he saw through her. A creature that had chosen her.

He had been a constant, in a life where everything else had been ripped away.

She absently ran a hand over his fur, comforted by the warmth. This time, he did lean into it, pressing more of his weight against her. A quiet, pleased huff rumbled from his chest. She huffed back, a small smirk flickering at her lips. "Needy today, huh?"

Boo just rolled onto his side, head still resting against her leg, paws stretching out in a lazy sprawl. She knew what this meant. He wouldn’t ask. He never did. But if she started scratching his stomach, he wouldn’t stop her either. She snorted, but gave in immediately, fingers scratching through his thick fur. She wasn’t sure if he purred or if the sound was just his deep exhale, but it rippled through the quiet. He was only like this when he knew it was safe. With anyone else, he was a force of nature—watching, guarding, untouchable.

But with her? He melted.

She let out a slow breath, still scratching his stomach as she stared out at the waves. Boo’s tail thumped once against the ground. And she thought about something Macon used to say to him. "You and I—we’re the Boo Radleys of the world."

It had been an inside joke, one only she would have understood.

The town recluse, always watching, always lurking just out of sight.

Macon had been the same, back in their little town in South Carolina—too strange for the locals, too quiet, too unknowable.

And Boo had been the same.

A shadow at her side.

A silent ghost that never left.

She had never known a world without Boo and she told herself she never would.

☽ ☽ ☽

Chapter Text

Gwendolyn had accepted that Forks High was, at best, an endurance test.

It wasn’t hard, not in the way some people found school difficult. If she actually cared, she could probably do well. But she didn’t. She didn’t care about the assignments. Didn’t care about the lectures. She barely listened unless something actually interested her, which, more often than not, it didn’t. She already knew half this stuff. The Caster Academy and her uncle had drilled everything from history to ancient languages into her brain. And the other half? Well, it just wasn’t worth the effort.

The teachers had noticed her lack of enthusiasm, though not enough to call her out on it yet. Three days in, and she had already perfected the art of looking like she was paying attention while actually zoning out completely. Her notebook was open, but the page in front of her wasn’t filled with notes. Her fingers moved absently, pencil gliding across the margin. She wasn’t thinking about it. Not really. A monster-like silhouette, its edges blurred like it was shifting in and out of existence. Hands reaching for something just beyond their grasp. A girl standing alone on a cliff, her hair tangled in the wind. She caught herself before the pencil strokes could become too familiar. She didn’t draw people she knew on purpose.

Instead, she flipped to a new page and started sketching Boo. He wasn’t hard to draw. She’d done it so many times, her hands knew the shape of him without needing to think. Her pencil pressed harder against the page than necessary, the graphite leaving darker lines, sharper edges. A part of her was still wound too tight from having to sit in class all day, from the noise, the whispers. She forced her grip to loosen before she snapped the tip. By the time the bell rang, she had filled half the page with different angles of Boo—his eyes, his ears twitching, his massive paws tucked beneath him like a waiting shadow.

The noise of the classroom swelled back in, pressing at the edges of her focus. That was the real challenge of Forks High. Not the schoolwork. Not the teachers. The sheer volume of it all. The voices. The movement. The attention. People noticed her. She supposed they would. The Cullens already had a reputation, and now, there was another one— pale, distant, obviously attached to their orbit. The whispers weren’t subtle.

“Is she related to them?”

“I heard she lives with them.”

“She doesn’t look like them.”

The air felt thick, whispers threading through the halls like ripples in still water. She could hear them too clearly. The murmured gossip, the scratch of graphite on paper, the uneven thud of footsteps against the linoleum. Her senses stretched too far, catching the way someone’s heart stuttered when she walked by. She rolled her shoulders, forcing herself to block it out. She wasn’t about to start explaining her entire existence to nosy high schoolers.

☽ ☽ ☽

Gwendolyn hated gym.  It wasn’t the running or the drills—she didn’t mind physical effort. But the group chaos, the manufactured competition, the shrill whistle-blowing? It was irritating. And today was dodgeball. Which, apparently, meant a bunch of hormone-choked teenagers throwing foam balls like they were reenacting a war. Overcompensating, wildly inaccurate and loud.

She didn’t move at first. Just stood near the back wall, arms crossed, tracking the game. Watching the way everyone overthrew. The way Scott McCall’s aim was decent but too polite. The way Stiles zigzagged across the court like he thought speed alone could save him from his complete lack of coordination.

She could dodge every ball without trying. Could catch them blindfolded if she wanted. She was built for speed—reflexes sharp, instinct faster—but she didn’t use them. Not fully. That was the game: pretending to be normal.

She didn’t duck when a ball flew past her. Just tilted her head slightly and let it miss. Scott glanced at her once, like he was trying to figure out if she was even playing. She ignored him.

The gym floor squeaked under someone’s shoes. The lights above buzzed like dying insects. Everything about this felt forced. Performed. Like high school couldn’t decide if it wanted to be a prison or a stage. How the hell did the Cullens manage to repeat this circus more than once?

She caught a ball without looking, let it hang in her fingers for a beat, then lazily tossed it back across the court. It clipped Stiles in the knee. He collapsed dramatically—whether out of pain or flair, she didn’t care. Scott gave her a subtle thumbs up.

She didn’t smile. But the corner of her mouth twitched. Just a little.

☽ ☽ ☽

The classroom smelled like burnt plastic and half-cleaned lab tables. Fluorescents buzzed overhead, somehow both too bright and not bright enough. Gwendolyn slouched in her chair at the back of the chemistry lab, idly spinning a pen between her fingers while Stiles Stilinski—still as twitchy as he’d been in gym— stared at her like she was a particularly difficult puzzle he was determined to solve.

Somehow, she’d ended up next to him in almost every class. She’d written it off as bad luck until he’d popped her locker open on the second day without saying a word, like it wasn’t a big deal. Just rusty, he’d said. Like it explained everything. And then there was that thing with the Spanish teacher who thought she’d been whispering with him during vocab drills—Stiles had answered in her place before she even realized she’d been called on. She hadn’t thanked him. He hadn’t expected her to. It was just… a thing that happened.

She didn’t dislike him. That was the problem.

"So, Gwendolyn," he started, voice far too serious for whatever nonsense was about to leave his mouth. "You've been here for, what, three days now?"

She didn’t even look up. “I suppose you could say that.” She kept her gaze on the smudge of old marker on her desk, refusing to give him the satisfaction of eye contact.

“I did say that,” he replied, unimpressed. “And in those three days, you’ve successfully avoided answering any actual questions about yourself.”

Gwendolyn feigning surprise. “Have I?” He was relentless. She respected that. Annoying as hell, but at least it was consistent.

“Yes.”

“That’s tragic.”

Stiles groaned. “See? That’s what I’m talking about. Deflection. Misdirection.”

“Sounds exhausting,” Gwendolyn said, flipping open her notebook and chemistry book, not to read it, just to look like she was doing something.

Scott, who was seated in front of Stiles, turned around and shook his head. “Dude, let her breathe.”

“She’s fine.” Stiles pointed at her. “She enjoys this. Look at her, she’s thriving.”

Gwendolyn tilted her head, absently adding shading to a half-finished sketch of Boo. “You say that like you’ve known me for years.”

Stiles crossed his arms. “It’s a gift. I’m a people reader.”

“You mean people irritator,” Scott corrected.

“Same thing.”

Their teacher, Mr. Harris, tapped the whiteboard. “Alright, pair work. Go over the worksheet together.”

Gwendolyn barely suppressed a groan. Pair work meant engaging. It demanded a kind of social cooperation she found... draining. Especially with people who actually cared about the grade.

Not that she could’ve helped much anyway. Chemistry, as Forks High defined it, was like deciphering calculus written in ancient Aramaic. She’d never learned about ions or valence electrons. At the Caster Academy, she’d taken potionwork and herbcraft—subjects that actually mattered. She could brew a sleep draught or identify bloodroot on sight, but she had no idea what a “noble gas” was supposed to do. Explode politely?

And she couldn’t exactly explain that without sounding like a lunatic. So instead, she said nothing. Just slumped lower in her seat as Stiles dragged the worksheet between them. “Alright, let’s—” He glanced up, noticing her posture. “Oh, come on.”

Gwendolyn just blinked at him.

“You have to do something.”

“I could.”

Stiles gave her a deadpan look. “You should.”

Gwendolyn stretched her arms overhead with an exaggerated yawn, already bored. “You’ll do a great job without me.”

He leaned forward, dragging the worksheet closer to his side like he was fencing off sacred territory. “Oh my god,” he muttered, rubbing his hands down his face. “Unbelievable.”

Scott snickered under his breath. Gwendolyn could see his shoulders shaking just a little, but he didn’t turn around.

“You do realize this is a partner assignment, right?” Stiles waved his pen in the air like a dagger.

“Mhm.”

“So, you’re just gonna let me do all the work?”

She shrugged, her gaze flicking briefly to the whiteboard, then back to her sketch. “I have faith in you.”

“That is not how this works.”

Gwendolyn tilted her head slightly, pen still moving. “You sure?”

“Yes. Very sure.” And then, mid-rant, he finally noticed what she was doing. He squinted at her worksheet. “Wait. Are you even—are you drawing right now?” He leaned across the desk, elbow bumping her notebook slightly, brow furrowed like this was a matter of national security.

Gwendolyn answered without looking up, “No.”

Stiles immediately leaned in. “You totally are.”

Gwendolyn tilted the paper slightly away from him. “You’re hallucinating.”

Stiles did not look convinced. “What are you drawing?”

“A deeply personal math equation.”

Stiles tried to sneak a look anyway, craning his neck.

Scott sighed. “Dude, stop harassing her.”

“I’m not harassing—I’m investigating.”

Gwendolyn, finally looked at him, “Nosy much?”

“Absolutely.” Stiles grinned. “Now let me see.”

Gwendolyn flipped the page over, making direct eye contact as she flattened her notebook against the desk.

Stiles groaned dramatically. “That’s just mean.”

Scott, looking way too amused, patted Stiles on the shoulder. “Better get started, dude.”

Stiles groaned dramatically but still reached for his worksheet, muttering under his breath the entire time. Meanwhile, Gwendolyn propped her chin in her hand and absentmindedly started adding a second sketch of Boo, flipping to the next page of her notebook with a tiny gust of air. Every now and then, Stiles would try to get her attention.

“Hey, what’s the answer to number four?”

Silence.

“Gwen.”

Nothing.

“Gwendolyn.”

She finally turned her head, looking vaguely annoyed. “What?”

“You are supposed to be helping.”

She blinked at him, slow and deliberate, like a cat pretending it hadn’t just knocked a glass off the counter. “Oh. Right.” Then she just kept staring at him.

Stiles sighed, slamming his pen down. “You are actually the worst.”

Gwendolyn smirked, finally a little entertained. “So I’ve been told.”

Scott, stifling laughter, nudged Stiles. “Just finish the worksheet, man.”

Stiles grumbled under his breath, but he did it. Gwendolyn leaned back in her chair, completely unbothered. Maybe failing chemistry wouldn’t be that bad.

☽ ☽ ☽

The bathroom was too quiet. Not the peaceful kind, more like the kind of silence that settled between bells, where fluorescent lights buzzed faintly and the mirror refused to make anyone look better. Gwendolyn stood at the sink, scrubbing charcoal smudges from her fingers, watching the water swirl gray down the drain. Her braid was falling apart, curls pulling loose, wild from rain and gym.

The door creaked open behind her. Bella Swan stepped in, wide-eyed for a second like she hadn’t expected company. Her jacket was damp, her sleeves rolled halfway up, and her expression said she was barely hanging on to the day. She hesitated for a beat, then offered a quiet, “Hey.”

Gwendolyn didn’t look up, just kept drying her hands. “Hey.”

Bella lingered by the mirror and fiddled with her sleeve. “We should get a badge or something. ‘Survived Week One: Mostly Conscious.’”

Gwendolyn didn’t look over. “Do you want applause or a commemorative pin?”

Bella smirked faintly. “I’d settle for edible cafeteria food.”

“Bold of you to assume you’ve been eating food.”

Bella’s mouth twitched. “What class are you coming from?”

“Gym.”

“Ah. That explains the survivor energy.”

Gwendolyn dried her hands. “Dodgeball. Humanity at its finest.”

Bella nodded solemnly. “Truly the height of civilization.”

They fell quiet again, but it wasn’t awkward. Just… paused. Then Bella added casually ,“How’s your week been?”

Gwendolyn tilted her head, considering. “No fires. No public meltdowns. Moderate success.”

Bella smiled faintly. “New benchmark achieved.”

Gwendolyn almost smiled. Almost. She slung her bag onto her shoulder and moved toward the door.

“See you around,” Bella said, more habit than expectation.

Gwendolyn didn’t reply, but as she stepped out into the hallway, she caught Bella’s reflection in the mirror, still smiling. And for just a second, she found herself thinking about Edward.

How he’d flinched. How he’d left. How all of it unraveled in a blink.

Because of her.

Because of her scent.

Something so small.

It shouldn’t matter, but it did. It had changed everything. And Bella didn’t even know. Gwendolyn didn’t know if that made her lucky… or cursed.

☽ ☽ ☽

Lunch was another exercise in patience after her morning lessons. She slid into her now usual seat at the Cullens’ table, eyes immediately landing on Emmett.

"You're meal-prepping now?" she asked, watching as he pulled out an entire container of hard-boiled eggs.

Emmett grinned. “What? Gotta keep the protein up.”

She snorted. “Right, because that’s totally normal. Oh, look at me, I’m a totally human teenage boy, just getting my gains in between algebra and chemistry.”

Alice choked on a laugh. Rosalie gave a long-suffering sigh. Even Jasper looked faintly amused. Emmett cracked an egg open anyway, undeterred. “It’s called commitment, Gremlin.” he said, peeling the shell like he was very serious about it.

Gwendolyn stared at him. “This is the worst attempt at blending in I’ve ever seen.”

Emmett tossed an egg at Gwendolyn, which she caught mid-air without looking. “Shut up, Gremlin.”

She turned the egg over in her hands, contemplating it for a moment before setting it down on her tray, unimpressed. “I’m just saying, if you guys actually tried to act human, maybe people wouldn’t be whispering about you so much.”

Emmett scoffed. “Please. Have you seen how pretty we are? They’d talk anyway.”

Alice nodded sagely. “He’s not wrong.”

Gwendolyn shook her head, biting back a laugh. They were hopeless. She didn’t even know why she bothered. Her gaze flickered briefly to Edward’s usual seat, but she pushed the thought aside before it could settle.

☽ ☽ ☽

The weekend came, but Edward was still gone.

At first glance, everything seemed normal, but Gwendolyn noticed things. How Esme lingered near the piano, her fingers trailing lightly over the keys, though she never played a note. She noticed how Carlisle came home earlier than usual, the crease between his brows just a little deeper than normal. And most of all, she noticed how Esme kept glancing at him, as if waiting for him to say something that would make all of this less uncertain.

Alice reassured Esme that Edward would return, but Gwendolyn caught the hesitation in her voice every single time. It was subtle. But it was there. Like she wasn’t entirely sure how he would come back.

Gwendolyn wouldn’t admit it, but the house felt... off. Quieter, somehow. Not that Edward was loud, but he had a presence. Even when he wasn’t brooding over his tragic immortal existence or his "monstrous" nature, he was…tolerable. He even had good music taste, when he wasn’t being super melodramatic.

And maybe that was the weirdest part, that she noticed he was gone. That it mattered at all.

Gwendolyn hated waiting. She wasn’t made for stillness, for the uncertainty that sat in her chest like a slow-burning ember. It followed her into sleep, thick and restless. The dreams weren’t always violent, but they never left her rested, just unsettled. Like her mind couldn’t decide what it was more afraid of: what she’d done, or what she might do. And she didn’t like the memories Edward’s absence stirred—the way it reminded her of how easily things could fall apart. How people could vanish and never come back.

So, she did what she always did when the silence got too heavy. She found a distraction.

☽ ☽ ☽

The Cullens’ backyard stretched into a vast expanse of forest, hidden rivers, and quiet, untouched spaces. It was perfect for solitude. For trying to push the limits of her abilities.

She crouched by the river’s edge, exhaling slowly, hands hovering over the water’s surface. A subtle pull, a shift, and the water followed—lifting in rippling arcs, swirling midair like it was caught in unseen hands. Good, she thought. She rolled her wrists slightly, the arcs stretching into long, twisting ribbons. With a flick of her fingers, the water shimmered, shifting—some of it condensing into dense, icy shards that hovered midair, while the rest evaporated into a fine mist curling through the cold air. The duality of it always fascinated her. How fluid and solid, sharp and soft, could exist within the same element. She breathed in, steadying the motion. For a moment, it was smooth, controlled, but something inside her still felt restless.

She clenched her hands, pushing the ice shards outward, watching them shatter into the river, then exhaled sharply, shifting the mist back into droplets. It worked—nothing was wrong, nothing felt off—but it wasn’t… precise. The transitions were rougher than she wanted. Like something was unfocused. She hated how fragile it still felt. Like all the power in the world meant nothing if she couldn’t control it when it mattered.

Before she could analyze it further, a sharp laugh from behind her broke her focus.

"Is this magic training or a failed attempt at building a water park?"

Gwendolyn turned, scowling as Emmett leaned against a tree, arms crossed, grinning at her.

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t sneak up on me.”

Emmett snorted. “Kid, I weigh like 300 pounds of muscle. You should’ve heard me a mile away.”

She flicked her fingers at him, sending a small burst of water splashing toward his feet. He stepped back easily, laughing. "Real mature," he teased.

Gwendolyn huffed and shook the water off her hands, irritation prickling at her skin. The magic hadn’t failed—but it had felt... unruly. She couldn’t tell if it was her impatience or something else. Boo’s tail flicked once, his golden eyes locked onto her. She ignored him.

“Are you seriously just going to stand there and comment?” she muttered.

Emmett grinned. “It’s entertaining.”

She exhaled through her nose and turned back to the river, stretching out her fingers again. This time, she let the water ripple, then attempted to spiral it—compressing the arcs into a controlled vortex. The movement was strong, but the shape wasn’t as tight as she wanted. Too much force, not enough refinement.

A stone skipped across the water. Gwendolyn turned her head just in time to see Emmett casually tossing another one. “You know,” he said, tilting his head, “if you’re trying to beat the river into submission, you’re gonna have a bad time.”

Gwendolyn’s fingers twitched. “And you have a better idea?”

Emmett shrugged. “Well, if your goal is to get stronger…” He grinned. “Why not just hit stuff?”

Gwendolyn hesitated. It was reckless, sure. But was it more reckless than being helpless? She turned fully to face him, crossing her arms, “Okay, then teach me how to fight.”

Emmett blinked at her, then grinned. "Hell yeah."

From the porch, Rosalie groaned, “You’ve lost your mind.”

Gwendolyn barely spared her a glance. “Come on, Rose.”

“You’re mortal,” Rosalie repeated. “Fighting Emmett isn’t just stupid – it’s reckless.”

"I don’t want to fight him," Gwendolyn said, exasperated. “I want to be able to fight in general. You think magic is going to be enough if someone actually wants me dead?”

Rosalie folded her arms, unimpressed. “You are going to die if you train with him.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

Jasper, meanwhile, was watching silently, assessing her stance. “She has a point,” he said finally.

Rosalie shot him a glare, “You’re not seriously encouraging this?”

Jasper just shrugged. “Knowing how to fight could be useful. If she learns how to dodge properly, she’ll at least be harder to hit.”

Emmett was already too excited, cracking his knuckles. “Alright, kid, first rule—don't die.”

Gwendolyn arched an eyebrow. “Wow, solid advice.”

“Second rule—don't cry when I knock you on your ass.”

She rolled her eyes. “Not planning on it.”

Emmett smirked. “Third rule—no magic.”

Gwendolyn paused, blinking. “Wait, what?”

"No magic," Emmett repeated. "I wanna see what you're actually capable of. No fancy water tricks, no caster loopholes. Just you, your senses, and what you've got in that scrawny frame."

She scoffed. “Scrawny? Rude. I look amazing.”

"What, you want me to lie? You're tiny compared to me."

Jasper let out a quiet chuckle from where he stood.

Gwendolyn huffed. “Fine. No magic.”

Emmett clapped his hands together, grinning wide. "Good. Now let’s see if you can survive."

Gwendolyn sighed. "This is going to hurt, isn’t it?"

Emmett cracked his neck and grinned. “Only if you’re slow.”

☽☽☽

Gwendolyn expected pain and she got it. Her lungs burned, her pulse thrummed, and every muscle in her body already ached. Emmett wasn’t even using his full strength, and yet she felt every impact. Every missed dodge left her breathless, every block rattled her bones. If it weren’t for her own heightened speed, agility, and reflexes, she wouldn’t have lasted five seconds.

She was fast, almost as fast as him. But speed wasn’t enough. Emmett wasn’t just strong. He was a brawler, effortless in a way that only came from decades of fighting. She threw a punch—he read it before she even moved. Left hook—he sidestepped before it could land. Right jab—he barely twitched, like he knew exactly where she was going before she did. She tried a kick—he caught her ankle midair with ease, grinning.

“Come on,” Emmett said, grinning. “Is that all you got?”

Gwendolyn yanked her leg back, irritation creeping in. He wasn’t faster than her. He was just better. He was reading her like an open book. She wasn’t just losing. She was hesitating and she knew why. The last time she fought someone—really fought—Moira almost died. Gwendolyn almost killed her. The memory hit her in flashes. Magic crackling. The look in Moira’s eyes. Blood, thick and dark. The way she had screamed.

Gwendolyn clenched her jaw, shoving it back. That had been different. That hadn’t been training. It had been anger. It had been real. But her hands twitched, just slightly, as if some part of her remembered too well. As if some part of her still didn’t fully trust herself. She wasn’t scared of fighting. She was scared of what happened when she stopped holding back.

Emmett shifted, watching her pause. "What, having second thoughts?"

Gwendolyn exhaled sharply. No. No second thoughts. Not this time. She wasn’t Moira. And Emmett wasn’t someone she could break.

So, she forced herself to move, forced herself to fight like she meant it. She feinted left, then twisted, aiming a strike at his ribs. No hesitation, no wasted movement. But Emmett barely shifted, blocking her hit with a casual ease that made her want to punch him harder. Damn it.

Her instincts told her to use magic. One push, one burst of air, one little cheat. Instead, she gritted her teeth and forced herself to fight fair.

Emmett let out a low whistle. “No magic yet? I’m impressed.”

Gwendolyn huffed, brushing dirt off her sleeve.

Jasper, still watching from the sidelines, finally stepped forward, “Your stance is wrong,” he observed. “You’re relying too much on instinct.”

Gwendolyn dusted herself off. “That’s kind of my thing.”

Jasper’s lips twitched in something almost like amusement, “Instinct is good,” he admitted, “but instinct without control makes you predictable.”

She frowned. Predictable? That was a new insult.

Jasper motioned for her to lift her hands again. “You need to learn how to read your opponent. Just throwing yourself at someone won’t work.”

“I resent that,” Emmett muttered.

Jasper ignored him. He moved behind Gwendolyn, adjusting her stance slightly, feet planted better, weight distributed more evenly. “You need to be able to react before your opponent moves, not after. Anticipate their weight shifts. Read movement. Right now, you’re just reacting.”

Gwendolyn clenched her jaw. "You sound like a teacher."

Jasper smirked faintly. "I was one. A long time ago." Gwendolyn didn’t flinch. She knew what kind of teacher he’d been. Knew what it meant to survive that long in a world built on blood and war. His calm now wasn’t peace, it was discipline. The difference mattered.

From the porch, Rosalie sighed loudly, arms crossed, watching with thinly veiled disapproval. “This is a bad idea,” she muttered. “Even for you two.”

Boo, however, was not amused at all. The massive, wolfish creature stood just outside the sparring area, fur bristling every time Emmett landed a hit. His glowing eyes tracked every movement, tense and silent, but watching.

Emmett snorted. "Your shadow over there looks like he’s two seconds away from eating me."

Gwendolyn wiped her brow. "Boo doesn’t like it when I get hurt."

"No kidding," Emmett muttered.

Boo didn’t move, just stared, tail flicking once, expression unreadable.

Emmett grinned. “He’s judging your life choices, that’s what he’s doing.”

Gwendolyn rolled her eyes, “Whatever. Let’s go again.”

This time, she stopped attacking blindly. Instead, she focused on the moment before Emmett moved—the subtle shift of his weight, the angle of his shoulders. When he moved to dodge, she faked an overextension, letting him think she was overcommitting to a right hook. The second he adjusted to counter, she pivoted on her heel and slammed an elbow toward his ribs. And this time, she actually landed a hit. It wasn’t much. Just a solid jab. But it was enough to make him step back.

Jasper’s eyes narrowed, intrigued.

Emmett’s grin widened, “Oh-ho, we’re playing like that, huh?” And just like that, he stopped humoring her.

Gwendolyn barely had time to react before he shifted. Not just faster, smarter. His movements sharpened, no longer just dodging but anticipating. He wasn’t just reacting to her, he was predicting her. She adjusted, tried to break the pattern, tried to force him into a mistake. But Emmett didn’t fall for it. He was too steady, too practiced. He read her like she was following a script he had memorized years ago. And then, one misstep—that was all it took.

A heartbeat later, she was on the ground. Hard. Gwendolyn groaned, blinking up at the sky. Pain flared up her spine, rattling through her ribs. She clenched her jaw, exhaling through her nose. She wasn’t about to lie there like a ragdoll. No hesitation. No weakness. But before she could even sit up, a low growl rumbled through the clearing. Boo.

The massive, black-furred creature was on his feet, ears flat, eyes locked onto Emmett like he was personally offended.

Emmett lifted his hands. “Whoa, hold up. Gremlin, call off your monster.”

Boo took one step forward, his growl deepening.  His whole body was tense, coiled like he was waiting for an excuse.

Gwendolyn exhaled sharply, forcing herself upright despite the ache settling in her ribs. “Boo, enough.”

He did not look convinced. Another tense moment, then Boo let out a huff and stalked to Gwendolyn’s side, massive paws barely making a sound against the dirt.

Emmett grinned. “Damn, Gremlin, you bounce back quick.”

She rolled her shoulders, shaking off the soreness. “You hit like a grandpa.”

Emmett barked out a laugh. “Oh, you did not just say that.”

But Jasper wasn’t laughing. His golden gaze flicked toward Gwendolyn, too sharp, too knowing. He could feel it—the ache seeping into her body, the sharp sting where her skin had bruised, the exhaustion settling in her limbs. Gwendolyn felt it too, obviously. But she didn’t react, didn’t acknowledge it. Didn’t even flinch. She just kept her breathing steady, her expression unreadable.

He narrowed his eyes. Then Boo growled, low and dangerous. Jasper’s gaze flicked from Boo to Gwendolyn. She didn’t know what Jasper saw, but his expression shifted like something had just clicked into place.

"She’ll need more practice," he said, voice even. But his expression didn’t quite match the neutrality of his tone. He was watching her too closely now. Measuring. Calculating. Deciding.

Gwendolyn flexed her fingers, feeling the sting, but refusing to acknowledge it.

Rosalie sighed. “Or she could stop before she actually gets hurt.”

She flexed her arms slowly, wincing at the pull in her ribs. “Please. I’ve had worse.”

That part was true. She wasn’t even sure why she had said it out loud. But something about the fight—the way Emmett had read her so easily, the way she had to adjust and think—had stirred something in her. She had been in fights before. Ones that had left her bleeding, breathless, bruised. Not with vampires. Not against someone like Emmett. But enough that she knew what it felt like to hit the ground and get back up.

Jasper tilted his head slightly. “You adapt quickly.”

She just shrugged. It wasn’t about adapting. It was about being ready.

Not because she expected danger. Not even because she wanted to fight. But because being able to choose—to stand, to hit back, to survive—meant everything.

She exhaled, brushing stray dirt off her sleeve. Her muscles ached, her ribs throbbed—but for the first time all week, she felt lighter.

☽☽☽

It was late Sunday night when the sound of the Volvo’s tires crunching on gravel sent a ripple through the silence of the house.

Gwendolyn barely moved from where she was sitting on her bed, book in hand. Her senses had already picked up on him, the moment the car had turned onto the driveway. Her bedroom door was ajar, just enough for sound to slip through. When closed, the enchantment sealed the space off completely—no sound in, no sound out. But she'd started leaving it open again, just barely, like some part of her still hoped the world might reach her.

She wasn’t sleeping anyway. Not lately. Nighttime used to be easier—back when Macon was alive. If the dreams got bad, if the silence got too loud, she would find her way to his study, curl up next to him on the old couch with a book or nothing at all, and he’d let her stay. He never said anything about it. Never asked why. He’d just keep reading, sometimes out loud, and eventually, she’d fall asleep.

But now… now the silence didn’t feel safe. It felt endless. She hadn’t slept through the night in months. When she closed her eyes, everything came back too sharp—memory and nightmare bleeding together until she couldn’t tell which was which. So instead, she kept her hands busy. She read. Sketched until her fingers cramped. That’s why the stack of sketchbooks kept growing beside her desk—pages crammed with faces she didn’t want to remember and things she couldn’t forget. She slipped out into the woods when the house was too still. Swam in the freezing sea when even her thoughts got too loud. Anything to stay awake.

Tonight was no different.

For a second, she didn’t move. Then, quietly, she rose from the massive four-poster bed Esme had restored for her months ago—dark wood, too big for just her and Boo, too heavy to be anything but deliberate. Boo stirred at her feet, but didn’t rise.

She slipped out of her room, the door clicked shut behind her, sealing off the space that still didn’t quite feel like hers. It wasn’t like Esme hadn’t tried. The room wasn’t empty—it had all the essentials. A bed, a desk, shelves filled with books she actually read. Magic, literature, and an obscene amount of poetry Macon had drilled into her as a kid. A pile of clothes on the chair by the window she never sat in, jewelry scattered across the dresser. But there was no decoration. No posters. No photos. Because what was the point? She’d thrown up a single barrier against Esme’s persistent, hopeful looks—the only thing she had actually put on the walls. A painting of Boo, large enough that it dominated the space above her bed. It wasn’t like she’d intended for it to be the centerpiece, but it shut everyone up.

Esme had stopped gently suggesting she personalize her space. Alice and Rosalie had dropped their running list of things that would "give the room some character." But instead of dropping it entirely, Esme had started leaving supplies instead. A set of paints appeared on her desk one evening. A new sketchbook a week later. Fresh charcoal pencils placed neatly beside her notebooks. She never asked. Never pushed. Just left them there, waiting.

As Gwendolyn navigated through down the stairs, the house was still. The others were aware of his return, but no one rushed to greet him. Not yet. Gwendolyn felt him before she saw him. His presence was off—sharper somehow, like his body hadn’t settled back into its usual controlled stillness. His scent, always cold and muted, was edged with something rawer. His footsteps on the porch were precise, but there was tension in them—too controlled, like he was forcing himself into the motions.

She found him near the edge of the porch, standing just beyond the large windows, facing the woods. His hands were curled into loose fists at his sides. The shadows from the trees stretched across the ground, mixing with the moonlight—half in darkness, half in light.

She crossed her arms. “Are you actually fine, or are we all just pretending?”

Edward’s head tilted slightly, but he didn’t turn. Then, after a beat, he sighed. “You always cut to the point.”

She stepped closer, the cold night air brushing against her skin. “Not in the mood for small talk.”

Edward finally turned, his golden eyes darker than usual, the faintest traces of something raw behind them. She could see it—the restraint, the exhaustion, the sharp edge of something he wasn’t saying.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then his gaze flicked to hers—sharp, scanning, searching. Her stomach dropped. He was reading her thoughts. Or trying to. She held his gaze, pressing her mental shield up. She could feel the effort, the strain of keeping him out, but she refused to lower it. Then, just for a second, something flickered across his face. Recognition.

“You’re afraid,” Edward said softly.

Gwendolyn scowled immediately. “I’m not afraid of you.” She focused on the cold porch beneath her feet. Focused on anything but the past clawing its way forward.

Edward tilted his head slightly. “No.” His voice was quieter now. More certain. “Not for yourself.”

Her breath caught. Because she knew what he meant. And—of course—he had seen it anyway. He had seen the memory—the fractured, bloodstained edges of it.

Her father. The hunger in his eyes. The way he lost himself, the moment he gave in. The way he was already gone before he had even realized it. The way he had burned. And how she had watched it happen.

The memory was sharp, too sharp. But another surfaced with it, of herself.

A classroom. A fight. The deafening crackle of power, the taste of static on her tongue. She remembered the way her pulse had pounded too fast, too loud, too much. The way her magic had lashed out before she could stop it.

A girl screaming. Someone hitting the ground. Blood—so much blood.

And then—not magic anymore. But her fists, knuckles connecting with bone, an impact that rattled through her like thunder. The feeling of power coursing through her, too much, too strong. And how good it had felt to unleash all of it.

Edward’s voice pulled her back. “I used to hunt people.”

She stilled. Edward’s gaze was locked onto hers now, watching her reaction, watching for any trace of fear or judgment. But she just narrowed her eyes, waiting.

His jaw tensed slightly. “I thought I was in control,” he admitted. “I only took lives I deemed… deserving. Monsters, I told myself.” His fingers twitched at his sides. “But I was lying to myself.” His voice dropped lower. “I wasn’t in control at all.”

The words settled heavy between them. And for the first time, she understood. Edward had left because he was afraid—not just of what he might do, but what it would mean if he did it. She knew that feeling. Too well.

Edward exhaled sharply. “That’s why you were expelled.”

It wasn’t a question. They all knew why.

Gwendolyn let out a slow breath. “Yeah.”

Edward studied her. “And now?”

She forced a smirk, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Now, I just hope Forks is better at handling problematic students.”

Edward didn’t laugh. He didn’t even blink. Because he knew, “I see that same fear in you.”

Gwendolyn’s fingers curled into her sleeves. She wanted to argue, to roll her eyes, to tell him he was wrong. But the words stuck. Because he wasn’t. Because she wasn’t just afraid for him. She was afraid of what would happen when it was her turn. When she stopped fighting. When the wheel would turn, because it always did.

Silence stretched between them, longer than it should have. Edward exhaled, glancing toward the woods before slowly sinking down onto the porch steps. He didn’t say anything. He just sat.

After a beat, Gwendolyn followed, lowering herself onto the step beside him. Neither of them spoke. The air was cold but not unbearable. The trees shifted in the wind, the branches whispering against the sky. She didn’t shield her thoughts. Not on purpose. Not consciously. She just… didn’t bother. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was the weight of the conversation still pressing against her ribs. But for the first time all night, she let the silence sit between them without putting up a barrier.

Edward inhaled slowly. She felt the moment he noticed.

He didn’t push. Didn’t comment. But his posture shifted, his hands unclenching slightly. He was listening. Not just to what she said—but to what she wasn’t saying. Finally, he broke the quiet. “You know, it’s not inevitable.”

Gwendolyn huffed a quiet laugh. “What, the curse? The hunger? The eventual descent into madness?”

Edward’s lips pressed together, but he didn’t look away. “You’re not your father.”

She stiffened, staring ahead. The words landed heavier than she expected.

You’re not your father.

She had spent her whole life waiting to prove otherwise. She swallowed, voice quieter than before. “You don’t know that.”

Edward hesitated. Then, almost too softly, “Neither do you.”

She turned her head slightly, studying his profile. His hands were clasped loosely between his knees. There was no arrogance in his words, no self-pity. Just certainty. But it wasn’t the certainty of someone who had faith in himself. It was the certainty of someone who had already made up his mind. Someone who believed there was no saving himself—but refused to believe the same for her.

Edward’s fingers twitched slightly. She knew he was seeing the memories still lingering at the surface. The ones she wasn’t actively trying to hide. He thought she was only afraid of the curse. But the curse wasn’t the only thing pulling at her. She knew what lived under her skin. Not just hunger. Not just blood. Violence.

It wasn’t just about turning into a monster one day. It was about the fact that sometimes, it already felt easier than it should. She liked fighting. She liked punching someone so hard they stayed down. She liked the feeling of power coiling in her bones, waiting to be used. She had spent years forcing herself to be careful. To be in control. Because when she wasn’t—

That day in the classroom. The fight. The crack of bone under her knuckles.

She should have stopped. She should have wanted to. But she hadn’t. And that was the part that scared her the most.

Edward’s voice was quiet. “I know what it’s like.”

She didn’t have to ask what he meant. The hunger. The loss of control. The weight of it.

Edward inhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I’ve accepted what I am.”

A monster. He didn’t say it, but she heard it anyway. She swallowed, tilting her head slightly. “But you don’t believe that about me.”

Edward’s jaw tensed, but his gaze remained steady. “No.” The answer came too easily. Too sure. And for some reason, that made something tighten in her chest.

She exhaled, rolling her shoulders. "Guess we’re at an impasse, then.”

Edward didn’t respond immediately, just looked at her face. Then, after a beat, he sighed. “You should try to rest.”

Gwendolyn smirked, forcing the weight off her voice. “I’ll rest when you stop looking like a brooding Byronic hero.”

Edward gave her a flat look. “I don’t brood.”

She snorted. “Lying to yourself again, Cullen.”

He huffed but didn’t argue. Instead, he rose smoothly to his feet, hesitating just long enough to glance back at her. “Goodnight, Gwendolyn.”

She didn’t respond immediately. Then, just before he stepped inside, “Goodnight, Edward.”

☽☽☽

Chapter Text

The school week started the same way it had ended—gray skies, damp air, and Forks High buzzing with its usual monotony. But this time, Edward was back. Gwendolyn had expected more of a reaction. Some sort of fallout, a whisper of gossip about the strange Cullen boy vanishing for nearly a week right after meeting Isabella Swan. But aside from a few passing comments, nobody seemed to care or notice.

The Cullens, however, did. At the lunch table, Gwendolyn propped her chin on her hand as she lazily stabbed at her food, watching Edward as he sat with that same unreadable expression, arms folded, golden eyes flicking across the cafeteria. He wasn’t brooding, he was waiting. For what, exactly?

Gwendolyn had barely taken a bite before Alice’s gaze flicked toward her.

“So,” she said, a little too innocently, “have you made any friends yet?”

Gwendolyn paused mid-chew, then swallowed deliberately. “…Why do you sound like Esme?” She didn’t know why the question annoyed her. Maybe because it implied she should be trying.

Alice just smiled. “Because she’s wondering too.”

Gwendolyn sighed, stabbing at her food. “I don’t know. Stiles keeps talking at me, so I guess that counts.” She hesitated. It wasn’t like she’d actually decided to be friends with him. He just… kept showing up. Filling every silence. Acting like they’d already skipped the awkward part. Gwendolyn wasn’t used to that. Most people didn’t bother.

At Caster Academy, she’d stuck to her cousins. Larkin and Ridley had been all she needed. Partners in crime, chaos, and questionable magical decisions. Everyone else had been a background blur. She’d never felt the need to branch out. Not really. Not when everyone else had kept their distance. No one went out of their way to befriend the girl with Incubi blood. They didn’t have to say it. She could feel it in the way they watched her—too careful, too curious, too afraid. Like she might unravel if they got too close.

And since Macon died… she hadn’t exactly been a stellar cousin either. She hadn’t written much. Hadn’t reached out. She shoved the thought aside. Guilt never got her anywhere. Instead, she poked at her food like it had offended her. “It’s not like I’m collecting people,” she muttered.

Emmett grinned. “Oh, Stilinski? Yeah, that kid’s a trip.”

“Annoying,” Gwendolyn corrected.

“Yeah,” Emmett agreed, “but a fun kind of annoying.”

Jasper, watching her with quiet amusement, finally spoke. “And his friend Scott?”

Gwendolyn huffed. “He’s fine. Normal. Way too nice.”

Alice tilted her head. “Anyone else?”

“No.”

Alice smirked, but didn’t push.

Emmett, however, leaned forward, grinning. “You sure about that?”

Gwendolyn narrowed her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Emmett just waggled his eyebrows. “Oh, nothing. Just that a few of the local boys seem… interested.”

Gwendolyn groaned. “Not this again.”

Jasper chuckled. “He’s not wrong.”

Gwendolyn rubbed her temples. “Please, tell me you’re not reading people around me.” Her voice was flat and tight.

They weren’t the problem. Not really. But she knew that look. The one people gave her at school. The way some of the boys flinched—or stared too long—like they couldn’t decide if she was something dangerous or something to want. It wasn’t new. At her previous school, she’d learned early how people saw her—especially once they realized what kind of blood ran through her veins. Nobody said anything outright. They didn’t have to. She saw it in the way they avoided her in the halls, or got weirdly flirty for no reason, like they thought that was the game she played. They didn’t know her. Just the stories they heard about incubi.

The condensation on her water bottle creaked. Her fingers twitched under the table.

Jasper’s tone softened, like he felt the change in her before anyone else did. “I don’t have to. It’s obvious.”

“It’s the fact that she looks like she could kill them,” Emmett added. “Which, let’s be honest, is fair.”

Gwendolyn shot him a glare. “Stop talking.”

Alice giggled. “It’s kind of cute.”

Gwendolyn deadpanned, “I will drown you.”

A breeze that shouldn’t have existed curled through the cafeteria, rustling napkins and sweeping Alice’s hair across her face. Jasper blinked, eyes flicking to her.

Condensation traced a slow drip down the side of Gwendolyn’s untouched water bottle, and the plastic creaked softly under the sudden pressure. She hadn’t meant to do that. Her fingers flexed under the table, grounding herself before it could escalate. Just a ripple, she told herself. Just a flicker. But it had happened without thinking. Again.

Emmett leaned back with both hands raised. “Okay, okay—backing off.”

Alice pushed her hair behind her ears, smirking. “See? Adorable and terrifying.”

Gwendolyn rolled her eyes. “You’re all exhausting.” She just stabbed at her food again—this time harder than necessary—silently promising herself she’d sleep tonight. She could try a new rune sequence, maybe. Something low-power. Nothing that would draw too much power, just enough to calm her thoughts or dampen her senses. There were old caster tricks for that—carving sigils into stone or bone, slipping them under a pillow or into a pocket. Nothing permanent. Nothing binding.

She had a pouch of small, smooth stones tucked away in her desk drawer, already half-etched with patterns from nights she didn’t want to remember. Maybe she’d finish one tonight. Charge it with something—tranquility, silence, dreamless sleep. Even if it didn’t work, at least her hands would be busy. And sometimes, that was enough.

The conversation was mercifully derailed when Alice turned toward Edward, shifting gears. Alice, perched on her usual seat beside Jasper, smiled knowingly. “Well?” she prompted.

“Nothing. She... must not have said anything,” Edward replied, a hint of frustration in his voice.

Everyone raised an eyebrow at this revelation.

“Maybe you’re not as scary as you think you are,” Emmett chuckled. “I bet I could have frightened her better than that.”

Gwendolyn snorted and Edward rolled his eye, both accustomed to Emmett’s boisterous antics.

Rosalie, however, was the one to narrow her eyes. “Wait,” she said. “You don’t actually know, do you?”

Edward exhaled through his nose. “She’s quiet.”

“Quiet,” Emmett repeated, amused.

Gwendolyn frowned, tilting her head. The weight in the air shifted—small, but noticeable.  “You mean… you can’t hear her thoughts.”

Edward’s jaw tensed. His silence was all the confirmation they needed. A ripple passed through Gwendolyn’s drink. She blinked down at the water before stilling it with a fingertip. Huh. Very few things could block a mind-reader. Gwendolyn knew that firsthand. Her own mental shielding was deliberate, trained, exhausting. A skill. A defense. But Bella Swan? She didn’t seem like someone who knew she had walls up. Which meant they were natural. Innate.

Gwendolyn narrowed her eyes just slightly, gaze flicking toward the girl in question. Not a caster, she was certain. And yet... something. A spark, maybe. Some kind of quirk in the wiring. Gwendolyn had met people like that before—non-magical, but strange in a way that made you look twice. Or maybe Swan had a long-dead caster somewhere in her bloodline, just enough to muddy the edges. Or maybe she was just lucky, but Gwendolyn didn’t believe in luck.

Alice, unbothered as ever, grinned. “Oh, that’s interesting.”

Edward exhaled sharply, frustration flickering across his face. “Annoying.”

Emmett barked out a laugh. “Oh my God. You’re actually mad about it.”

Edward shot him a look, but Gwendolyn smirked. “You’re so used to hearing everything that the moment someone has some actual privacy, it drives you nuts,” she teased.

He didn’t deny it.

Rosalie scoffed. “So, what? You’re just going to stalk her until you figure it out?”

Edward didn’t answer that either.

Gwendolyn arched an eyebrow. “You are stalking her.”

Edward exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose, while Alice giggled into her drink.

Gwendolyn shook her head. “Honestly? Rude.”

“She’s coming in,” Alice warned, her voice low. “Try to look human.”

Gwendolyn snorted, “Shouldn’t you always try to? “

Alice only shot her a glare.

“Human, you say?” Emmett asked, glancing at Gwendolyn with a smirk.

With a snowball in his hands, Emmett quickly fashioned one for her as well. When he gave her the signal, they both hurled their icy projectiles at Alice. Emmett’s snowball was intercepted, but Gwendolyn barely needed to aim—her throw landed squarely on Alice, despite the awkward angle. Alice narrowed her eyes at them, shaking her head. “Figures you would use her to get to me,” she said, feigning annoyance. Alice never had clear visions when it came to Gwendolyn, they would always be blurry or incomplete in some way. Emmett and her burst into laughter.

“Very human, Emmett,” Rosalie said scathingly, rolling her eyes. “Why don’t you punch through the wall while you’re at it?”

“It would look more impressive if you did it, babe,” Emmett shot back playfully.

A look of pain crossed Edward’s face at the exchange. The moment passed in a blink, but Gwendolyn saw it.

“Ease up, Edward,” Emmett said dismissively. “Honestly. So, you kill one human. That’s hardly the end of the world.”

Gwendolyn froze. Her grip on her drink tightened. She shot Emmett a look before smacking him lightly on the arm.

“You would know,” Edward muttered, his tone tinged with sarcasm.

Emmett laughed, brushing off the comment. “You’ve got to learn to get over things—like I do. Eternity is a long time to wallow in guilt.”

“Doesn’t mean you should be careless about killing people,” Gwendolyn added with a huff.

Silence hovered for a moment, before Alice tossed a handful of ice into Emmett’s unsuspecting face. He blinked in surprise, then grinned widely, clearly enjoying the playful chaos. “You asked for it,” he said, leaning across the table to shake his ice-encrusted hair in her direction.

“Ew,” Rosalie complained, playfully backing away, while Alice raised her tray as a shield. Laughter erupted around the table; the tension of the day momentarily forgotten.

As the bell rang, signaling the end of break, the group began to gather their things. They all looked to Edward, waiting for him to make the first move. He hesitated, clearly not looking forward to his biology class with Bella.

When he finally stood to leave, Gwendolyn rushed as well, determined not to be late for her math class. Her teacher was already enough of a pain in her life; giving him any reason to be stricter wasn’t on her agenda. Still, she couldn’t ignore the tension radiating off Edward as he moved toward his class.

☽☽☽

The rest of the school day passed uneventfully, and Gwendolyn was the first to reach the parking lot. She tapped her fingers against the strap of her bag as she waited outside, watching the usual flow of students heading for their cars. Esme would be here soon. She barely registered the sound of Edward approaching—silent, careful—but something in the air shifted. Gwendolyn followed his gaze. Bella Swan. She was attempting a reverse maneuver in her rusty old truck, nearly colliding with another dilapidated vehicle in her haste. Edward burst into laughter. Not a quiet exhale. Not a rare, sarcastic chuckle. A real deep laugh, like he had forgotten himself.

Gwendolyn’s head snapped toward him. Edward Cullen did not laugh. At least—not like that. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she studied him. Not just his expression, but his body language. The humor curled too easily in his face. His guard was gone. For just a second, he wasn’t Edward Cullen, the carefully controlled vampire. He was just… a boy laughing at a girl’s bad driving. And that was wrong.

“Why is it so funny to you?” Gwendolyn asked, voice light but eyes sharp.

Edward didn’t respond verbally, but the laughter still danced in his eyes, a side of him she hadn’t seen before.

 Gwendolyn tilted her head. “Do you have a crush on her or something?”

That got a reaction. Edward’s laughter vanished instantly. His eyes snapped to hers and then he scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Gwendolyn smirked, unfazed. “I don’t know. You’re acting weird.”

Edward exhaled sharply. “I’m acting normal.”

That made her laugh. “Oh, right. My mistake. The brooding, unreadable, always-in-control Edward Cullen? Laughing at a human girl parallel parking?”

He shot her a flat look, but didn’t answer. That was the part that unsettled her. Edward was always so controlled, so contained. And now, he wasn’t. Gwendolyn stepped closer, watching him, waiting.

“Come on, Edward,” she pressed, leaning in closer. “What’s so amusing about her driving skills?”

He finally managed to calm himself, though a smile lingered on his lips. Too genuine. Too human. “It’s just... she’s a natural disaster waiting to happen.”

Gwendolyn raised her eyebrow, “So, you think she’s…clumsy?”

Edward huffed out another quiet laugh. “Look at her! Clumsy doesn’t even begin to describe it.” he exclaimed, gesturing toward Bella, who had finally straightened out her truck but looked flustered. “It’s like watching a train wreck in slow motion.”

Gwendolyn didn’t react immediately. Instead, she just studied him. There was something about the way he was watching Bella. Not just amused. Not just curious. Something else. Something Gwendolyn couldn’t quite name. Like he couldn’t help himself. Like he had already decided something—and he didn’t even know it yet.

She exhaled through her nose. “You’re such a 1900s kids. I don’t see it, but I guess someone has to be entertained by it,”

Edward didn’t even glance at her. He wasn’t listening.

Gwendolyn felt a quiet, uneasy flicker in her chest. Edward Cullen didn’t get distracted. Edward Cullen didn’t forget himself. And yet, here he was. Was it because of her scent? The fact that Edward couldn’t read her mind? Or something more?

She followed his gaze back to Bella, who had finally managed to leave her parking spot, her face flushed, but triumphant.

A car horn honked, pulling her from her thoughts. Esme’s sleek black car rolled up to the curb, and Gwendolyn climbed inside. But as they pulled away, she glanced back. Edward was still watching Bella. Like he couldn’t look away. Like he didn’t want to.

☽☽☽

The house was already settling into its usual rhythm. After school, everyone drifted into their own routines. Carlisle was either at work or in his office, already lost in research. Alice and Jasper took off somewhere—probably the woods. Rosalie had retreated to the garage, elbow-deep in some car project. Emmett had vanished upstairs, plotting his next ridiculous prank. And Edward was in his room upstairs, brooding. Gwendolyn could faintly hear the low hum of classical music from his room, seeping through the walls like a ghost.

She smirked to herself, shaking her head. Dramatic ass.

Gwendolyn liked that the house didn’t feel like some grand, untouchable estate when the Cullens were home. It was often loud, sure, but it felt lived in. She sprawled out on the living room couch, one leg draped over the armrest, sketchbook balanced on her stomach. Boo had wedged himself onto the couch beside her, his massive body taking up more space than strictly necessary, his head resting on her ribs. She absentmindedly ran her fingers through his fur, not really thinking about what she was drawing—just letting the pencil move.

She wasn’t paying attention until she pulled back and realized she had been sketching Rosalie. Not a full portrait—she rarely did full faces. Just the line of her jaw, the slope of her shoulders, the sharp, knowing tilt of her mouth.

She frowned, flipping the page before she could think about it too much.

The house was quiet, comfortable. She hadn’t even realized how normal it felt until she heard Esme going about in the kitchen. She wandered there, Boo on her trail. It was just the three of them, exactly how it always seemed to be at this time of day.

The Cullen house never used to smell like food. For all its warmth—the sleek modern furniture, the ridiculous number of bookshelves, the soft golden light filtering through the massive glass walls—it always felt just a little too pristine. Too sterile. Too perfect. Which was why Esme adored having Gwendolyn in her kitchen.

The scent of garlic and rosemary filled the air, curling through the space like an old memory. The countertop was already dusted with flour, half-prepped ingredients waiting to be assembled. Gwendolyn placed herself at the counter, sleeves pushed up, and started chopping onions with the kind of efficiency that came from years of practice. Her knife skills were sharp—Macon had been an excellent cook and had drilled technique into her like it was spellwork.

Curled up at her feet, Boo exhaled—not quite a sigh, but something close. Gwendolyn nudged him lightly with her ankle. “What’s with the attitude?”

Boo didn’t react—not visibly, at least. Just flicked his tail once before going still again.

Esme, standing beside her, carefully kneaded dough, her fingers deft and practiced. “Your knife skills are impressive.”

Gwendolyn smirked. “Years of fending for myself.”

Esme gave her a soft look, one of those quiet, understanding smiles that made Gwendolyn’s chest feel a little too tight. “Macon taught you a lot, didn’t he?”

The question made Gwendolyn’s hands still—not completely, but just for a beat. Esme noticed, but she didn’t push. She exhaled through her nose, shrugging like it didn’t matter. She scraped the onions into a pan with the flat of her knife. “Yeah. He said if I was going to be reckless, I should at least be able to keep myself alive.”

Esme laughed, shaking her head as she worked the dough into a smooth round. “Sounds about right.”

The scent of garlic and rosemary curled through the air, and for a moment, Gwendolyn wasn’t in the Cullen kitchen anymore.

She was seven years old, sitting on Macon’s pristine marble countertop, legs swinging as he rolled up his sleeves with that same air of theatrical patience he always carried—like he was indulging her, but he wasn’t about to let her ruin his kitchen.

“If you’re going to hover, at least make yourself useful,” Macon had said, sliding a cutting board toward her. He set a tomato in front of her, along with a small, absurdly sharp knife that she had no business holding. “Thin slices. Uniform.”

She had grinned, too eager to take the warning seriously, and promptly hacked into the tomato like it had personally offended her. The result was a massacre. Uneven chunks, juice bleeding across the wood. She glanced up at Macon, expecting some sharp critique, but he only sighed, pressing his fingers to his temples.

“Remind me,” he drawled, “which side of the family is supposed to be refined?”

Gwendolyn had shrugged, entirely unbothered.

Macon sighed again, the dramatic kind, like she had personally caused him suffering. Then, without another word, he reached over, adjusting her grip. His hands were always careful—precise, steady, gentle.

“Hold it like this,” he had murmured. “You’re not slaughtering it. You’re guiding the blade.”

She had listened—surprisingly. And that was the thing about Macon. He never talked to her like she was a child. No false patience, no unnecessary softness. He expected her to get it right. But when she didn’t—when she cut too thick, when her wrist slipped—he never snapped. He just watched, waiting for her to figure it out. And when she did, slicing a perfect, thin crescent, he only hummed in approval. No praise, no fuss. Just there you go, Gwendolyn, like he had never doubted she could do it.

For some reason, it was easier to talk about Macon with Esme and Carlisle. Maybe because they knew him too. Maybe because they didn’t ask questions she wasn’t ready to answer. Or maybe because sharing a memory wasn’t the same as grieving. She didn’t let herself think too hard about it. The moment was already gone.

They fell into an easy silence, the only sounds the gentle bubbling from the stove, the rhythmic scrape of a knife against the cutting board, and the distant hum of the family moving through the house.

Boo lifted his head just slightly—not towards her, but towards the far counter. Esme had set aside a small plate of raw venison on the floor. Not a meal. Just… there. Gwendolyn caught the way Boo’s ears flicked. Not toward the food itself, but toward Esme. Esme didn’t look at him. Didn’t acknowledge the offering. She just kept kneading dough, her expression unreadable.

Boo settled back down. He wouldn’t eat now. Wouldn’t acknowledge the food at all. But later, when no one was looking, when the house had quieted— the plate would be empty. Gwendolyn sighed amused.

She had started cooking for herself the moment she moved in. Not just because she liked it. Not just because it was a habit. But because it was something to do. Something that wasn’t sitting in the pristine, too-perfect Cullen house with its glass walls and perfect silence, feeling like an intruder in someone else’s life.

At first, she’d expected Esme to hover, to try and take over like an overbearing caretaker, but she hadn’t. Instead, Esme had just made sure the kitchen was stocked with anything Gwendolyn might need. Slowly, without either of them really deciding it, they had started cooking together. Now, it was routine. And sometimes, Carlisle and Emmett would join. Carlisle, who was methodical about it, following recipes to the exact measurement. And Emmett, who mostly showed up to make a mess or get competitive in the kitchen and who usually ended up getting kicked out by Esme.

“Here.” Esme reached over, tucking a loose strand of hair behind Gwendolyn’s ear before handing her a wooden spoon. “Taste this.”

Gwendolyn took the spoon, giving her a skeptical look before blowing on the broth and taking a sip. She hummed. “Could use a little more spices.”

Esme grinned, clearly pleased. “You have good instincts.”

Before Gwendolyn could roll her eyes, the heavy thud of boots against hardwood signaled the arrival of a much less delicate presence.

“I knew it,” Emmett announced, grinning as he leaned dramatically against the doorframe. “I could smell it from upstairs.”

Gwendolyn scoffed. “You don’t even eat.”

Emmett placed a hand over his chest in mock offense. “But I appreciate the art of food. And, most importantly, I have no shame about stealing bites now.”

“Not happening,” Gwendolyn said flatly, stepping between him and the pot on the stove.

Emmett gave her a lazy grin. “I bet I could take you.”

“Over food?”

“I’ve fought wars over less.”

Gwendolyn narrowed her eyes. “You’ve never fought a war, Emmett. Besides you spar with me every day. Do you really want to add a kitchen brawl to the list?”

Esme sighed in long-suffering amusement. “Gwendolyn, please don’t fight your brother in my kitchen.”

Gwendolyn’s knife slipped slightly. Not dangerously. Just enough that she almost didn’t register what Esme had just said.

Your brother.

She blinked. That was… new. Esme didn’t seem to notice what she had said, or if she did, she didn’t make a big deal out of it.

But Emmett definitely noticed. He grinned at her, a little too knowingly. “See that, Gremlin? You’re officially stuck with us.”

Gwendolyn snorted, rolling her shoulders like it didn’t mean anything. But her fingers tightened slightly around the knife. She shook her head, scraping vegetables into a pan. “Unbelievable.”

Emmett waggled his eyebrows. “I could start calling you little sis if you prefer.”

“Please don’t.”

“Aww, come on.”

“I will stab you.”

Boo perked up at that, like he was suddenly interested in where this was going.

Emmett snickered. “You’d have to catch me first.”

“Both of you,” Esme cut in, amused but exasperated. “No fighting in my kitchen.”

Boo huffed like that was a personal disappointment.

Gwendolyn smirked. “No promises.”

Esme sighed again. “Honestly. I don’t know why I bother.”

Emmett grinned. “You love us.” Then he leaned over the pot with a ridiculous sniff. “You’re making that braised stew thing again, aren’t you?”

Gwendolyn huffed, pushing him back. “Yes, and you’re not eating it.”

“You’re breaking my heart, Gremlin.”

“Go bother someone else Emmett.”

“I am someone else,” another voice cut in.

They all turned to see Rosalie, casually leaning against the other side of the kitchen with her arms crossed, watching the chaos with an amused expression.

Gwendolyn eyed her warily. “Are you here to steal food too?”

Rosalie raised a perfectly arched brow. “I don’t steal. I simply claim what’s rightfully mine.”

Emmett laughed, moving to drape himself over Rosalie dramatically. “See? This is why I married her.”

Esme, ever the peacemaker, clapped her hands together. “Well, if you’re all here, why don’t you help set the table?”

Emmett groaned. “Esme, we don’t eat.”

“But Gwendolyn does,” Esme countered smoothly. “And she’s family.”

That shut him up. The room paused, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough that Gwendolyn felt it – the warmth in Esme’s voice, the way Rosalie glanced at her, the way even Emmett, for all his dramatics, just nodded and grabbed the damn plates, the weight of those words settling somewhere in her chest.

Family.

She had almost flinched. Not because she didn’t like it. Because it was…strange. Foreign. Like wearing a jacket that didn’t quite fit, but wasn’t uncomfortable either.

She didn’t react, didn’t look up, didn’t let anything show. Instead, she rolled her shoulders, exhaling through her nose like it was nothing before scraping her vegetables into the pan. She didn’t say anything, but her chest felt tight.

☽☽☽

Movie Night had started because of Alice. She had insisted they needed something “human” to do as a family—her words, not Gwendolyn’s. Something normal. Something bonding. But somehow, that simple idea had spiraled into something far more intense. Movie Night wasn’t optional. It wasn’t a casual "join if you want" event. No. It was law.

Gwendolyn had tried skipping once. Alice had hunted her down. The lesson was learned.

She sighed as she wiped down the kitchen counter, hearing Alice already setting up in the living room. "Alice, are you setting up already?" she called, feigning disinterest.

Alice’s voice floated back, smug. "It’s Movie Night."

Gwendolyn rolled her eyes. "You act like it’s a religious holiday."

Alice appeared in the doorway, expression offended. "Because it is."

Esme, washing the last of the dishes, chuckled softly. "Just let her have this, sweetheart."

Gwendolyn sighed in long-suffering defeat, drying her hands and heading for the living room. “You’re all ridiculous.”

Esme smiled, but didn’t argue. By the time Gwendolyn walked in, the transformation was already complete. Alice had dimmed the lights just enough to create the “perfect ambiance,” fluffing pillows and adjusting throw blankets like she was prepping for a photoshoot. The massive flat-screen blared to life. Gwendolyn froze, because she recognized that music. Her eyes darted to Esme and Emmett, already claiming their usual spots—Esme seated primly, Emmett sprawled across the biggest couch, legs over Esme’s own.

Oh no. Not this again.

Alice, flopping dramatically onto the couch, pouted. "We were supposed to watch my movie."

Rosalie arched a brow. "Let me guess. Another classic rom-com we all needed to see?"

Alice tilted her chin up, unbothered. "You’re all uncultured."

Jasper, who had settled into the armchair nearest the fireplace, looked resigned to his fate. “I told you, darling. You should’ve called dibs sooner.”

"I did! Three days ago!"

Emmett, smug as ever, stretched way too much across the couch. "Guess you should’ve seen that coming."

Alice threw a pillow at him, but it only made Emmett grin wider.

Gwendolyn groaned, throwing herself onto the couch. Boo immediately followed, flopping against her legs with a dramatic huff. She scratched behind his ears, sighing. “You people are obsessed.”

Esme, pleased as ever, beamed. "It’s riveting, Gwen."

Because, somehow, Monday Night Movie Night had evolved. It had started as a simple tradition before it spiraled out of control. It wasn’t just movies anymore. It was cooking competitions. And, apparently, Esme and Emmett’s newfound shared addiction.

Onscreen, a contestant was mid-breakdown over a collapsed soufflé. Esme tsked, shaking her head in sympathy. "Poor thing. She didn’t let the egg whites stabilize."

Emmett snorted. “Rookie mistake.”

Alice, curled into Jasper’s side, rolled her eyes and complained. “We were supposed to watch a movie.”

Emmett waved a hand. "This is a movie. It’s got everything—drama, heartbreak, violence."

Gwendolyn snorted. "Violence?"

Emmett gestured at the TV. “Last episode, that lady just threw a whole cake across the room.”

Gwendolyn leaned forward, intrigued. “…Okay, maybe I see the appeal.”

Jasper, watching this unfold, just shook his head.  Carlisle, who had initially brought a book, had long since closed it. He glanced at Emmett. “You know, you’d be quite good at narrating gladiator matches.”

Emmett beamed. "I know, right?"

Rosalie muttered. “Don’t encourage him.”

Even Edward had been watching with mild disinterest—at least, until the judges started ripping the contestants apart. His brows furrowed. “…They’re being rather harsh.”

Gwendolyn glanced at him, smirking. “Do you actually care?”

Edward scoffed. "Of course not."

Gwendolyn tilted her head. "Mmhmm."

Onscreen, one contestant was defending her dish passionately. Edward watched, expression unreadable. Emmett grinned. "Oh my God. You do care."

Edward only rolled his eyes.

Rosalie smirked. “Careful, Edward. Next thing you know, you’ll be discussing soufflés with Esme.”

Esme smiled sweetly. "I would be delighted to teach you."

Edward huffed, sinking further into the couch. "Absolutely not."

Gwendolyn snickered, shaking her head. She still wasn’t entirely sure how she had ended up here. Movie nights had barely been a concept in her life before Forks. Because, before Forks, she had lived with Macon. And Macon loathed technology.

He had owned one TV—a massive, outdated box from decades ago that barely worked, and only played black-and-white VHS tapes. When she was younger, she used to beg him to replace it, but he always scoffed, scandalized, waving a hand dramatically as he dismissed her. “Gwendolyn, that is not a television. That is a disgrace. The art of cinema is wasted on modern audiences.”

So, if she wanted to watch something, Macon took her to the theater instead. Not just any theater. The only one in their small town. A tiny, rundown place that mostly screened old films—classics, silent-era masterpieces, things Macon considered real art. If a film was made after 1960, he wasn’t interested.

Once, when she had asked if they could see something current, Macon had fixed her with a look so severe it could’ve turned someone to stone. “Gwendolyn,” he had said, “I refuse to subject my brain to modern garbage.”

So, growing up, her idea of movies had been Casablanca, Citizen Kane, Nosferatu, The Philadelphia Story. Not exactly what most kids were watching.

And now she lived in a house where Movie Night was practically sacred, where the Cullens were obsessed with modern movies and reality TV, and where Alice hunted her down if she even thought about skipping. Life was weird.

Esme caught her staring, but she didn’t say anything. She just smiled, soft and knowing. Gwendolyn exhaled, stretching her legs out across the couch. Maybe Monday nights weren’t so bad.

☽☽☽

Chapter Text

The following morning, Esme had just dropped Gwendolyn off, and she found herself lingering in the parking lot, because Edward was watching Bella again. It wasn’t even subtle. He stood by his Volvo, arms crossed, golden eyes trained on the oblivious girl across the lot as she fumbled with her truck keys. There was a strange intensity to his expression, something both frustrated and fascinated, like he was trying to figure her out and failing spectacularly.

Gwendolyn smirked, striding over to him. Well, if he was going to be weird about it, she might as well call him out. "Would you be stalking her every time you had the chance if you could read her mind?" she mused, tilting her head at him. "And if you’re so curious, maybe try talking to her? I don't think the staring is getting you anywhere, you peeping-Tom."

Edward didn’t even glance at her, but she caught the subtle eye roll. "Can't you mind your own business?" he muttered.

“Says the mind reader.” Gwendolyn scoffed, amused.

Before he could answer, Alice gasped. A small, sharp inhale that barely made a sound, but it was enough. The air tightened. The low murmur of voices around her dulled, overtaken by a new sound. A metallic screech. A rush of movement that wasn’t supposed to be there.

One second, Edward had been beside her, the next he was gone. He shot across the parking lot, hurling himself between Bella and the skidding van that was careening toward her. The van stopped because Edward had shoved it with his bare hands.

Gwendolyn froze, her heart racing. She could only hope nobody was paying enough attention to witness this.

The rest of the siblings, who had just returned to the scene, stood in shock. The tension was palpable as Rosalie’s furious glare bore into Edward, her lips moving as she muttered angry words under her breath. Jasper’s expression was unreadable, though his rigid posture suggested he was already plotting out the next steps. Emmett, on the other hand, stood beside Rosalie with a worried look, trying to gauge her mood.

Gwendolyn turned to Alice, her voice barely a whisper. “Still think we shouldn’t have left?”

Alice grimaced, her usual optimism absent.

Gwendolyn could only watch as Edward went with Bella and Tyler in the ambulance, but school still carried on as if that was something normal people could just process. She was barely paying attention to her classes, not that it was unusual for her. But this time, she wasn’t zoning out because she was bored—she just couldn’t focus. Her fingers moved absently, pencil gliding across the margin of her notebook. She wasn’t thinking about it. Not really. But when she blinked, she realized she had been sketching Edward. Not his full face—just the furrow of his brow, the sharp tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders had looked too rigid when he stood by the ambulance. Like he was already bracing for a war.

Gwendolyn frowned and flipped the page. She exhaled slowly, but her fingers kept moving. This time, Rosalie. Not in detail, just the slant of her mouth, tight with fury. The sharp tilt of her chin, like she was barely holding back her words. Like she was going to explode. And Jasper, his eyes, focused and tactical. Like a man who had already made up his mind. Gwendolyn swallowed, flipping the page again before her thoughts could spiral any further.

That family meeting tonight was going to be an absolute bloodbath.

☽☽☽

By lunchtime, Gwendolyn had made up her mind. The air still felt charged, tension lingering in her skin like the aftershock of a storm. She flexed her fingers absently, trying to shake it off.  A droplet of condensation trailed up her hand, moving the wrong way before she noticed and flicked it off. Nope. No way she was spending lunch sitting at the Cullen table.

So, when she spotted Stiles and Scott heading toward the cafeteria, she veered toward them, trailing a few steps behind without saying anything. Scott noticed her before she could slip away again. He slowed just enough to match her pace, eyes scanning her expression. “Hey… you good?”

She shrugged, fingers twitching slightly. “Fine.”

He didn’t push. Just tilted his head toward the cafeteria. “You want to sit with us?”

She didn’t answer immediately, only shrugged.

“Cool,” Scott said like it was already decided.

And just like that, she was following them inside. The hallway leading to the cafeteria was alive with chatter and shuffling feet, but Stiles was, as always, the loudest presence in the room. “I’m just saying,” Stiles declared, arms flailing dramatically, “that if Batman had to fight a pack of velociraptors, he’d get absolutely wrecked.”

Scott sighed heavily. “You are so wrong.”

“No, I am so right,” Stiles countered, gesturing wildly. “Because, Scott, I hate to break it to you, but Batman is just a guy in a bat suit.”

Gwendolyn, who had been listening with mild amusement, raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t he fight actual gods in one of the movies?” Or maybe it had been another fever dream her cousin Ridley had made her sit through?

“Thank you,” Scott said, throwing his hands up.

“Okay, but dinosaurs are different,” Stiles insisted. “A dude in a cape versus prehistoric murder lizards? No amount of gadgets is gonna save him.”

“Gadgets?!” Scott exclaimed, incredulous. “You’re completely ignoring prep time. Batman would absolutely have an anti-raptor plan.”

Gwendolyn smirked. “I don’t know. I kind of want to see him try to grapple hook away from a velociraptor now.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” Stiles said triumphantly.

Scott groaned, rubbing his temples. “You both suck.”

As they neared the cafeteria doors, Jackson Whittemore and Lydia Martin – or the jerk squad as Gwendolyn liked to call them – stepped into view. Which, naturally, meant Stiles immediately straightened his posture. Lydia barely spared them a glance as she flipped her perfectly wavy hair over one shoulder, but Jackson was smirking.

“Look what we have here,” Jackson drawled. “Two losers… and the new girl.”

“Gwendolyn,” Lydia corrected, examining her nails. “Honestly, Jackson, try to keep up.”

“Whatever,” Jackson said dismissively. He turned his attention back to Stiles, clearly enjoying himself. “So, Stilinski, McCall, you still getting your asses handed to you in practice, or…?”

Stiles’ eye twitched. “You know, Jackson, it’s funny—every time I see you, I wish dinosaurs weren’t extinct.”

Jackson scoffed. “What?”

“Nothing,” Stiles said innocently.

Before Jackson could respond, Alison Argent appeared beside Lydia, “Are you guys coming bowling on Friday?” she asked, shooting a look at Lydia and Jackson that clearly translated to: Please stop being terrible for two seconds.

Gwendolyn raised an eyebrow. “Bowling?”

Lydia sighed dramatically. “Yes, bowling. It’s a tragic excuse for entertainment, but options are limited in this town.”

“You’re welcome to join us,” Alison added, offering a small smile.

Jackson scoffed. “If they even know how to bowl.”

Stiles immediately pointed at him. “I will personally bowl a perfect game just to spite you.”

“You won’t,” Jackson replied.

“I will. Scott and I are great bowlers,” Stiles shot back.

Scott, already exhausted, turned to Gwendolyn. “Help me.”

Gwendolyn smirked. “Oh no, I’m enjoying this.”

Lydia, already over the conversation, checked her nails. “So, we’ll see you there?”

“I’ll be there,” Alison confirmed, to which Scott could only nod helplessly.

Lydia gave them all a knowing look before walking off, Jackson following close behind. Alison lingered for a moment, giving them a small nod before heading after them.

“Oh my God, we’re so going,” Stiles said immediately.

Gwendolyn folded her arms. “We are?”

“Yes,” Stiles confirmed. “Because this is about pride now.”

Scott groaned. “Stiles, you don’t need to go to bowling night just to prove a point.”

“You don’t. I do.”

Stiles turned to Gwendolyn with an expectant look. “Come on, new girl. You in?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Absolutely not.”

Stiles gasped like she had personally betrayed him, and Scott sighed. “You have to come,” Stiles insisted. “You need to experience the full small-town high school experience. And what’s more small-town than bowling with people you hate?”

Gwendolyn gave him a look.

“Gwendolyn.” Stiles placed a dramatic hand on her shoulder. “If I have to suffer, so do you.”

Gwendolyn rolled her eyes. “Fine, do you guys really know how to bowl though? Because I don’t want you on my team if you’re going to ruin my score.”

Scott gulped, “We’re quite terrible actually.”

“Speak for yourself” replied Stiles, gesturing wildly with a fork, “some of us have more refined hand-eye coordination than others. Bowling is all about finesse.”

Scott raised an eyebrow. “You literally tripped over your own foot in gym yesterday. Twice.”

“That was strategic,” Stiles countered. “I was lulling Coach into a false sense of security. Big brain move, Gwendolyn, you’d get it.”

Gwendoyln snorted, shaking her head. “Sure, Stiles. And what’s the strategy for your gutter balls?”

“Hey! Harsh,” he said, pointing at her dramatically.

Gwendolyn glanced between them—Scott, visibly panicking at the idea of public humiliation, and Stiles, looking like he was ready to die for the cause. It was ridiculous. Completely pointless. And exactly the kind of thing she would’ve mocked a year ago. But something in her—maybe the part that hadn’t felt like laughing in weeks—decided not to say no. Maybe it was the way Stiles just assumed she’d show up, like she was already part of the group. Maybe it was Scott’s face, resigned but quietly hopeful. Maybe it was the fact that she was tired of eating lunch surrounded by people who saw too much, said too little, and acted like they weren’t waiting for her to snap. Or maybe she just wanted a night where nothing felt cursed, even if it meant bowling with these idiots.

☽☽☽

The drive home was quiet, aside from the steady hum of the tires against wet pavement. Gwendolyn stared out the window, watching the trees blur past, mentally preparing to retreat to her room the second they pulled into the driveway.

Esme, however, had other plans. The moment they rolled to a stop, Esme placed a gentle but firm hand on Gwendolyn’s arm before she could so much as think about bolting. A few months ago, Gwendolyn would have flinched. Would have shrugged it off immediately, pulled away before the contact could register. Now, she still tensed—just slightly—but she didn’t move away. Esme’s touch was steady. Warm, even though it shouldn’t have been, and not only because of how cold the Cullens were.

“Don’t even try it,” Esme said lightly.

Gwendolyn groaned. “Esme.”

“You’re coming inside.”

“I live inside. I just don’t see why I need to participate in—”

“Family meeting.” Esme’s voice was calm but absolute.

Gwendolyn scowled, crossing her arms. “I’m not the one who stopped a van with my bare hands.”

“No,” Esme agreed pleasantly. “But you are part of this family, which means you don’t get to avoid the discussion.”

“Ugh,” Gwendolyn flopped her head back against the seat dramatically. “You can’t just pull the family card every time I try to avoid a disaster.”

Esme smiled. “Oh, but I can.”

Gwendolyn glared. Esme simply opened the driver’s door, effectively ending the argument. With a defeated sigh, Gwendolyn grabbed her bag and followed Esme up the porch steps, muttering a string of complaints under her breath.

As soon as she stepped inside, the tension hit her. The dining room was thick with it. The kind of thick that felt one misplaced word away from explosion. Carlisle sat at the head of the table, while Rosalie took the seat opposite him at the far end of the table, her anger still simmering beneath the surface. Emmett sat beside her, his expression one of concern for his wife. Jasper remained standing, leaning against the wall behind Rosalie, his posture suggesting he was already firmly set in his decision about what should happen next. Alice, looking weary, slid into a chair in the middle, rubbing her temples as if she had a headache. And Edward sat next to Carlisle, looking like he was about to be put on trial.

Oh, this looked almost fun. Keyword being almost.

Gwendolyn immediately turned right back toward the door. Esme grabbed the back of her jacket, “Gwendolyn.” Esme simply guided her toward the dining table. And then placed a steaming mug of hot cocoa in front of her with a plate of cookies.

Gwendolyn narrowed her eyes. “...This feels like bribery.”

Esme smiled. “Encouragement.”

Gwendolyn scowled but took the seat. Fine. She’d stay.

Boo slipped inside behind them, padding silently to her side and settling next to her chair. Gwendolyn sighed, resting her hand on his thick fur. At least she wasn’t alone in this nonsense. She took a slow sip of cocoa. If she was going to be forced to endure this disaster of a family meeting, she might as well enjoy the show.

Edward was the first to speak. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, looking directly at Rosalie, Jasper, and Emmett. “I didn’t mean to put any of you at risk. It was thoughtless, and I take full responsibility for my hasty actions.”

Rosalie’s eyes narrowed into a sharp glare “What do you mean, ‘take full responsibility”? Are you going to fix it?”

“Not the way you mean,” Edward replied, his tone tight with resolve, “I’m willing to leave now, if that makes things better.”

“No,” Esme murmured, her voice breaking slightly. “No, Edward.”

He patted her hand “It’s just a few years.”

Emmett shifted in his seat, uneasy. “Esme’s right, though,” he finally said. “Leaving now would be the opposite of helpful. We need to know what people are thinking, especially now.”

“Alice will catch anything major,” Edward said, dismissive.

Gwendolyn huffed. It’s too easy to put everything on Alice, she thought, biting her lip to hold back her retort. God, she hated how he always thought he had the right answer for everything and everyone.

Carlisle shook his head. “I agree with Emmett, Edward. The girl is more likely to talk if you disappear. If anyone leaves, we all leave. It’s all of us or none of us.”

Finally, someone who makes sense, thought Gwendolyn.

“She won’t say anything,” Edward insisted.

“You don’t know her mind,” Carlisle reminded him.

“I know enough.” Edward’s voice lowered. “Alice, back me up.”

Alice stared up at Edward wearily. “I can’t see what will happen if we just ignore this.” She glanced at Rose and Jasper. No, she couldn’t see that future—not when Rosalie and Jasper were so decided against ignoring the incident.

Gwendolyn, incredulous, asked Edward, "You don’t think she’ll talk? Are you actually betting all our lives on that? You weren’t exactly subtle today, Edward. Even if she doesn’t say a word, it’s not like she’s going to just forget you stopped a van with your bare hands. ”

Rosalie slammed her palm against the table, the sharp bang breaking the tension.  “We can’t allow the human a chance to say anything. Carlisle, you must see that. Even if we decided to all disappear, it’s not safe to leave stories behind us. We already live so differently from the rest of our kind”, her eyes darted briefly to Gwendolyn, who felt a weird pang in her chest at being pointed out, before returning to Carlisle, “—you know there are those who would love an excuse to point fingers. We have to be more careful than anyone else!”

“We’ve left rumours behind us before,” Edward said.

“Just rumours and suspicions, Edward. Not eyewitnesses and evidence!” Rosalie shot back

“Evidence!” Edward scoffed.

But Jasper was nodding, his eyes hard.

“Rose—” Carlisle began, his voice calm, but firm.

“Let me finish, Carlisle. It doesn’t have to be any big production. The girl hit her head today. So maybe that injury turns out to be more serious than it looked.” Rosalie shrugged, her voice icy. “Every mortal goes to sleep with the chance of never waking up. The others would expect us to clean up after ourselves. Technically, that would make it Edward’s job, but this is obviously beyond him. You know I’m capable of control. I would leave no evidence behind me.”

Gwendolyn’s stomach churned. How could they talk about this so casually? Like Bella Swan was just a problem to be erased, not a person. As her frustration mounted, she heard the wind outside picking up, gusting through the trees with a force that mirrored her turmoil. The lights flickered, just slightly. A chair scraped softly against the floor, though no one had moved it. Boo let out a low, warning growl. Gwendolyn clenched her hands into fists, a faint glow shimmering beneath her skin before she forced herself to breathe. "You sound just like them."

She didn’t let herself think about the last time she’d heard someone justify death like it was mercy. She didn’t let herself remember the way the flames had looked.

Rosalie frowned, “Like who?”

“Every monster who ever thought they were doing the right thing.” Gwendolyn replied. How could they talk about killing so casually? An innocent girl—someone’s daughter. Who were they to decide who lived and died? Her hands clenched into fists, and a faint glow shimmered beneath her hand.

“Listen to yourselves.” Her voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the room like a blade. “You talk about this like it’s strategy. Like it’s cleanup. Like she isn’t even a person.” She shook her head, a bitter edge creeping into her tone. “You act like this makes you safer, smarter. But tell me—at what point do we stop pretending we’re any different from the monsters we say we aren’t?”

Boo let out a soft growl in agreement, his dark eyes fixed on Rosalie.

Carlisle raised a calming hand toward Gwendolyn, his steady voice cutting through the tension. “Gwendolyn’s right. There are other ways to handle this. We cannot risk losing the moral ground we’ve worked so hard to keep. Murdering an innocent would make us no better than those who act without conscience.”

Rosalie crossed her arms, her expression tight with defiance. “You act like this is some fairy tale, Carlisle. The world doesn’t care about morality, it cares about survival. If we don’t protect ourselves, who will?”

“We protect ourselves by being better,” Esme interjected, her soft tone carrying an undeniable firmness. “We don’t stoop to the level of those who would threaten us.”

Rosalie’s gaze flickered to Emmett, seeking backup, but he just gave her a small, reassuring smile. “Babe, we’ll figure this out. No one’s touching the girl unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

“Absolutely necessary?” Gwendolyn echoed, anger bubbling to the surface. “That’s just an excuse to make it easier. Killing her isn’t survival—it’s cowardice.”

Rosalie sighed heavily and her lower lip pouted out. Emmett reached over to pat her shoulder. “It’ll be fine, Rose,” he said, his deep voice gentle.

“The real question,” Carlisle continued, “is whether we should move on from Forks.”

“No,” Rosalie moaned. “We just got settled. I don’t want to start on my sophomore year in high school again!”

“You could keep your present age, of course,” Carlisle said.

“And have to move again that much sooner?” she countered.

Carlisle shrugged.

“I like it here! There’s so little sun; we get to be almost normal.”

“Well, we certainly don’t have to decide now. We can wait and see if it becomes necessary. Edward seems certain of the Swan girl’s silence.”

Rosalie snorted in disbelief.

Jasper’s expression remained impassive throughout the whole exchange, but his rigid posture spoke volumes. His golden eyes locked onto Edward, unflinching.

“She won’t pay for my mistake. I won’t allow that,” Edward said firmly, his voice carrying a warning edge.

“She benefits from it, then?” Jasper replied, his tone was cold and measured. “She should have died today, Edward. I would only set that right.”

Gwendolyn shook her head. Jasper was talking like he had already decided, like he was listing battle strategies. And the way he said it? Like it was just the natural solution to a problem. Not cruel. Not emotional. Not angry. Just… logical. Like of course killing a human was an option.

She wanted to believe he meant well. That all this logic was just him trying to protect the people he loved. But there were lines you didn’t cross—not even for love. And Gwendolyn realized something then. She had always thought she understood Jasper. He was quiet. Tactical. He thought before he acted. But this wasn’t what she expected. Because Jasper wasn’t hesitating. He had already drawn the line in the sand. And she was on the other side of it.

She wasn’t afraid of him. She knew he wouldn’t hurt the Cullens. But this was the first time she truly saw how different they were. And for the first time, she saw exactly why Alice was so important to him. Because without Alice, who kept him from crossing that line?

She clenched her jaw. She wasn’t like them. Not like Rosalie, who saw it as a necessary cruelty. Not like Jasper, who saw it as pure logic. Not like Edward, who would destroy himself before he let himself fail. And that realization sat weirdly in her chest.

Edward straightened, his jaw tightening. “I will not allow it,” he repeated, his words steady and deliberate.

Jasper’s eyebrows shot up, his surprise evident despite his otherwise stoic demeanor. He hadn’t anticipated Edward’s resolve or the depth of his attachment to the girl.

“I won’t let Alice live in danger, even a slight danger,” Jasper said, his voice low but firm. “You don’t feel about anyone the way I feel about her, Edward, and you haven’t lived through what I’ve lived through, whether you’ve seen my memories or not. You don’t understand.”

“I’m not disputing that, Jasper,” Edward replied, his tone softening slightly. “But I’m telling you now, I won’t allow you to hurt Isabella Swan.”

They stared at each other—not glaring, but testing each other’s determination. The tension in the room was palpable, the air charged with the weight of their unspoken histories and convictions.

“Jazz,” Alice said softly, stepping forward to break the standoff.

Jasper’s gaze flickered to her, his expression briefly softening. “Don’t bother telling me you can protect yourself, Alice. I already know that. I’ve still got to—”

“That’s not what I’m going to say,” Alice interrupted, her voice calm but insistent. “I was going to ask you for a favor.”

Edward gasped softly, his eyes narrowing as he focused on Alice. Whatever he saw in her mind left him stunned. The others turned their attention to Alice, waiting for her to explain.

“I know you love me, Jazz. Thanks for that.” She smiled faintly, her expression tender yet resolute. “But I would really appreciate it if you didn’t try to kill Bella. First of all, Edward’s serious, and I don’t want you two fighting. Secondly…” Her voice softened further. “She’s my friend. At least, she’s going to be.”

“But… Alice…” Jasper began, his voice faltering.

“I’m going to love her someday, Jazz,” Alice said, her words steady and sure. “And I’ll be very put out with you if you don’t let her be.”

The room fell silent, the weight of Alice’s words settling over everyone.

“Ah,” Alice sighed after a moment, her expression lightening as if a decision had been made. “See? Bella’s not going to say anything. There’s nothing to worry about.”

Edward turned to her, his voice trembling with a mix of disbelief and desperation. “Alice… what does this mean? What are you seeing?”

Alice locked her jaw, her reluctance evident. She often did this when she was trying to keep something from Edward. “I told you there was a change coming. I don’t know, Edward.”

“What, Alice? What are you hiding?” Edward pressed, his voice sharp.

Emmett groaned, leaning back in his chair. “Will someone please let the rest of us in on the mystery already?”

Alice shook her head.

“Is it about the girl?” Edward demanded. “Is it about Bella?”

Alice’s lips tightened, but it was enough for Edward to see what she was hiding. He shot to his feet, his chair clattering to the floor. “No!” he shouted, his voice reverberating through the room.

“Edward!” Carlisle called out, standing and placing a steadying hand on his son’s shoulder.

“It’s solidifying,” Alice whispered, her voice carrying a mix of wonder and resignation. “Every minute, you’re more decided. There are really only two ways left for her. It’s one or the other, Edward.”

“No,” Edward said again, his voice breaking. He braced himself against the table as if the weight of the future Alice foresaw was too much to bear.

“What’s going on?” Emmett asked, looking between Edward and Alice in confusion.

“I have to leave,” Edward whispered, his voice hollow.

“Edward, we’ve already been over that,” Emmett said sharply. “Leaving is the best way to start her talking. Besides, if you take off, we won’t know for sure if she’s talking or not. You have to stay and deal with this.”

“I don’t see you going anywhere, Edward,” Alice told Edward. “I don’t know if you can leave anymore.”

Gwendolyn’s breath caught in her throat. The pieces were falling into place, but the picture they formed was both unexpected and troubling.

Edward buried his face in his hands, his body trembling. “Why are you doing this to me?” he groaned.

Alice’s gaze softened, though her voice remained steady. “Because you love her too,” she said quietly.

The words hung in the air, and Gwendolyn could practically hear Edward’s entire world shattering in real time. She’d joked about it earlier, but now the truth was undeniable. Edward was falling in love with Bella Swan.

Edward shook his head, horrified. “No. I don’t have to follow that course. I’ll leave. I will change the future.”

“You can try,” Alice said, her tone skeptical.

“Oh, come on!” Emmett bellowed.

“Pay attention,” Rose hissed at him. “Alice sees him falling for a human! How classically Edward!” She made a gagging sound.

“What?” Emmett said, startled. Then his booming laugh echoed through the room. “Is that what’s been going on?” He laughed again. “Tough break, Edward.” He said as he put a hand on his shoulder, which Edward shook off, his expression tormented.

“Fall for a human?” Esme repeated in a stunned voice. “For the girl he saved today. Fall in love with her?”

“What do you see, Alice? Exactly,” Jasper demanded.

She turned toward him. “It all depends on whether he is strong enough or not. Either he’ll kill her himself” —she turned to meet Edward’s gaze again, glaring— “which would really irritate me, Edward, not to mention what it would do to you—” she faced Jasper again, “or she’ll be one of us someday.”

Gwendolyn had not expected the long term play here.

“That’s not going to happen!” Edward was shouting again. “Either one!”

“It all depends,” she repeated. “He may be just strong enough not to kill her—but it will be close. It will take an amazing amount of control,” she mused. “More even than Carlisle has. He may be just strong enough… The only thing he’s not strong enough to do is stay away from her. That’s a lost cause.”

The room had fallen silent, Edward staring at Alice, while everyone else was staring at Edward. After a long moment, Carlisle sighed, “Well, this…complicates things.”

“I’ll say,” Emmett agreed. His voice was still close to laughter.

“I suppose the plans remain the same, though,” Carlisle said thoughtfully. “We’ll stay, and watch. Obviously, no one will…hurt the girl.”

Jasper said quietly. “I can agree to that. If Alice sees only two ways—”

“No!” Edward shouted, “No!” He stalked out of the room, Esme touching his arm as he passed, and ran out of the house.

Gwendolyn looked after him, still processing. Edward had broke, not in some loud, dramatic explosion, but in a way that made her stomach turn. Because he wasn’t mad at Alice. He was mad at himself, like he had already lost, like he had already seen the ending and there was nothing he could do. Gwendolyn knew that feeling too well. She had joked about it before. But now it wasn’t funny. Because she had never seen Edward Cullen fall apart before. Not like this. Not like it mattered. Not like it would destroy him.

Across the room, Alice watched the door Edward had disappeared through, her expression unreadable. Not worried. Not sad. Just waiting. And that bothered Gwendolyn more than anything else. She exhaled, suddenly exhausted. The Cullens weren’t going anywhere. Neither was Edward. And maybe…Maybe that was the most terrifying part of all.

She glanced one last time at the place where Edward had sat before turning to Emmett; he was tapping the table trying to withhold his laughter. When he looked up he caught Gwendolyn’s eye that did it and he burst out laughing. Esme shook her head at him.

"Well, that went smashingly," Gwendolyn replied, leaning back into the seat, her anger subdued.

"Could've gone worse, at least we got through it without a riot," Emmett offered, resuming his hold on the chuckles, though he was failing miserably.

"Emmett," Esme said in a stern warning voice

"Barely," Gwendolyn replied thoughtfully, she could still feel the intensity of her powers simmering in her.

"But barely is better than actually happening" Emmett reminded

Gwendolyn glanced around the dining room carefully, "Good point, no limbs ripped off, no loss of life, furniture still in one piece. Overall, a well-organized family meeting. And look at that…the table survived, can't beat that mahogany, figures it would withstand anything." Gwendolyn tapped her fingers against the surface, feeling the solid weight of it beneath her palm.

"Including Rose's fists apparently," Emmett finished.

Rosalie glared at him and then at Gwendolyn. Her glare cut through Gwendolyn like a blade, sharp and unyielding. But—just for a second—something flickered in her eyes. Not anger. Not even resentment. Something closer to frustration. Like she wanted to say something but knew it wouldn’t matter. Like she was waiting for Gwendolyn to see something she didn’t.

And then it was gone. Replaced by a sharp exhale as Rosalie turned on her heel and stalked toward the garage, her silence louder than any argument.

Esme gave them a look " Gwendolyn, Emmett." She ordered "both of you," she finished shaking her head at them.

"Yes ma'am" they replied at the same time, looking sheepish, Alice stifled a giggle, and Carlisle and Jasper, though both were rolling their eyes at them, were trying not to smile.

Gwendolyn let out a slow breath, leaning back in her chair. The tension had passed. For now. But the feeling in her chest, that quiet unsettled thing, hadn't. Because Edward had broken, and something about it wouldn’t leave her alone.

☽☽☽

Chapter Text

While Edward was keeping himself busy avoiding Bella, Gwendolyn was keeping herself busy avoiding the Cullens. Lunches with them were becoming unbearable, as they consisted mostly of Alice pointing out that Bella was looking their way, Emmett was making bets on how long Edward could keep sulking, and Rosalie’s irritation was at an all-time high. Edward was being pestered relentlessly to let Alice befriend the new girl, and while he was clearly not handling it well, what unnerved Gwendolyn was how certain Alice was that Bella belonged with them. Like things were moving toward a future that none of them fully understood or could control. It made Gwendolyn feel like she was watching something unfold that she should be stopping, like a chain reaction leading toward an end she didn’t want to see. It was uncomfortable in a way she couldn't quite put into words.

And worse than that? Watching Edward wrestle with it—watching him try so hard to deny what was already written into his story— made something deep inside her twist uncomfortably. His avoidance. His self-imposed exile. The way he looked at Bella like she was a problem to be solved, or worse, something he had to outrun.

Because she knew that feeling. She knew what it was like to fear the ending of your own story. The sheer exhaustion of trying to resist something that felt inevitable. To feel like no matter what you did, the outcome was inevitable. The fear of what would happen if she stopped fighting it. She hated it and she hated that they had that in common.

So, spending lunches with Stiles and Scott was a welcome distraction. And that’s how she found herself roped into a group hangout on a Friday night with them, Allison, Lydia, and Jackson.

☽☽☽

Gwendolyn almost regretted accepting the invitation as she joined Stiles, Scott and the jerk squad at the bowling alley. The dim neon lights reflected off the silver rings stacked on her fingers, catching against the delicate chains draped around her neck. The air smelled like buttered popcorn and cheap cologne, and she adjusted the hem of her dark mini skirt, shifting the leather strap of her bag higher on her shoulder. Scott was eyeing the door like he was planning his escape, Alison was talking to him, quite oblivious of his misery, whereas Stiles was clearly distracted by Lydia, and Jackson was acting as if he owned the place.

This should be fun. It should be easy. But there was always something that set her apart, something that made moments like these feel slightly off, as if she was trying to follow a script she hadn’t been given. It was already exhausting to constantly remind herself to move slower, react later, pretend she didn’t hear whispers from across the room or feel the shift in the air when someone moved too close. It was a balancing act, and if she slipped, someone would notice. So, what was she supposed to do? Pretend to suck at bowling? Play it down, smile sweetly while Jackson parades around like god? The idea of letting him win was beyond infuriating. She could already imagine his smug face, strutting around like he was untouchable.

Scott was nervously eyeing the rows of bowling balls when he spoke. “You guys look like you know what you're doing..."

Allison smiled and shrugged. “We used to bowl with our parents. It’s more muscle memory now.”

Stiles grinned. “My dad would take me sometimes—mostly to keep me out of trouble.”

Gwendolyn snorted. “That clearly worked out.”

Stiles shot her a look. “Rude.”

Scott winced. “I haven’t bowled since I was like... eight.”

Gwendolyn rolled her eyes. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Scott, it’s bowling. Not nuclear physics.”

Scott frowned. “I’m just saying—”

“No. No thinking. You pick up the ball, you throw it down the lane, and you try not to embarrass yourself.” She arched an eyebrow. “Not that hard.”

Stiles nodded solemnly. “She’s right, dude. If you suck, we’re gonna mock you relentlessly.”

Scott let out a slow breath, shaking his head. “Great. That’s helpful.”

Gwendolyn smirked. “You’ll live.” And with that, she grabbed her ball and strode toward the lane, clearly done with the conversation.

Stiles followed, though his mood clearly shifted as Jackson leaned into Lydia, whispering something into her ear as she giggled. Jackson, as expected, was insufferable. He swaggered up to the lane and threw a perfect strike, grinning smugly as Scott’s leg started jiggling with nerves. The rest of the group seemed impressed, but Gwendolyn could only roll her eyes.

Scott’s first attempt at bowling was predictably disastrous. His ball immediately veered into the gutter, and Jackson dissolved into obnoxious laughter, his voice echoing loudly through the alley. “Jackson? Mind shutting up?” Allison said irritably, glaring at him.

Jackson snickered. “Sorry, I’m just flashing back to ‘I’m a great bowler.’”

Gwendolyn exhaled sharply, rolling her shoulders. She’d love nothing more than to launch a ball straight at his head. But getting worked up was never a good idea—not when anger and magic didn’t mix well. So instead, she leaned against the ball return, watching as Scott sulked.

“Seriously, Scott, it’s bowling, not life or death,” she said, crossing her arms. The fitted sleeves of her burgundy mesh top pulled slightly against her shoulders as she shifted. “Are you gonna mope, or are you gonna get back in the game?”

Scott sighed. “Yeah, yeah. I know. Just—”

“Just what?” Gwendolyn raised an eyebrow, silver rings tapping against the bowling ball as she rested her fingers against its cool surface. “Gonna let Jackson be right about something?”

Scott’s jaw twitched, his eyes darting toward Jackson, who was still smirking. Stiles, catching on, grinned. “She’s got a point. Do you really want to let Jackson win at anything?”

Scott groaned. “Okay, okay, I get it.”

Gwendolyn smirked. “Good. Now, focus.” She grabbed her ball and nodded toward the lane. “Watch and learn.” Then, just before she stepped forward, she muttered loud enough for only Scott and Stiles to hear, “Pretend the pins are Jackson’s smug face.”

As Scott prepared for his next attempt, Gwendolyn turned her attention to Stiles, who was still stealing glances at Lydia and Jackson like some lovesick idiot. She wrinkled her nose. “You know, I really don’t get it.”

Stiles barely glanced at her. “Get what?”

She gestured vaguely toward Lydia, who was standing by Jackson, flipping her hair in a way that made Stiles visibly sigh. “The whole thing you’ve got going on,” Gwendolyn said. “The pining. The staring. The—” she mimicked his dramatic, dreamy expression “—weird longing looks.”

Stiles scoffed. “You don’t understand.”

“Oh, I understand plenty.”

“No, see—Lydia’s not just a girl,” Stiles declared, pressing a hand to his chest like he was about to recite poetry. “She’s the girl. She’s smart, she’s funny, she’s nice—well, sometimes—and when she smiles…” He trailed off, gazing wistfully in Lydia’s direction, like she hadn’t insulted him three times in the last ten minutes.

Gwendolyn blinked. “That’s pathetic.”

Stiles let out an exaggerated gasp, clutching his chest like she had stabbed him. “That’s love, Gwendolyn.”

She snorted. “That’s delusion.”

Stiles dramatically wiped an invisible tear from his cheek. “You wouldn’t get it.”

But then, his voice dropped just slightly, losing all theatrics. “Third grade,” he said, still watching Lydia. “She was the only one who didn’t make fun of me when I tripped and split my chin open. Everyone else laughed. She didn’t.”

Gwendolyn turned her head slightly, surprised by the shift.

“She just… knelt down next to me and said I was bleeding all over her shoes. And then she sat with me ‘til the nurse came.”

There was a beat of silence. Long enough for the noise of the bowling alley to rush back in—the crash of pins, the buzz of music, the low hum of conversation.

For a second, Gwendolyn didn’t say anything. Her fingers idly tapped against her thigh, the weight of his words settling deeper than she expected. There was something raw underneath his voice that made her suddenly uncomfortable. Not because it was pathetic, but because it wasn’t. Because it was honest. And Gwendolyn didn’t do honest, not about feelings, not about connection. That wasn’t her lane. She tried to imagine that kind of moment—something simple, something that stuck, something that meant something—and came up blank. There were people. Stupid crushes. Flings. Messy nights. Moments she didn’t let herself think about for too long. Hands that wanted what she offered, but not who she was underneath it. She knew how to want and how to be wanted. But love? That was someone else’s story. There was never anything quiet like that. Never anything that settled in her chest instead of burning through it. Her life was all fire and aftermath, nothing stayed.

So when she finally spoke, her voice was softer than before. Like the question wasn’t for him, but for herself.  “That’s when it started?” She asked, softer than before.

Stiles smiled faintly, like it was a secret he didn’t mind sharing just this once. “I think I was gone after that.”

Her fingers kept twitching against her thigh, restless without something to hold. It wasn’t jealousy, it was something else. “You’re gonna get hurt,” she said finally.

Stiles shrugged, still watching Lydia like he couldn’t help it. “Yeah. Probably.” Then he turned to Gwendolyn, and for a moment his gaze sharpened, really focused. “But it’s still worth it.”

Gwendolyn blinked. She didn’t like that answer. She didn’t like how easily he said it. How certain he sounded. She looked away, jaw tight.

“Gross,” she muttered again. But her voice didn’t carry the usual bite.

Stiles just grinned, unbothered. “Still love you too, Gwendolyn.”

Before she could reply, Scott bowled his second attempt, and to everyone’s surprise, it didn’t go into the gutter. The ball veered toward the pins, knocking down five of them.

“Yes!” Scott exclaimed, his face lighting up with genuine excitement.

Stiles pumped a fist in the air. “That’s what I’m talking about! Rocky moment achieved!”

☽☽☽

The real problem was how much she had to hold back. Her first strike was too easy. The next, even easier as she barely had to aim. It was boring. She felt it creeping in—the restlessness, the weight of her own restraint. And between Jackson’s ego, Lydia’s constant fawning over him, and Scott and Allison being wrapped up in each other, it was as if Stiles and Gwendolyn didn’t even exist. So, when Stiles groaned dramatically and accused her of "not even trying," she smirked and let him think he was right.  Stiles sulked after her third perfect frame in a row. “What are you, a bowling ninja?”

Gwendolyn shrugged, feigning innocence. “Just lucky, I guess.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes at her. “This is boring. If you’re going to keep winning, we need to change the rules.”

“What do you suggest?” Gwendolyn asked, intrigued. There was a flicker of something playful in her voice, lighter than usual.

“How about five pins is a strike now. Anything over that gives you negative points. You hit a full ten, you owe me a soda,” Stiles proposed excitedly.

She snorted. “You’re just inventing rules to keep up.”

“And it’s working,” he said smugly.

She rolled her eyes. “Fine. I’ll get some paper to keep score. But if I win, I’m burning that blazer you’re wearing.”

They moved to their own lane, leaving the drama of the couples behind. Stiles and Gwendolyn got lost in their new game, bickering as they competed. They were on their second frame, when they got interrupted by a small group of boys Stiles seemed to be friends with.

That’s when the scent of blood cut Gwendolyn like a blade, slicing through the warmth of buttered popcorn and soda in the air. Her breath hitched before she could stop it, fingers twitching slightly before she curled them into tight fists. Her body knew before her mind did, the primal response flaring up like a slow-burning fuse. It wasn’t hunger, not exactly. But the deep, marrow-level awareness of what she was missing. Her senses stretched before she could stop them, pinpointing the source before her mind even caught up,  landing on a tall guy with tan skin and long black hair, who had a bandage on his hand, a red stain visible through the wrap.

Gwendolyn’s throat tightened involuntarily. Her body reacted instinctively, the warmth of the blood calling to her like a siren song. She clenched her fists so tightly that her nails pressed into her palms, the pressure grounding her. She didn’t need blood — had never tasted it — but the part of her that was purely incubus knew what it was missing. A sharp ache began to radiate through her gums as her canines started to elongate, the sensation sharp and foreign. It was a pain she was never prepared for, a reminder of the hunger she fought to suppress.

The guy greeted Stiles, flashing a wide grin, but Gwendolyn barely heard. Her breathing slowed as she forced herself to clear her mind. Anything to distract herself from the pull. Her fingers twitched on the bowling ball, debating just how hard she’d have to throw it to break something. But the burn in her throat lingered, and she pressed her lips together, unwilling to open her mouth. What if someone saw? What if Stiles noticed? She couldn’t let anyone see—not here, not now.

Her canines tingled, a sensation that quickly shifted into an uncomfortable pressure. She bit the inside of her cheek, hoping the dull pain might help her focus, but it only made the fangs ache more.

"Hey, you okay?" Stiles’ voice cut through her turmoil, startling her.

"I’m fine,” she mumbled, the words clipped as she avoided meeting his eyes. Her voice felt strained, as if even speaking might reveal too much. She shot to her feet abruptly, putting her bowl back on the rack and forced herself to turn away from the scent. “I’m going to get us some food.”

She didn’t wait for a reply. Each step felt heavy, the rhythmic pounding in her heart matching the throb in her mouth, and she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from groaning. By the time she reached the counter, her jaw ached from clenching so hard, but the smell of food in the air offered some relief.

Her order was ready in moments, and just as she reached for it, a husky voice from behind startled her. “Huh. Thought I’d seen you before—don’t you hang around First Beach sometimes?”

Gwendolyn turned, heart stuttering before she could stop it. She found herself face to face with the injured boy. Up close, he was taller than she expected. Warmer, somehow, as if the air around him carried its own heat. He smiled easily, his long glossy black hair pulled back with a rubber band at the nape of his neck, though a few strands framed his face. His russet skin glowed under the fluorescent lights, and his dark eyes met hers with something effortless and calm.

She was not calm. Her throat burned, not in an unbearable way, but present, the familiar itch of something her body wasn’t supposed to want. The tang of blood lingered in the air, seeping into her senses like a slow trickle, threading its way into her pulse. The ache behind her gums throbbed.

Breathe. Hide it.

“Not, like… in a weird way,” he added quickly when he saw her eyebrow raise. “Just noticed you’re always sketching or climbing stuff. Kinda hard to miss.”

She didn’t know how she felt about that. Something about it made her skin itch—not in fear, not quite—but in that uncomfortable, restless way that came with being noticed when you weren’t performing, when you thought you were alone.

He smiled again—easy, lopsided, like it was the most normal thing in the world. “I’m Jacob, by the way.”

“Gwendolyn,” she said, voice low and tight, careful not to open her mouth too wide.

Jacob’s smile widened, warm and effortless. “That’s a nice name. Old School.”

A huff almost escaped her, but she swallowed it back. Talking meant opening her mouth, and that wasn’t a great idea right now. His eyes lingered for a beat too long—curious, not in the way boys stared, but like she was something he couldn’t quite place. Gwendolyn stiffened, afraid he’d caught something. But instead, he just smiled wider, like her weirdness didn’t faze him at all.

“New in town?” he asked, head tilting slightly.

She exhaled through her nose. Focus. Keep your breathing steady. He doesn’t know anything.

“Not that new,” Her response was tight, precise, like cutting words too short might stop something else from slipping through. “I’ve been here since last year.” Technically October, but close enough. She wasn’t about to start giving timelines to strangers.

Jacob’s brow furrowed just slightly, like he was trying to place her. She didn’t let him. She grabbed her food and turned on her heel. “Later,” she added without looking back. And even as she walked away, she knew he was still watching her.

The burning in her throat was still present, but not intense. Thank the stars she was only part incubus and had already been through the worst of it during puberty. She took a slow breath as she grabbed the food, letting the warmth of it seep into her fingers. The smell of grease, salt, and butter overpowered everything else, dulling the sharp edge of her senses. Just human food. Just normal things.

Still, her jaw stayed tight. The pressure in her gums was slow to fade. By the time she got back to Stiles and their game, the tension in her shoulders loosened, just slightly. The ridiculous version of bowling he had invented was stupidly distracting, and for once, she didn’t mind. Even his friends weren’t terrible to be around. They were actually fun if she forced herself to be honest. But as the evening wore on, Gwendolyn caught a constant movement from the corner of her eye—Jacob, leaning casually against the divider with his friends, his gaze flicking toward her now and then. She wasn’t sure if he even realized he was doing it. Or maybe he did.

She wasn’t looking. Not really. But it was hard not to notice him in the same way she noticed anyone hovering at the edge of her space. Her fingers brushed absentmindedly against the layered chains at her throat.

It wasn’t just the scent of his blood, though that was bad enough. It was the way he never seemed still. The restless energy coiled under his skin like he was always ready to move, like he should be moving, like holding still didn’t come naturally to him. But when he looked at her, he was completely still. Most people buzzed with movement—heartbeat, breath, anxious energy. But he didn’t. He was quiet and still, like a rock in a current.

It was strange, how still he was. Not physically, maybe, but something beneath the surface. A kind of calm that didn’t make sense with how much energy he carried. And it made her notice how much she was always fidgeting. Tapping her rings, adjusting her sleeves, spinning a chain between her fingers. She didn’t like stillness. It made things surface—memories, doubts, the way her blood itched before a storm. She wondered if Jacob felt that too. If the stillness was something he chose when everything else wanted to move. But then his eyes flicked briefly to her again and the thought slipped away.

She wished Boo was here, tucked under the table, a silent weight against her leg. Instead, she was on her own. Her fingers tapped idly against the table. Get a grip.

“What kind of bowling is this?” Quil asked a moment later, leaning on the divider between lanes as Gwendolyn carefully knocked down four pins. “Negative points for doing too well? That’s a new one.”

“It’s advanced bowling,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes. “Only for those who truly understand the art.”

Jacob snickered, crossing his arms. “So, what’s the goal? Lose spectacularly and call it winning?”

“Pretty much,” Gwendolyn quipped, adjusting her stance. “It’s more fun than hitting strikes.”

Jacob tilted his head. “Sounds like someone’s showing off.”

“She’s showing mercy,” Stiles grumbled, gesturing at Gwendolyn dramatically. “She’s been throwing strikes like it’s her job. We had to do this to make it fair.”

“And you’re actually keeping score?” Embry asked, glancing at the notepad next to the lane.

“Obviously,” Stiles said. “Observe and be amazed.” He rolled his ball with exaggerated focus, and it only hit one pin. The group burst out laughing, including Gwendolyn.

“Greatness, huh?” Jacob teased, stepping up. “Let me show you how it’s done.”

Gwendolyn arched an eyebrow but tilted her head toward the lane. “Fine. Five pins or less, or you’re penalized.”

Jacob lined up his shot, taking his time. He rolled smoothly, the ball gliding down the lane before knocking over exactly four pins. He turned back with a mock bow. “Like this?”

Gwendolyn blinked. “Huh.”

Jacob grinned. “What?”

“That wasn’t a terrible shot.”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck, suddenly more aware of her attention. “Gotta keep things interesting.”

“Beginner’s luck,” Stiles grumbled, scribbling dramatically the score. “Alright, Embry, your turn.”

As Embry stepped up, the banter continued. It circled like a tide—light, fast, and stupid. No sharp edges. No one trying to humiliate anyone. Just laughter and bad jokes and friendly jabs. Gwendolyn didn’t know what to do with that. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt like part of a group without having to explain herself. Or hide something. They didn’t know her and yet they let her exist like she belonged.

She glanced around at the boys. Quil—tall, broad-shouldered, sharp-eyed, with a natural swagger that didn’t feel forced. Embry moved with a loose-limbed kind of grace, like he was always a second away from tripping but never did. Jacob still hadn’t stopped fidgeting. His fingers drummed occasionally on the edge of the divider, his leg bouncing, his energy restless. But he didn’t feel frantic. He felt contained, like there was more to him than even he knew what to do with.

And the way they moved together—jostling, teasing, casually leaning into each other’s space—was strange to her. Familiar, but not her familiar. Like watching a scene from a movie she didn’t audition for. Just friends being dumb and loud and easy with each other. It was so stupidly normal, she didn’t trust it. But it was nice.

Gwendolyn let herself relax, the tension slipping away. The scent of blood had faded in the background, woven into the noise of the bowling alley, the sound of crashing pins and laughter. And then Quil piped up with a mischievous grin. “So, you two always bowl like this, or is this some weird couples’ thing?” he asked, leaning casually on the divider.

Gwendolyn, mid-step, turned to Quil with a deadpan look. “Excuse me?”

Jacob’s jaw tightened just slightly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face before he smoothed it over with a grin. “Yeah, like… is this your date night tradition? You know, weird anti-bowling?”

Gwendolyn let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. “Me and Stiles?”

Stiles, who had been mid-sip of his drink, actually choked. He recovered with a dramatic flail, throwing his hands up. “Hey! I take offense! I’m great boyfriend material, okay? And if this were a date, it’d be epic.”

That only made Gwendolyn laugh harder, the sound bubbling up before she could stop it. “Sure, Stiles. You’re a real Casanova.”

Jacob grinned, “Casanova of the gutter lane, maybe.” There was something disarmingly easy about him, the way he leaned casually, his quick and effortless grins.

Stiles groaned, throwing his head back. “Oh, come on!”

The others joined in the laughter, and Gwendolyn, still grinning, shook her head. “For the record, no, we’re not dating. I’d rather chew glass.” She shot Stiles a sidelong glance. “Though, I do enjoy kicking his ass. No offense,” she added dryly.

Stiles, looking increasingly put upon, sighed dramatically. “None taken. I love our deeply toxic friendship.”

Gwendolyn smirked and stepped closer, tilting her head as she studied him. Then, without warning, she grabbed his chin between her thumb and forefinger like he was some weird insect under a microscope. “You know, you should really let your hair grow out. This buzzcut is not doing you any favors.”

Stiles swatted her hand away, scowling. “Scott said it looked good!”

Gwendolyn scoffed. “And you believed him?”

Jacob huffed out a laugh, and Embry muttered, “Yeah, that’s a choice.”

Gwendolyn gestured vaguely at Stiles’ entire outfit. “Also, what’s this situation?”

Stiles looked down at his oversized blazer, graphic shirt, and jeans, genuinely confused. “What’s wrong with this? This is classic Stiles.”

“Everything,” Gwendolyn said bluntly. “We should burn it.”

Stiles sighed. “Okay, fine. But if we’re burning everything, you’re picking out my next wardrobe. I expect dark and broody.”

Gwendolyn smirked. “As if you could pull it off.”

Stiles straightened his posture. “Hey! I could if I wanted to.”

“Not with that haircut, Stiles.”

He groaned, while Gwendolyn just shook her head. The game continued. No curses. No looming future. No unmanageable bloodlust. Just a game, a group of idiots, and a night where she almost felt normal. But ‘almost’ never lasted. And it never really counted, either.

☽☽☽

Chapter Text

The moment they approached the Cullen house, Gwendolyn saw her.

Ceelia was already there, standing just outside the front door, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. The translucent pinkish glow of the portal still shimmered faintly in front of her, flickering at the edges like candlelight before disappearing completely.

Gwendolyn’s stomach twisted. Of course. First of the month. She should have known. She thought about turning around. Just for a second. But Ceelia would find her, and running would only make it worse.

It had been almost a year now. Ten months since she’d almost torn Moira’s throat out in a classroom full of witnesses. Ten months of proving—again and again—that she was still in control. That she wasn’t a threat. But that didn’t matter. This was the price of what she was—half Incubus, half Caster, cursed by blood on both sides. One slip, and they'd brand her dangerous forever. Gwendolyn’s eyes flicked to the silver clasp at Ceelia’s coat collar. The insignia was subtle, but unmistakable. Not that she needed the reminder. As if she could forget who Ceelia answered to.

The first thing about Ceelia wasn’t her presence—it was the weight of it. She was tall. Not just tall, but imposing, with the kind of solid, effortless strength that made it clear she wasn’t someone to cross. Her dark brown hair was always pulled back into a high ponytail, exposing the buzzed sides of her head, a style that made her sharp features stand out even more. She always dressed like she was waiting for a fight. Sturdy boots, dark fitted pants, a heavy long coat that barely shifted in the wind. Even standing still, there was a coiled readiness in the way she carried herself—a trained fighter, a soldier, a hunter.

Gwendolyn had never seen Ceelia smile. She wasn’t sure Ceelia knew how to smile.

Her piercing hazel eyes swept over Gwendolyn in a slow, deliberate motion, missing nothing. Esme’s hand landed gently on her shoulder. Supportive, but firm. “Go on,” she murmured. “Let’s not keep her waiting.”

Gwendolyn groaned. “Yeah, yeah. Wouldn’t want to upset our favorite government babysitter.”

Ceelia arched a brow, unimpressed. “Ravenwood.” If she was annoyed, she didn’t show it. If she was amused, she definitely didn’t show it.

Gwendolyn clenched her jaw. Not Gwendolyn. Not even Miss Ravenwood. Just Ravenwood. Like she was nothing more than a file to update, a job to complete. Ceelia had never been mean to her. But she had never been anything else, either.

Gwendolyn clenched her jaw but stepped forward. No point in dragging this out.

☽☽☽

Inside, the Cullens were already waiting, tension thick in the air. They hated these check-ins as much as Gwendolyn did. Carlisle tolerated it, Rosalie made zero effort to hide her scowl from across the room, Esme hated it, and the rest had long since learned to keep their opinions to themselves. Except for Emmett, who muttered, “It’s like a really boring social worker visit. But make it magic.”

Gwendolyn huffed a quiet laugh despite herself. Ceelia—predictably—ignored him completely.

Boo slipped in silently behind Gwen, his eyes locked onto Ceelia like she was an unwelcome guest in his home. Ceelia didn’t acknowledge any of them. This wasn’t their business. She pulled out a worn leather notebook, flicking it open with a practiced motion. “Let’s begin. Standard procedure.”

The room felt colder. Not in a physical sense, but in a way that made Gwendolyn’s magic pull back—like it was instinctively retreating.

“Have you been experiencing any urges?” Ceelia asked, pen poised over the page.

Gwendolyn huffed, already over this. “Urges for what? Ice cream? A nap? To finally win an argument against Rosalie?”

Rosalie smirked slightly, but Ceelia wasn’t amused. “You know what I mean.”

Gwendolyn let out a long, slow exhale, staring at the ceiling like it might spare her. “No. No urges.”

“Do you wish to drink human blood?”

“I don’t even like rare steak.”

Ceelia studied her carefully, pen hovering for just a second too long before she moved on. “Have you had any unusual dreams?”

Gwendolyn tilted her head, grinning lazily. “Yeah. I dreamed about you.” A pause. Then, deadpanned, “Fucking nightmare.”

Emmett snorted. Rosalie smirked. Ceelia did not react. “Have you noticed any changes in your temperament? Increased irritability?”

Gwendolyn scoffed. “I have my periods, Ceelia. What do you think?”

Carlisle cleared his throat softly, but didn’t intervene.

Ceelia’s expression remained as flat as ever. “Have you had any contact with dark casters or beings of questionable allegiance?”

Gwendolyn’s fingers twitched. She forced her shoulders to stay loose. “No.” The answer was clipped. She hated that question.

“Do you ever think about hurting other casters?”

Her smirk faded. Her jaw tightened. “I think about hurting a lot of people, Ceelia,” she said, voice low. “That doesn’t mean I’m going to do it.”

Ceelia’s pen hovered, like she was considering pressing further. Finally, she pulled out a small, thin silver blade. “You know the procedure.”

Gwendolyn barely held back a sigh. She extended her wrist. Ceelia made a quick, clean cut along her skin. The room went still.

It wasn’t deep, but it was enough.

A single drop of blood welled up—but too slowly. For half a second, it was like the wound didn’t want to bleed at all, as if her magic was holding it back. Then, finally, the crimson drop rolled lazily down her arm before Ceelia wiped it away. If she had drunk human blood, the wound would begin to knit itself back together instantly because of her incubus side. But instead, it bled like any normal wound.

Ceelia watched her too closely. Not like she was checking for signs of health—like she was looking for a crack. A weakness. A reason to call this whole experiment a failure. A reason to prove that Gwendolyn Ravenwood wasn’t salvageable.

But Gwendolyn wasn’t looking at Ceelia anymore, she was looking at the Cullens. Carlisle’s expression remained perfectly composed, but his fingers curled ever so slightly against the table. Alice went still, like a statue, eyes flicking between Gwendolyn’s wrist and Jasper, whose jaw had clenched visibly. Emmett’s amusement had vanished entirely, and Rosalie—who usually kept her distance from these check-ins—was watching too closely, lips pressed into a tight line.

Jasper inhaled sharply through his nose, and his entire body locked up. His muscles went rigid, but his reaction wasn’t hunger—it wasn’t anything familiar. His golden eyes darkened, but his brow furrowed, like something wasn’t right. Gwendolyn knew her blood didn’t call to him like a human’s would. It didn’t pull him in, didn’t make his throat burn with thirst. But it did something else. Something foreign and unnatural. His instincts recoiled. And he wasn’t the only one who felt it. Alice had gone completely still beside him, fingers curling slightly against the table. Emmett, usually unfazed, hesitated before looking away. Rosalie’s scowl deepened, but she said nothing.

Gwendolyn swallowed, her own stomach twisting. Her blood wasn’t human, not exactly. Not enough to draw them in like the Swan girl’s would. But it was still something other and they all felt it.

The silence stretched, thick and uncomfortable, before Ceelia finally nodded. “Good.”

Gwendolyn muttered something under her breath about how nice it was to be treated like a damn science experiment, but Ceelia was already closing her book.

“Your next check-in will be March first. If anything changes, contact us immediately.”

And with that, the portal outside reappeared. A swirling pinkish light cutting through the air, like a doorway to another world.

Ceelia stepped through, and just like that, she was gone.

☽☽☽

The moment Ceelia vanished, Rosalie let out a sharp huff of irritation. “You know what this is? It’s a leash,” Rosalie snapped. “They don’t want proof you’re fine. They want proof you’re not.”

Gwendolyn said nothing. She wanted to scream that Rosalie was right. That it was all just a performance waiting to fall apart. But if she said it out loud, it would feel too much like breaking.

“Rosalie—” Carlisle started, but she cut him off.

“No, I’m serious,” Rosalie snapped, turning to face Carlisle. “Every month, they come here, treat her like a criminal, and cut her open like a goddamn test subject. Are we really just going to keep pretending this is normal?”

Gwendolyn moved in her chair, rubbing her temples. “Rosalie, I appreciate the rage on my behalf, but please, stop.” She then flexed her hand, watching the slow trickle of blood before wiping it off on a napkin.

Jasper hadn’t moved from his spot against the wall. Alice was the first to break the tension, her voice light but forced. “Well, at least we know you haven’t been sneaking any late-night snacks.”

Gwendolyn shot her a glare. “Oh, hilarious.”

Emmett, who had been unusually quiet, finally muttered, “That was... weird.” Emmett hesitated, eyes flicking toward Jasper, whose golden irises were darker than usual. Gwendolyn caught the way his fingers twitched against his jeans. Like some part of him understood exactly what it was like to be treated like something dangerous.

She huffed a laugh that held no humor. “Relax. It’s not that bad, right? I’m not exactly tempting.”

Jasper’s jaw flexed. “It’s not the same,” he admitted. “But it’s... wrong.”

Gwendolyn swallowed. “Well, great,” she muttered. “Add it to the list.”

Esme, as always, was the soothing force in the room. She approached quietly, setting a cup of tea in front of Gwendolyn before brushing a gentle hand over her hair. “Are you alright, sweetheart?”

Gwendolyn nodded stiffly, though her hands curled around the warm mug like a lifeline. That’s when Esme moved. She knelt beside Gwendolyn’s chair, already pulling out a small first-aid kit. She didn’t say anything at first, just took Gwendolyn’s wrist gently, carefully, like she was something fragile. The contrast was ridiculous. Gwendolyn rolled her eyes, not feeling fragile in the slightest. “Esme, it’s fine.” But Esme didn’t even acknowledge the protest. She was already wiping the cut with an alcohol pad. It stung—not much, but enough to be annoying. Gwendolyn made a face, "It’s barely even bleeding anymore—"

"Hush," Esme said, tone soft but unrelenting.

She applied a thin layer of antibiotic ointment before reaching for a small bandage. Gwendolyn flexed her fingers, trying to shake off the static under her skin. Outside, the wind rattled against the windows, just for a second. As Esme peeled the bandage open, Gwendolyn caught the way her hands moved — steady, practiced, careful. Like she’d done this a hundred times. Because she had and that’s what got her.

Not the cut. Not the dumb check-in. Not Jasper’s wrong. But this. Because Esme has done this before for her. When she got scraped up working on her magic. When she cut her hand cooking. When she got hurt racing in the forest with Emmett. This is just what Esme did. She cared. And Gwendolyn, for all her independence, didn’t know what to do with that sometimes.

The bandage was smoothed over her wrist, gentle fingers pressing down just enough to make sure it stayed. Esme finally met her eyes, her voice quiet, but firm. “I don’t care what they say about you.” She gave Gwendolyn’s wrist a small, final pat. “You’re not a monster.”

Gwendolyn exhaled sharply, looked away, and swallowed down the lump in her throat. "I know that" she lied.

Esme just hummed, not calling her on it. But her fingers lingered a second longer, warm and grounding, despite the coldness of her body. Then she stood, smoothing out her sweater like nothing happened. The room was still tense, but Gwendolyn felt a little less like she was floating. And she didn’t quite know how to handle that.

☽☽☽

She needed out.

These visits always left her feeling coiled too tight, wound up in memories she wanted to forget. Always brought too much to the surface, always reminded her of things she couldn’t change.

The moment she was able to, Gwendolyn left the house, shoving her hands into her jacket pockets as she stalked toward the trees. Boo padded silently at her heels, his presence a steady shadow. She didn’t say much—not to Esme, not to Alice, not to anyone. Just muttered something about needing air. The Cullens knew to let her go.

The moment she reached the beach, the tension in her chest eased. Like always, she ended up here. The first of the month, the same stretch of sand, the same restless sea. Even under the heavy gray sky, even with the wind cutting sharp against her skin, this place felt familiar. The restless pull of the tide, the scent of salt and storm, the way the sand gave slightly beneath her boots—it wasn’t home, but it was the closest thing she had.

She had spent so many days near the sea, back when Macon was still alive. His house had been close enough to hear the waves from the porch, close enough that Gwendolyn could see and smell it from her old bedroom window, close enough that Gwendolyn had always carried the ocean with her, in the back of her mind, like a song she never forgot.

She had missed the sand, the feeling of sinking into something soft. So, she sat down, pulling her knees up as she watched the waves crash, ignoring the cold dampness of the ground. Not like Macon’s beach. Macon’s was warm. Golden sand and wild, sprawling dunes. The kind of place where the air smelled like heat, thick with the taste of salt and sun. The kind of place where she used to run barefoot, racing the waves, half-wild and laughing.

“The ocean never lies, Gwendolyn,” Macon used to say, voice low and thoughtful as they watched the waves from his porch. “It only reflects what you bring to it.”

This wasn’t that. This beach was cold, sharp, restless. It was always shifting, always changing, never still. And maybe that’s why she liked it. Because it wasn’t home. Because home didn’t exist anymore.

Boo nudged her leg, sensing the shift in her mood, but didn’t push. He just sat beside her, fur ruffling in the wind. She reached down, fingers closing around a smooth, sea-polished rock, rolling it between her palms before tossing it into the tide. The waves swallowed it whole, like they had been waiting for it.

Ceelia always left her feeling like an unfinished sentence, like there was something just out of reach, something she should understand but never could.  Gwendolyn pressed her hands in the sand, digging in like she was trying to ground herself, put roots in. She exhaled slowly and let herself unfurl just a little. Let her magic slip free, weaving into the wind, into the tide. It was subtle, barely there, but the ocean felt it. The waves surged slightly closer, drawn by the invisible pull of her presence. The wind curled in restless spirals around her, tugging at her braid. It didn’t fix anything, but it helped.

Her fingers dragged idly through the sand, tracing absent-minded shapes. First lines, then symbols. A rune, half-finished. A number. A letter. A name. She stared at it for a moment, lips pressing into a thin line, then smoothed it away before Boo could see.

She stayed still for a long moment, eyes on the waves. Then, slowly, she sat up straighter, drawing her knees in and resting her palms flat on the cold sand. The wind curled tighter around her, like it felt the shift in her focus. Her breath steadied, and then the tide began to rise. Not suddenly or dramatically. It was just a subtle shift, waves swelling higher than they had a moment ago, the sea mirroring something in her chest. The pulse of it matched her heartbeat. One-thump, one-crash. Again and again.

She let it build, let the water climb and crest, then crash harder against the shore. Let it scream where she couldn’t. Let it speak the things she wouldn’t say. The sound filled her ears and drowned out everything else. The silence, the questions, the way Ceelia’s voice still echoed under her skin. She lifted one hand, fingers twitching, and the tide surged with it, higher now, angrier, more chaotic. It slammed against the rocks in the distance like it wanted to tear the world apart. Then she dropped her hand and the ocean softened, the waves pulled back, slower now. The crash gave way to a hush, the kind that came after a storm. Her breathing followed suit, steady and grounded.

She exhaled through her nose, shoulders loosening as the water settled. And when Boo finally rested his head against her knee, she didn’t push him away. Boo let out a quiet huff, pressing against her side. She exhaled, reaching out with one hand to scratch behind his ears, though she didn’t say anything. He didn’t need her to. He just sat there, watching the waves with her.

She didn’t know how long she sat there, lost in thought, watching the water turn silver under the overcast sky. Until she sensed a group of boys, further down the beach. Too far to hear, too far to interrupt, but there. It was Stiles’ friends from the bowling night, Embry, Jacob and Quil.

Gwendolyn stiffened, her hand hesitating over the sand for just a second before she curled her fingers into a fist. She risked a glance and caught Jacob looking her way too. He wasn’t talking, just watching her, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable from this distance. She blinked, and his friends noticed her, too. Quil lifted a hand in a lazy wave, nudging Jacob and muttering something.

Gwendolyn didn’t wave back. She exhaled sharply and turned back toward the sea. She wasn’t in the mood to deal with people. Boo, still pressed against her side, let out a quiet huff. She hummed in agreement.

The waves roared. The wind howled. And for now, that was all she needed.

☽☽☽

Jacob had seen her here before. Not often. Not every day. But at least on the first of the month, like clockwork. Always alone with her dog. Always watching the sea.

The beach wasn’t empty, not entirely. A few of his friends were still hanging around the fire further down, talking, laughing, passing around snacks. But Jacob’s attention had drifted, his gaze pulled toward the girl sitting alone near the water, strands of her blue hair catching in the wind like ocean waves under moonlight.

He had spent half his life on this beach. It wasn’t just a hangout, it was part of home. The ocean, the sand, the cliffs, the pull of the tide—he knew them all by heart. And yet, lately, he’d noticed something different. Or rather, someone different. She had been here before. He’d noticed her, not really thinking much of it. Some girl from Forks, maybe. Someone passing through. But then, bowling night. That was when he really met her. Gwendolyn Ravenwood.

They hadn’t really talked, just bowled in the same group, but he’d watched her from a distance. She was different. Not in a way that made her seem off, just… different. The way she carried herself, the way she didn’t try to shrink into the background like some people did when they weren’t the center of attention. She just was, like she didn’t need permission to exist exactly as she wanted.

He didn’t know what it was about her, but she stuck in his mind more than she should have. Maybe it was the way she laughed—loud, real, the kind that took up space. Maybe it was how she had roasted Stiles into oblivion. He remembered the way she tilted her head when she was amused, the way her grin could be lazy one second and wicked the next.

And maybe it was that same energy that made it weird to see her now, sitting alone in the sand, watching the ocean. She looked different. She looked distant, in the way someone looked when they were somewhere else entirely. She looked like she belonged here, watching the water like it held all the answers in the world. Like the sea might rise up just to meet her. Jacob didn’t know why, but something about her calm felt familiar, like something he used to believe in.

Jacob slowed his steps, hands stuffed into his pockets as he took her in from a distance. She had her knees pulled up, arms resting loosely over them, some of her dark curls whipping around her face from the wind. The blue stood out, catching the light in a way that made it glow almost silver at the ends. Jacob didn’t even know why he noticed that.

The wind whipped at the edges of her coat, and he could see her fingers twitch slightly against the sand. He had the weirdest thought, she looked like she was listening to something only she could hear.

“Hey, isn’t that—?” Quil started, following his gaze.

Embry hummed. “Blue hair. Has to be her.”

Quil smirked, nudging Jacob. “Should we say hi? Or are you just gonna stare at her the whole time?”

Jacob rolled his eyes, but something in his chest tightened. She clearly wasn’t looking for company. That much was obvious from the way her shoulders stayed rigid, her gaze locked on the waves. She just wants to be left alone.

Quil gave him a look, smirking. “What, you got a thing for Blue Hair?”

Jacob scoffed. “No.” Too fast. Too defensive.

Quil grinned. “That’s not a no.”

Jacob shot him a glare, but didn’t follow when Quil lifted a hand in a lazy wave. Gwendolyn barely glanced their way before turning back toward the sea, uninterested. He exhaled, forcing himself to look away. Maybe another time. But something about her stuck in his head anyway. Some stupid part of him still wanted to go over there. Like he should say something. Because for some reason, he thought she might actually understand him.

Jacob turned around to look at the fire. He wasn’t going to bother her. But still, something about her felt... familiar. Like a song he couldn’t quite remember, but knew he’d heard before. Like maybe she was meant to be here. Like maybe she was meant to cross his path.

Then, just before he could stop himself, he looked again. One last time, as a breeze picked up, stirring the loose strands of her hair. And she tipped her head back slightly, like she felt it too. Like the wind whispered something neither of them understood yet.

☽☽☽

Chapter Text

The moment Gwendolyn stepped into Forks High grounds, she was assaulted by the overwhelming pinkness of it all. She hadn’t forgotten what day it was, how could she? The school had been building up to this ridiculous display for weeks. But still, seeing it was somehow worse than just knowing it. The hallways were plastered with construction-paper hearts, streamers in every possible shade of red and pink dangling from the ceiling like the remnants of some horrible love-infested massacre. Balloons floated above lockers, and a group of girls from student council were practically forcing candy grams into people’s hands. It was disgusting.

A garland of cheap, shiny hearts trembled slightly as she walked past–just for a second. A single, delicate strand of pink ribbon sizzled faintly, curling at the edges like it had been singed. When Gwendolyn noticed, she shoved her hands deeper into her coat’ pockets, already willing the static in her fingers to settle. She sidestepped a freshman shoving a rose at some girl and grumbled under her breath. Who the hell thought it was a good idea to rub love in people’s faces first thing in the morning? The air reeked of artificial chocolate and floral perfume, and Gwendolyn barely held back a sneer. This was the worst holiday.

Still, they were there. Like always now. Scott and Stiles, posted near the entrance like they were guarding the gates of Hell—or waiting for someone worth suffering it for. She hadn’t asked them to wait, hadn’t even mentioned it. But after that bowling night, it just started happening and they never said anything about it. Never made it a big deal. They were just there, like it was normal. Gwendolyn didn’t say anything either. But some part of her noticed, and an even smaller part of her liked it.

Scott looked mildly panicked. Stiles looked emotionally wounded. She exhaled sharply, and the paper hearts taped to the lockers rustled just slightly. There was no breeze, no open windows. She stilled. Damn it. She needed to keep that under control.

Gwendolyn sighed. "Lemme guess," she said, not bothering to stop walking to her locker, "Lydia is still not in love with you, and Scott's having a crisis about what girls like."

Stiles scoffed. “I don’t need to be in love. I just need her to realize she’s in love with me.”

Scott groaned. “Girls like different things! What if I get her something and it’s the wrong thing?”

Gwendolyn gave them a deadpan look. "Scott, Allison won’t care. And Stiles—" she gave him a once-over “—you’re lucky to have a face that distracts from your personality.”

Stiles looked genuinely offended, while Scott sighed dramatically as they continued walking. "So, you don't care about Valentine's Day?"

"Nope. Gross. Capitalist scam." She crossed her arms. "Besides, if anyone so much as looks at me with a heart-shaped box today, I’m throwing it in the trash.”

Scott and Stiles exchanged a look. Gwendolyn, not liking that look, immediately scowled, "What?"

Stiles grinned. "Nothing. Just… someone sounds a little bitter.”

Her jaw tightened, but she refused to let the words get under her skin, "Screw you, Stiles."

Bitter? No. Gwendolyn wasn’t bitter. Bitter would mean she actually cared, and she was fine. She was already heading for her locker, ready to grab her books and get through the day, but she froze when she opened it, blinking. Her locker was stuffed. There were notes, cards, pink envelopes, and even two different kinds of chocolates.

Gwendolyn just stared. “What the actual fuck.”

A long, dramatic whistle came from Stiles. “Oh my god,” he breathed, grinning like an idiot as he peered over her shoulder. “This is the best day of my life.”

Scott looked surprised as well. “Wow. Uh—Gwen? Are you… like… popular?”

Gwendolyn didn’t move, didn’t even blink for a few seconds. Then, very slowly, she reached for the pinkest, most aggressively romantic card in the pile and flipped it open. There was swirling cursive and too many unnecessary hearts. `You have the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen.’ She snapped it shut immediately.

Stiles lost it. “Oh my god.” He snatched the card from her hand before she could rip it apart. “You have a secret admirer? Multiple admirers? Plural?”

Gwendolyn clenched her fists. “I’m going to set this entire locker on fire.”

Stiles ignored her completely, already digging through the small pile like a raccoon. He pulled out a folded note, unfolding it dramatically. “Let’s see… You’re like a beautiful shadow in the night, haunting my dreams—” He snorted. “Oh, man. This guy’s down bad.”

She groaned, slamming the locker door. “How the hell did someone even get in here?”

Scott looked concerned. “Wait—yeah, that’s actually kinda weird.”

Stiles just grinned. “I mean, have you seen yourself?”

Gwendolyn scowled. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Stiles gestured vaguely at her. “You strut in here in your mini skirts and boots, all mysterious and untouchable, with your blue curls and jewelry and ‘I could kill you’ energy—”

“I could kill you,” she muttered.

“—and you don’t expect people to simp?”

She shoved the chocolates into his arms. “Here. Take it. Get food poisoning.”

Stiles lit up. “Hell yeah, free chocolate.”

She grabbed the rest of the letters and shoved them into his bag, too. “You get all of this.”

“All of it?” Stiles gasped. “Even the love letters?”

“Especially the letters.”

“Oh, you really know how to treat a guy.”

She kicked his shin and slammed the locker shut, ready to move on. This was stupid. People were stupid. But as she turned, a single folded note caught her eye. Not pink. Not heart-shaped. No frilly decorations. Just plain, folded paper. It had slipped from the pile, landing at her feet.

She shouldn’t care. She didn’t care. But for some reason, she stared at it a second too long before finally bending down to pick it up, her fingers brushing the edge.

It’s not like she’s never gotten attention before. She’s been to parties, danced with strangers, fooled around with people whose names she barely remembered the next morning. She knew what attraction looked like, what it felt like. But it was always the same: fast, hungry, careless. They wanted her lips, her body, the idea of her, but never her actual self. No one had ever looked at her the way they looked at her cousin Ridley—like they’d come undone just holding her hand. And maybe that was fine. Maybe she didn’t want that. Maybe she didn’t think she deserved it.

Still… sometimes, it hurt anyway. It’s not like she thought she was unattractive. She just... never had anyone look at her like that. Not in the way that mattered. They were drawn to her fierce, intimidating allure—the promise of wild, no-strings physicality—but no one ever wanted to see the real Gwendolyn underneath all the armor. No one cared enough to ask if she was lonely or scared. And maybe that was easier for everyone, even if it still stung her somewhere deep inside.

She got stares at her previous school, sure, but those were usually because of her reputation: troublemaker, reckless, unhinged. Part of it was due to all the mayhem she was roped into with her cousins, the other part from what she was.

There had been one boy, once. An older student, some overconfident idiot who had tried flirting with her after a duel session, saying something about how he liked girls with a temper. She’d laughed in his face and nearly broken his wrist when he tried to get handsy. He never spoke to her again.

For other girls, puberty was about crushes, bad hair days, and awkward first kisses. For her, it had been about surviving the awakening of her incubus side. About holding her breath in classrooms when someone got a papercut. About knowing, with absolute certainty, that she was dangerous. The literal, bloodthirsty, "I might rip your throat out if you get too close" kind.

It wasn’t as bad as a full incubus or vampire’s craving, but it was still awful. The smell of blood had always unsettled her—it was sharp, metallic, and wrong. But puberty had made it worse, made it a temptation, made it seem delicious.

Macon had tried to help. But it wasn’t like she could get close to someone when she was too busy making sure she didn’t suck them dry. And even now, with that finally somewhat under control, it’s not like it mattered. What was the point? Getting close to someone, only to disappear in less than two years? That would be cruel. Gwendolyn already knew how it felt to be abandoned, she wouldn’t do that to someone else.

Even if she had wanted to try something with someone… who would have wanted her? Not the version people imagined. The real her: fractured, cursed, half-witch, half-monster.

So no, Gwendolyn wasn’t used to people looking at her the way they look at Ridley. She wasn’t used to soft smiles, stolen glances, whispered confessions. And maybe, just maybe, she pretended it didn’t bother her.

Stiles’ voice snapped her out of it. “Yo, earth to Gwen. You good?”

She blinked, shaking off the thoughts. Then, without thinking, she crumpled the note and tossed it into the nearest trash can. “Let’s get to class,” she muttered.

☽☽☽

Valentine’s Day got even worse when their chemistry teacher forced them into graded partner assignments. Gwendolyn was absently sketching in her notebook. Hands, tangled, tensed, holding on to something unseen. The noises around her faded in the background.

“Alright, everyone,” Mr. Harris announced as the bell rang for chemistry. “Partner assignments are up. You’ll be working together on this project for the next two weeks, so I suggest you take this seriously.”

Gwendolyn slumped in her seat, barely listening as he droned on. Then she heard it. "Stilinski and Ravenwood."

She closed her eyes. Exhaled slowly. Of course. When she opened them again, Stiles was already fist-pumping like he had just won the goddamn lottery. “Yes!”

Scott—traitor that he was—clapped Gwendolyn on the shoulder. “Good luck,” he said, the kind of tone people used before sending someone off to war. She barely resisted the urge to bang her head against the desk.

“Why are you upset?” Stiles asked, tilting his head at her. “I’m great at science.”

Gwendolyn leveled him with a flat look. “That’s not the problem. It’s you.”

That didn’t faze him in the slightest.

☽☽☽

By the time lunch rolled around, Gwendolyn was still mentally calculating whether it was worth it to actually attempt schoolwork for once or just accept her fate and keep failing. Because that was the thing, she was failing.

Science subjects? Dead in the water. Math? On life support. Even English, which she didn’t hate, was hanging by a thread because apparently, teachers expected effort in essay format, and Gwendolyn was firmly against putting effort into things she didn’t care about. So, naturally, when the grades had started to plummet, Mr. Harris had taken one look at the situation and decided she needed a partner who was actually competent.

Entered Stiles. A spazzy, hyperactive whirlwind of energy who, despite all odds, was actually smart. Annoyingly so. His brain worked at a thousand miles per hour, and sure, he was a disaster at sitting still and keeping a single train of thought on track, but he understood things. Like, deeply understood them. And now, Gwendolyn was stuck with him.

At the lunch table, Stiles leaned in, wiggling his eyebrows. “So. How about after school? My place?”

Gwendolyn, who had been stabbing at the remains of her lunch with a plastic fork, hesitated. Scott glanced between them, sensing something was off. “It’s just chemistry,” he said. “No need to make it weird.”

Stiles, however, wasn’t smiling anymore. He was watching Gwendolyn, his usual manic energy dialed down to something almost serious. “No offense, but you kinda suck at science,” he said. “And, like, I get it. You don’t care about grades. But if you actually bomb this project, Harris is gonna make your life hell.”

Gwendolyn rolled her eyes. “I can handle Harris.”

Stiles sighed, shaking his head. “Look, I’m not trying to be that guy, but if you crash and burn, I’m gonna get dragged down with you. And I’d rather not fail because my lab partner decided science isn’t worth her time.”

Gwendolyn scowled. “I never said that.”

“You never said anything,” Stiles shot back. “Which, by the way, isn’t reassuring.”

Scott, watching the exchange, sighed. “He’s got a point.”

Gwendolyn clenched her jaw. She hated this. Being called out. Being cornered. Being reminded that, yeah, maybe she was screwing this up, not because she couldn’t do it, but because she didn’t want to try. And the worst part? Stiles was right. If she tanked this project, Harris would have a field day. And she didn’t exactly have backup plans. Still, admitting that would be like handing someone a map to her weak spots. So she kept her voice flat. “Fine.”

Stiles blinked. “Fine?”

“Yes, fine,” she repeated, glaring. “We can work on it after school. But if you get annoying, I’m leaving.”

Stiles grinned, manic energy returning full force. “Oh, I’m definitely getting annoying.”

Scott muttered, “This is a terrible idea.”

Gwendolyn ignored him, already regretting every choice that had led her to this moment.

☽☽☽

The ride to Stiles’ house was fine. Well, as fine as a ride could be when the Jeep in question rattled like it was held together by sheer stubbornness and duct tape. Gwendolyn had her arms folded, one boot propped up against the dashboard, watching the scenery blur past as Stiles narrated his own driving like a lunatic.

“Behold,” he said dramatically, turning onto a quiet street. “The Stilinski estate. A place of great history and an unhealthy amount of takeout.”

Gwendolyn raised an eyebrow. “You mean your house?”

“Don’t disrespect and expect me to take you anywhere fancy.”

She rolled her eyes, but let the conversation drift into silence as they pulled into his driveway. And then, as Stiles threw the car into park and unbuckled his seatbelt, a very real concern hit her. Because she was part incubus, she had to be invited in. It was something she always had to think about when going to someone’s house for the first time, an inexistent inconvenience on a normal day since her social circle extended to her relatives and the Cullens. But  this was Stiles, she reassured herself. And Stiles was an idiot. The likelihood of him just saying "Come in" without making it a whole thing? Slim.

So, she sat there and waited. Stiles, oblivious, swung open his door. “Well? What are you waiting for? Come on in. Enter my humble abode.”

Gwendolyn let out an exhale of relief, but her lips twitched. There it is. She stepped out of the Jeep. “Humble is a stretch.”

Stiles scoffed. “First of all, rude. Second of all—” He gestured grandly to his house. “Follow me.”

She did, and the second the door swung open, she was met with the sight of sergeant Stilinski standing in the hallway, arms crossed, eyes narrowed in suspicion. Gwendolyn barely had time to blink before the sheriff said, “Wow. A girl willingly spending time with my son.”

Stiles groaned. “Dad.”

Gwendolyn smirked. “I’m still debating whether it was a good idea.”

Sergeant Stilinski smirked back and nodded approvingly. “Smart girl.”

Stiles threw his arms in the air. “What is happening right now? Why am I being slandered in my own home?”

The sergeant turned to Gwendolyn with a shrug. “Don’t hesitate to smack him if he starts being too much.”

Gwendolyn patted Stiles’ shoulder, feigning sympathy. “Trust me, I know how to handle him. Been dealing with this mess for weeks now.”

And honestly, she didn’t hate it. He was loud, chaotic, and a walking disaster half the time, but somehow, being around him never felt like work. She could be sharp and strange and herself, and Stiles would just roll with it. Annoying, but… tolerable. Maybe even kind of comforting, not that she’d ever say that out loud.

Stiles muttered something about having "no respect in his own home," but he led her toward the stairs anyway. Sheriff Stilinski, ever the responsible parent, insisted on leaving the bedroom door wide open. Not that Gwendolyn cared. She wasn’t here for a Stiles Stilinski Romance Experience. She was here for one thing: to pass their chemistry project and maybe to make his life miserable while doing so.

The second she stepped inside, she immediately started snooping and it was a goldmine. Posters everywhere. Superheroes, Star Wars, maps of Forks pinned to the wall alongside what could only be described as a full-blown conspiracy board. She walked further in, dragging her fingers along his desk, eyeing the stacks of books, the sheer amount of nerdy memorabilia. Then she ran her fingers over the edges of Stiles’ chaotic notebooks, flipping through pages of messy, half-finished sketches. Maps. Scribbled equations. A ridiculous attempt at drawing Han Solo that was, well…terrible. Without thinking, she grabbed a pencil off his desk and fixed a detail, just a small one. The angle of the nose, the way the shading was too harsh. Then she closed the notebook and didn’t say a word.

Stiles shut the door behind him and clapped his hands together. “Alright, let’s get—”

“This is…” Gwendolyn trailed off, spinning in a slow circle. “A lot.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes. “Elaborate.”

Gwendolyn turned, pointing at the gigantic Han Solo poster above his bed. “You have a shrine to Han Solo.”

Stiles immediately bristled. “As I should.”

Gwendolyn tilted her head. “What, you just wake up in the morning, gaze upon him for strength?”

Stiles placed a hand over his heart. “Han Solo is an icon, a legend, and a life coach.”

“I worry about you,” she said.

She moved on, scanning his shelves. Something caught her eye. She hadn’t planned on being curious about him. But Stiles was impossible to ignore. He didn’t walk around her walls, he climbed them, loudly, dragging her along whether she liked it or not. And now here she was, in his room, holding a trophy from his dorky baseball phase like it was the most normal thing in the world.

She turned one over in her hands. “Wait. You used to be athletic?”

Stiles scowled. “Excuse you. Still am.”

Gwendolyn tilted the trophy, reading the engraved name. “Huh. I just assumed you were born uncoordinated.”

Stiles yanked the trophy out of her hands. “This isn’t about me.”

She smirked. “Debatable.”

☽☽☽

Between Gwendolyn’s endless teasing and Stiles’ dramatic defenses, they actually managed to get work done. Sort of. Despite wanting to launch herself out of a window, Gwendolyn had to admit—begrudgingly—that Stiles was surprisingly competent when he focused, which was rare, but still, progress.

She threw a look at Stiles, who was sprawled out on the floor, only to see he was highlighting literally everything. Every. Single. Line. Gwendolyn, who was lying on Stiles’ bed with her arms crossed, stared in exasperation. “Stiles, that is not a coloring book.”

Stiles, unfazed, kept going. “No, see, this is a system. Yellow for important things, blue for really important things, pink for things I should definitely remember—”

“Oh, so everything.”

“Exactly.”

Gwendolyn rubbed her temples. She was about to knock the highlighter out of his hands when she heard it—the faint creak of the front door, footsteps approaching, voices. Scott and someone else. She kept her expression neutral, pretending she hadn’t heard them coming, and three seconds later Scott and Jacob barreled into the room like they owned the place.

Scott grinned. “Yo, Stiles, you ready for—oh. Hey, Gwen. Didn’t think you’d still be here.”

Jacob hesitated in the doorway, hands stuffed into his pockets, something unreadable passing over his face before he grinned. “Yeah, didn’t take you for the ‘homework at Stiles’ type.”

Gwendolyn deadpanned, still sprawled on Stiles’ bed, her head resting against her palm. “I’m being held hostage.”

Stiles gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. “Rude. We were having a great time.” Then his eyes widened in realization, flicking between her, Scott, Jacob, his textbook, and the general concept of time itself. “Wait—oh, shit. Our game night!”

Scott gave him a look. “Dude. You literally reminded me at lunch.”

Jacob shook his head, amused. “And yet, here we are.”

Gwendolyn tilted her head. “Can’t believe this is what I’m working with.”

As Stiles spun into another meltdown, she caught Jacob watching her, just for a second. Like he hadn’t expected to find her here. Like something about the sight surprised him. Her sitting on Stiles’ bed, looking comfortable. She glanced away before she could try to name the look. Whatever. Boys were weird.

She stretched, sitting up on Stiles’ bed. “Anyway. I’m heading out—”

Scott glanced at her. “You need a ride?”

“Yeah, I just have to call Emmett.”

“Cullen?” Stiles asked.

“Duh.”

She caught it. That pause. The barely-there flicker in Jacob’s expression. The moment of quiet as his frown deepened, his gaze flickering between her, Scott, and Stiles. It was subtle, barely anything really. But for someone who didn’t know her, he seemed very interested in her choice of ride. Gwendolyn didn’t make much of it. Of course he clocked that. People always noticed the name.

Stiles, oblivious, snorted. “You could stay or, you know, get your own car like a functional person.”

Gwendolyn shrugged, “I don’t have a license.” Not that it had ever stopped her before, but she was pretty sure Esme and Carlisle wouldn’t let her do things the easy way and forge her one.

Stiles blinked. “Wait. Seriously?”

Jacob frowned. “Why not?”

She shrugged. “Britain.”

Stiles groaned. “Okay, that’s just lazy. By the way? You’ll thank me when you’re not failing anymore.”

Gwendolyn only rolled her eyes, “Yeah, Stiles, you’re a saint” and then pulled out her phone and dialed. She pressed the phone to her ear, already bracing for the Cullens to sweep in and rescue her. Emmett picked up on the second ring, “Yo, Gwen. What’s up?”

Gwendolyn leaned against Stiles’ desk. “I need a ride.” She wasn’t trying to make a dramatic exit. She just needed out. She’d done her part—worked, bantered, existed socially. That was enough. Emmett never asked questions, he just showed up.

There was a pause, then, laughter, “No way. Alice says you’ll have more fun if you stay. So, we’ll do movie night tomorrow. Don’t bother calling anyone else and have a fun with the humans.”

Gwendolyn scowled. “Emmett, don’t be a dick.”

In the background, she could hear Esme’s warm, ever-so-gentle voice, “We’ll pick you up later, sweetheart!”

Click.

Gwendolyn stared at her phone. So much for a clean escape. She could practically hear Alice’s smugness echoing in Emmett’s laugh. They’d planned this. Of course they had. Still, it stung a little, how easily they assumed she’d be fine here. She wasn't sure if it felt like freedom or like being left.

Stiles smirked. “Rejected. That’s rough. But let’s circle back to the whole Britain thing? What’s that about?”

Gwendolyn gave him a flat look. “What’s what about?”

Stiles waved his hands. “You. Britain. You’ve been holding out on us.”

She shrugged, leaning back against the desk, fingers drumming against her knee. “I don’t know what to tell you, Stiles. I lived there for a while.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes, his expression shifting into exaggerated suspicion. “...That explains so much.”

Scott blinked, still trying to process. “Wait, what?”

Stiles gestured wildly in her direction. “Dude, have you never noticed the way she says certain words?”

Jacob, leaning casually against the wall with his arms crossed, “Huh. You don’t sound so British.”

Gwendolyn’s deadpan response was immediate. “Thanks, I’ll be sure to let the Queen know.”

Stiles ignored her sarcasm, his brain working at full speed. “No, but, like—you kinda do. Sometimes. Like, you have a thing.”

Scott snapped his fingers, suddenly animated. “Oh my god. Is that why you say schedule all weird?”

Jacob tilted his head, mock thoughtful. “Yeah, now that I think about it… I’ve never heard you say y’all even once.”

Gwendolyn groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “Are we really doing this?”

Stiles grinned like he’d won the lottery. “This is a revelation. Also, it makes so much sense why you act like you’re better than us. You do sound posh sometimes”

Jacob grinned, enjoying the teasing, “It’s okay. You can admit it. You think we’re uncultured.”

She tilted her head, pretending to think it over. “Well. If the shoe fits.”

Stiles snorted, shaking his head. “Unbelievable. We’ve known you for weeks, and this is the first actual fact you’ve willingly given us about your life. Do you realize that? Well, that and the fact that you don’t even have your driver’s license.”

Gwendolyn rolled her eyes but didn’t answer. He wasn’t exactly wrong. And weirdly, it didn’t feel awful. Them noticing or asking. Not in the sharp, invasive way people usually did, but like it mattered. She still wasn’t going to spill anything else, but… it wasn’t the worst thing.

☽☽☽

Once they settled in the living room, Stiles tossed a controller into her lap. “You’re stuck with us. Might as well make the best of it. Video games. Let’s go.”

Gwendolyn caught it, unimpressed. “What game?”

Jacob who sat next to her grinned. “Halo.”

She rolled the controller in her hands. “And the objective?”

Stiles answered dramatically. “Survive.”

She narrowed her eyes. “That’s vague as hell.”

Jacob leaned forward slightly, grinning. “You’ll figure it out.”

The game started. It was a mess. The controls were weird. The buttons made no sense. But then, instinct took over. Her reflexes sharpened, her hand-eye coordination adjusted. Gwendolyn stopped thinking and started playing, and suddenly, she was winning.

“Wait—wait,” Stiles said, voice full of horror. “How are you already good at this?”

Gwendolyn smirked, blasting him right in the face. “I have skills, Stiles.”

Scott gawked at the kill feed. "Dude. She just took you out again."

Jacob leaned forward. "Alright. That’s it. She’s gotta go down."

Gwendolyn snorted. "Oh, now you take me seriously?"

And that’s when it happened. Without thinking, as she landed yet another headshot, she muttered, "Okay, this is quite fun."

She didn’t expect to like it. Video games had always seemed like a waste of time. But there was something satisfying about this. Something simple. Aim. Fire. Win. No magic. No rules. No one flinching when she walked into a room. Just her, the controller, and a bunch of dead boys on the screen.

Scott blinked. "Wait."

Jacob grinned slowly. "Jesus, she did it."

Stiles, still respawning, turned his full attention to her. "Quite fun?" he repeated, eyes glinting with mischief. "Wow. So posh."

Gwendolyn froze, realizing what she had just said. "Oh, for fuck’s sake—"

"Forsooth," Stiles announced, dropping his controller so he could dramatically clutch his chest. "Milady doth enjoyeth the gaming."

Scott joined in immediately. "Indeed, quite fun this form art be.”

Gwendolyn groaned, sinking back against the couch, "Shut up” and with deadpan precision, headshotted him again, which only made Stiles scream in frustration. Jacob was laughing too hard to aim properly, and Scott, who had been taking it easy, finally focused. "Okay, okay. Enough medieval bullshit. Let’s take her down."

Gwendolyn smirked, cracking her knuckles. "Bring it on, peasants."

☽☽☽

Somewhere between Gwendolyn landing her hundredth kill in Halo and Stiles nearly rage-quitting, Scott got up to order food. Gwendolyn hadn’t even realized how much time had passed, but the darkened sky outside made it clear — hours had slipped by, lost in the glow of the TV screen and the chaos of their game. By the time pizza arrived, they had switched games twice, and Stiles had resigned himself to the fact that Gwendolyn was annoyingly good at video games.

They had been eating, talking, and playing long enough that the usual teasing and banter had softened into something looser, easier. The conversation meandered from stupid childhood stories to ridiculous hypothetical fights ("Who would win? A bear or, like, ten wolves?" "Wolves. Definitely.") until, inevitably, it circled back to her. Stiles nudged his plate away, fully turning towards her. “Alright, now I have questions.”

Gwendolyn sighed, flicking a stray crumb off her plate. “Of course you do.”

Stiles squinted at her, elbows on the table, eyes narrowed in dramatic suspicion. "Alright. So, real question—why Forks?"

Gwendolyn tilted her head lazily, one arm slung over the back of the couch. “Why not?”

Stiles groaned. “See? This is what I’m talking about. That’s not an answer!”

“Sure, it is.” She met his gaze, unbothered and smirking.

Scott, sitting cross-legged on the floor, glanced up from a half-eaten breadstick. “So… where did you live before Forks?”

Gwendolyn licked some sauce off her thumb, pretending to think. “The Moon.”
Stiles groaned. “Gwen—”

She squinted. “Or was it Atlantis?” she mused, shifting her gaze to the ceiling like it held the answer. Scott let out a snort. Jacob, still propped against the arm of the couch near her, huffed a low chuckle, shaking his head.

Stiles narrowed his eyes. “Gwen.”

She rolled her eyes but relented, posture slouching deeper into the cushions. “Fine. Louisiana, South Carolina, and Britain.”

“That’s it?”

She smiled sweetly. “No, there was also a brief period where I lived in the Bermuda Triangle, but I got sick of the time distortions.”

Scott laughed. Jacob’s eyebrows raised slightly, watching her now with a more focused kind of curiosity. “What were you doing in Britain?” he asked, voice casual, but she could feel him watching.

Gwendolyn’s gaze flicked to him, just for a beat before she looked down, smoothing out a napkin she wasn’t really holding. “Boarding school.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles said, practically bouncing in his seat. “You are posh.”

She scoffed. “Do I look posh?”

Stiles gestured at her outfit. “No, you look like you’d steal my car and then run me over with it.”

Jacob laughed, soft and genuine. “Sounds about right.”

Gwendolyn didn’t look away. Her mouth tugged up into a lazy smirk. “Well, I’d make it look like an accident.”

Jacob cut in, curious. “So, how long were you in Britain?”

Gwendolyn leaned back in her seat, letting her shoulder press into the arm of the couch. Her fingers tapped rhythmically against her thigh. “Long enough to hate Marmite.”

Jacob didn’t press the timeline again, but he was still watching her like he was trying to read between the lines.

Stiles narrowed his eyes. “Which means?”

She flicked a crust at him, aiming just off-center so it bounced off his arm. “It means too long, Stiles.”

Scott chuckled. “Sounds like at least a few years.”

Gwendolyn rolled her eyes, but she didn’t correct him. “Pretty much.”

Stiles let out a low whistle. “So that’s where you got all your pretentious energy.”

She turned to him, smiling sweetly. “Nope. That’s just me naturally.”

Jacob was still watching her, his head tilted slightly like he was tracking something beneath the surface. “So why not stay?” he asked.

Gwendolyn flicked another bit of crust at Stiles, deflecting by movement before answering. “Didn’t feel like it.” The second she said it, she regretted how flat it sounded. Too casual. Not casual enough.

Stiles gasped like it was the best thing that had ever happened to him. “Oh my god, what did you do?”

Gwendolyn shrugged, biting back the urge to stiffen.

“Okay, see,” Stiles said, pointing at her like he was unveiling a crime. “That is suspicious.”

Scott leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees. “Wait, did they kick you out?”

Gwendolyn blinked. Just for a fraction of a second. It was nothing. Barely a flinch. But Stiles caught it anyway. “Oh, shit, that’s totally what happened!” Stiles clapped his hands together, triumphant. “Some fancy academy with their elite standards couldn’t handle a rebellious troublemaker messing up their perfect student rankings. You bombed your classes, didn’t you?”

Scott, nodding like this was all coming together, muttered, “Yeah, they totally wanted to keep their prestige intact.”

Gwendolyn didn’t move. She kept her shoulders relaxed, let her expression stay bored, let her smirk hold, but her fingers had stopped tapping. Her knee bounced once, sharp and fast, before going still. Jacob’s gaze flicked to her again. He was the only one who hadn’t reacted, but this time his expression shifted, feeling the line she didn’t want them crossing.

Gwendolyn breathed out through her nose, slow and quiet. Do not react.

The memory brushed the edge of her mind anyway—the heat of it, the wrongness, the way the world had tilted sideways when her magic surged and everything went too far. The way they looked at her afterward. Like she wasn’t human anymore. She swallowed it. Buried it.

Then she huffed and shook her head, eyes narrowed. “No. I was acing my classes.” She tilted her head, let the danger creep into her grin. “But maybe I burned the place down.”

Stiles looked way too excited. “You didn’t—”

She shrugged. “Guess you’ll never know.”

Scott groaned, slumping back. “Oh, come on.”

Stiles, still riding the high of the mystery, pointed at her. “I will figure this out.”

Gwendolyn didn’t flinch. She took another slow bite of pizza and winked, eyes gleaming. Let him try. He always did that—push just enough to get a rise out of her, then back off without even realizing it. He’d figured out her rhythm without trying.

Jacob chuckled softly from his spot beside her, voice lower than the others’. “You’ve got them chasing their own tails.”

Gwendolyn raised a brow, her tone light. “Isn’t that the point?”

His smile was easy and quiet. There was no teasing behind it, no amusement at her expense. He saw exactly what she was doing… and didn’t blame her for it.

For a beat, nothing was said. Just the soft crinkle of napkins, the muted hum of the paused game, and the distant sound of wind brushing against the house. The conversation shifted—something about the fries being criminally overpriced, Stiles bemoaning capitalism, then complaining about his life. He flopped back in his seat like the weight of the world was on his shoulders. “I swear, my life is just constant suffering.”

Scott rolled his eyes. “Please. Your life is not a tragedy.”

“Excuse you,” Stiles scoffed, leaning back dramatically. “I have a dead mom. That’s peak trauma. ”

There was a pause, a real one this time. Gwendolyn felt it crack open something sharp inside her. She could’ve let it pass. Should’ve. But instead— “Both dead,” she said, casual as ever. “Try again.”

Scott, horrified, slammed a hand on the coffee table. “Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you two?”

Gwendolyn just shrugged, her voice light. “Sorry, Stilinski. But you never stood a chance.” Her posture stayed loose, relaxed, but her fingers tapped once against the rim of her soda can. Her foot nudged at the edge of the coffee table like it was keeping her tethered.

It was a joke. A game. A stupid, flippant way to win a nonexistent contest. She didn’t flinch. Why would she? She’d never had parents. Not really. Not in the way that counted. Not like Stiles, who still had his dad. Still had a home. But Macon—that had been different. That had hurt. And maybe that made it worse. Because when he left, it felt like the last solid thing she had disappeared. No house. No family that stayed. Just her, dragging her life around in pieces, pretending it didn’t ache.

Scott, recovering, stared at Stiles and her. “That was fucked up.”

She forced herself to shrug, forcing that amusement back onto her face, shoving the truth of it down deep where it couldn’t touch her. “Facts are facts McCall.”

“You two need therapy.”

Stiles wheezed. “I can’t afford therapy.”

Gwendolyn took another sip, letting the cold fizz burn a little on the way down. “A therapist couldn’t afford me.”

Scott just groaned, dropping his head onto the table.

Jacob huffed out a quiet laugh, but his eyes flicked to her again. His expression didn’t shift much, but something in his eyes narrowed slightly, he’d caught something in her tone she hadn’t meant to give away.

Gwendolyn felt it, but she didn’t meet his gaze. She had won, hadn’t she? So why did it feel like a loss?

☽☽☽

Scott, Stiles, Jacob, and Gwendolyn were still sprawled across the living room, the leftovers of dinner scattered on the table, a half-empty bag of chips between them. The TV hummed in the background, low and forgotten. Comfortable silence had started to settle until Stiles, grinning like a man possessed, dove into his backpack like he was defusing a bomb.

“Alright, folks,” he announced with way too much enthusiasm, “now that we’ve survived a dinner conversation straight out of a tragic indie film, it’s time for dessert.”

Scott gave him a suspicious look. “Why do you sound like you’re about to do something illegal?”

Jacob leaned against the armrest, curious. “Should I be worried?”

Gwendolyn, already exhausted by the tone of his voice alone, sighed. “Stiles, if this is about your weird Hostess cupcake obsession, I swear—”

“No, no, better.” He pulled out a pile of letters and heart-shaped chocolate boxes, dumping them onto the table with a flourish.

Gwendolyn groaned, tilting her head back against the couch. “Are you kidding me?”

Jacob blinked. “What the hell is that?”

Scott was already cringing. “Dude…”

Stiles beamed. “Oh, just Gwen’s mountain of love letters.”

Scott laughed despite himself. “You kept them?”

Stiles, completely unbothered, shrugged. “Obviously. She was gonna throw them out, which, by the way, is a crime. Valentine’s Day is sacred.”

Gwendolyn grumbled, crossing her arms. “I didn’t think you’d actually keep them.”

Stiles clutched his chest like she’d wounded him. “Oh, you sweet, naïve little Gwen.”

She gave him a flat glare. “You’re dead to me.”

Jacob leaned forward, looking genuinely surprised. “Damn. I thought you were joking. You actually got fan mail?”

“I didn’t ask for it,” Gwendolyn muttered, arms crossed tight like she was warding it all off.

Scott picked one up and whistled. “Okay, but like… this is a lot.”

“Right?” Stiles grabbed a letter with glee. “Who even writes this crap anymore?”

Jacob’s brows furrowed. “How many did you get?”

Gwendolyn scowled at the pile like it might sprout legs and attack her. “Too many.”

Stiles cleared his throat like he was about to read Shakespeare. “Let’s see what we’re working with—”

Gwendolyn sat up immediately. “Oh, hell no.”

He ignored her, unfolding a letter with theatrical flair. “Oh. Oh, this is gold.”

Scott leaned in. “Is it bad?”

Jacob, watching the scene unfold with vague amusement, crossed his arms. “Worse than bad?”

Stiles read dramatically, “‘I see you in the halls, but I don’t know what to say. You’re so mysterious—’” He paused, grinning at her. “‘Maybe one day I’ll work up the courage.’”

Gwendolyn deadpanned, “Pathetic.”

Jacob let out a low chuckle. “Jesus. No mercy?”

“If you can’t even look me in the eye,” she said, arms folded tighter, “don’t bother.”

Stiles cackled. “Harsh, but fair.”

Scott glanced up, frowning slightly. “It’s kind of sweet, though.”

“It's gross,” Gwendolyn shot back. Her eyes flicked quickly to the letters and then away again, like she couldn't stand looking at them too long.

Jacob tilted his head. “So, what, you only respect the bold ones?”

“What’s the point if you have to hide behind a letter?”

Scott and Stiles exchanged looks. Scott carefully said, “You have high standards.”

Jacob didn’t say anything at first, but he was watching her again, his gaze steady. There was something thoughtful in it like her words had landed somewhere deeper than she’d meant.

Scott, now invested, grabbed another envelope. “Okay, another one. This one’s got—uh… glitter?” He hesitated. “That’s a red flag.”

Stiles gasped. “Open it. Immediately.”

Scott, very carefully, peeled it open, then, he gagged. Jacob leaned over. “What?”

Scott physically recoiled. “It’s perfume.”

Stiles howled with laughter. “Holy shit, let me see—”

Scott shoved it at him. “No, you can keep it. I’m not breathing that in again.”

Stiles dramatically fanned the letter. ““Her eyes, deep like the sky before the storm—”

Gwendolyn groaned, dragging a hand down her face. This was actual torture.

“—dark as midnight, sharp as glass—”

Scott made a face. “Sharp? What kind of compliment is that?”

Jacob, smirked, “I mean… accurate?” which earned him a glare from Gwendolyn.

Stiles kept going, barely containing his laughter. “Oh, it gets worse—‘I wish I could hold your gaze, but I fear I might burn’—” He lost it. “Holy shit. Who wrote this? A poet? A warlock? Someone possessed?”

Gwendolyn sat up, ripping the letter straight from his hands and chucking it at his head. “Enough. This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Stiles dodged with a grin, “Wow, okay, but he’s sensitive! Have some respect!”

Gwendolyn groaned, leaning back against the couch with the deepest frustration. “Again,” she muttered, “bunch of losers.”

Jacob, still watching her, gave a quiet shake of his head, like he couldn’t decide if he was impressed or just wildly entertained.

Stiles gestured toward the chocolates. “Alright, what about these?”

Gwendolyn narrowed her eyes. “I’m not eating that.”

Stiles looked scandalized. “Why not?”

“Because I don’t know who it’s from.”

Scott frowned. “You think someone tampered with it?”

“No,” Gwendolyn admitted. “I just think people are disgusting.”

Stiles sighed and tore into a box. “More for us, then.”

Jacob grabbed one. “Free chocolate’s free chocolate.”

Scott popped a truffle. “She’s missing out.”

Gwendolyn rolled her eyes. “Enjoy your coward candy.”

Scott snorted. “You are so mean.”

Jacob popped a chocolate into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. “You sure you don’t want one?”

Gwendolyn, half-reclined on the couch, didn’t even glance at him. “I would rather lick a parking lot.”

Stiles wheezed. “Fair enough.”

The chocolates disappeared quickly between the three of them, while Stiles continued his dramatic readings of Gwendolyn’s Unfortunate Fan Mail. Most of it was terrible. Some of it was borderline poetry-in-crisis. Gwendolyn refused to participate, arms folded, tossing in occasional dry commentary with surgical precision as the boys slowly lost faith in the student body. Eventually, the chaos died down to background noise. Gwendolyn shifted, stretching out along the couch like a lounging cat, her head tipped back, arms resting above her. She looked relaxed, maybe even bored, but she was listening.

Scott, eyeing her out of the corner of his eye, smirked. “Come on, Gwen, be honest. If some guy actually came up to you, said he liked you, asked you out, what would you do?”

She sighed like he’d asked her to solve world hunger. “Scott, do you think I sit around pondering the hypothetical logistics of dating?”

“I think you sit around planning violent hypothetical scenarios,” Stiles said, still sorting through glitter-covered envelopes.

Gwendolyn smirked without moving. “That’s different.”

Jacob, seated on the floor with his back against the armchair, leaned his head back to look at her properly. His tone was calm, curious. “But if someone actually did ask you out—like, in person—what would you do?”

Gwendolyn finally cracked an eye open, brows arching just slightly. She didn’t dodge the question, not exactly. “That depends.”

Jacob raised an eyebrow. “On?”

She tilted her head, half-smiling. “On how stupid they look.”

Scott let out a dramatic groan. “This is why you’re single.”

Gwendolyn just shrugged lazily, a ghost of a grin tugging at her lips like it was all a game.

But Jacob laughed. Just a low, warm sound that lingered longer than it should have. “Yeah,” he said, still watching her. “Somehow I don’t think that’s the reason.”

Gwendolyn’s smirk didn’t fade. But she didn’t look at him after that. Not because she was annoyed or embarrassed. Just… because something about his voice, the way he’d said it, felt like he meant it and that was more dangerous than any glitter bomb.

She sat up a little, resting one arm lazily on the back of the couch. Her voice came slow, deliberate, and full of mockery. “You’re all very confident for a group of guys spending Valentine’s Day on a couch with each other.”

That earned her immediate groans.

“Oof,” Scott muttered, sinking further into the cushions.

“Hey, we invited you,” Stiles said, dramatically offended. “If anything, you’re the one spending Valentine’s with a bunch of losers.”

Gwendolyn didn’t blink. She let the silence sit, let their protests breathe for a second and then she struck. “Tell me again,” she said, voice like a blade wrapped in silk, “who here’s actually gotten past first base?”

The room went still. Scott choked on his soda. Stiles actually blanched, mouth falling open. “What—okay—rude.”

“That’s a private question!” Scott protested, cheeks turning crimson.

Jacob made a low sound that might’ve been a laugh or a cough—hard to tell with how quickly he tried to smother it.

Gwendolyn smirked. “That’s what I thought.”

Stiles scrambled, defensive and wild-eyed. “Okay, for the record, almost! And I’m building trust, okay? That’s what mature relationships are built on.”

Gwen tilted her head. “Sure, all that dramatic pining is paying off huh?  And Scott’s clearly halfway to a proposal after two awkward hallway conversations.”

Scott groaned again, dragging his hoodie over his face. “Why are you like this?”

Jacob, still lounging on the floor with his back against the armchair, finally spoke, voice low and warm. “So you’re saying you have?”

The room turned. Three heads snapped toward her, but Gwendolyn didn’t flinch. She shrugged, smug and unbothered. “Please. I’ve done more than any of you and still had time to terrify half a boarding school.”

Stiles made a noise like he was about to die. “Okay! We get it! Gwendolyn’s out here being the mysterious heartbreaker and the rest of us are, apparently, tragic virgins.”

Jacob was smiling now, watching her more than reacting, like he couldn’t decide if she was messing with them or telling the truth. Gwendolyn noticed and because she noticed, she leaned into it. “Not tragic,” she said airily. “Just... very sheltered.”

Scott whined. “Can we go back to playing Halo now?”

Gwendolyn grinned, reaching for her controller. “Only if you promise not to cry when I kill you again.” She leaned back against the cushions, and tossed a popcorn kernel at Stiles. “Anyway,” she said, “thanks for proving my point.”

☽☽☽

Moments later, Gwendolyn’s phone buzzed.

Emmett: "Get ready, I’m almost here. Try not to cry about it."

She sighed, pocketing the phone. “Alright, I’m out.”

Scott yawned, stretching with all the grace of a cat on its last nerve. “Well, thanks for completely ruining Stiles’ confidence in gaming.”

Gwendolyn shrugged, slinging her jacket over one shoulder. “Anytime.”

Stiles dramatically flung his controller onto the couch like it had betrayed him. “You may have won the battle, Ravenwood, but the war isn’t over.”

She patted his head like he was a child. “Sure, buddy.”

Jacob, arms folded, leaning against the wall with a grin tugging at his mouth. “I think it is.”

Gwendolyn grabbed her boots, stepping into them with practiced efficiency. “See you losers.”

Jacob mock-saluted. “Try not to miss us too much.”

Scott gave an exaggerated bow. “We shan’t keep you.”

Stiles clasped his hands like a tragic bard. “Mayhap thou willst returneth anon?”

Gwendolyn groaned, flipping them off on her way out. Then, she heard the sound of tires crunching against pavement, the low rumble of a familiar engine, and a drawn-out, obnoxious honk that could only belong to one person.

“Come on, Gremlin! Let’s roll.”

Gwendolyn froze on the porch. Behind her, Stiles choked on a laugh. “Gremlin?”

Scott and Jacob turned to her, nearly vibrating with amusement. She glared at them over her shoulder. “Don’t.”

She stepped out into the night before they could say another word, and there he was. Emmett Cullen, leaning against the car, arms crossed, grin wide and unapologetic. He looked smug, as always. Smug and stupidly comfortable in his own skin. But Gwendolyn’s attention shifted almost immediately when Boo emerged from the shadows at the edge of the yard, silent and steady, his massive form cutting through the dark like a ghost. His golden eyes locked onto her first—always her—before flicking briefly toward the porch behind her, assessing.

“Hey, you,” she murmured, crouching slightly as he reached her. Boo leaned into her touch, allowing her fingers to comb through his thick fur like it was a privilege. She pressed a small, absentminded kiss to the top of his head, like it was second nature. Because for her, it was.

Behind her, Scott muttered, “You have a dog?”

Stiles scoffed. "More like a hellhound. Jesus. What the hell are you feeding that thing?"

Gwendolyn didn’t look at them. “The souls of the damned.”

Jacob huffed a quiet laugh. Boo glanced back at them, unimpressed. No growl. No bark. Just a slow blink and an exhale through his nose that somehow made it very clear he had no interest in any of them.

“Well,” Stiles muttered, watching the exchange with a weird mixture of horror and awe. “That explains why he likes you.”

Gwendolyn stood, brushing fur from her coat sleeve.

Emmett clapped his hands, startling everyone. “Alright, field trip’s over. Grab your demon dog and let’s go.”

She exhaled sharply, turning back to the porch one last time. “Great. This was fun. Never again.”

She slung her bag over one shoulder and gave Boo one last scratch behind the ears before heading toward the car.

Emmett’s grin hadn’t changed, but there was something else behind it now. A flicker of something tighter around the eyes. He stepped forward without saying anything, wrapping an arm around her shoulder in one smooth motion. It wasn’t flashy or for show. It was grounding.

Gwendolyn didn’t pull away. In fact, she leaned into it—just slightly. Because it was Emmett. And with Emmett, it was easy. Comfortable in a way that didn’t ask for anything back. No expectations. No strings. They stepped apart, and his grin reappeared like it had never faltered. “So,” he said, tone teasing but a little softer than usual, “did you have fun?”

Gwendolyn shrugged, eyes on the passenger door. “It was fine.” She didn’t want to admit it out loud—not with an audience. But yeah, she did. But the moment the hangout ended, it was like everything else started creeping back in. The weight of the night. The jokes she made. The way she threw that out into the open like it was nothing. She swallowed it down. Pushed it back.

The car was quiet. Emmett hadn’t turned on the music, hadn’t tried to fill the silence. Boo had curled up in the backseat, head resting on his paws, golden eyes half-lidded but still alert. Gwendolyn stared out the window, arms crossed tight against her chest. The glow of streetlights cut across her reflection, fractured in the glass. Emmett noticed. Of course he noticed, but he didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask if she was okay. Didn’t try to joke her out of it. She appreciated that more than she could say.

So instead, she said it first. Voice quieter, sharper than before—like she needed to say it out loud to make it real. Like it was the only way to shift the weight. “I’m taking my driver’s license.” A pause. Then, just as firm, “And a car.”

Emmett didn’t even blink. Just nodded, easy as anything. “Yeah. You should, kid.”

And that was that. No teasing. No pushing. Just Emmett.

☽☽☽

The front door shut behind her. Tires crunched. The car pulled away. And just like that, she was gone. Jacob stayed by the window longer than he meant to, pretending he wasn’t watching. Stiles had already launched into a new tangent—something about glitter-related trauma—but Jacob wasn’t listening. He kept thinking about the look on her face when she read that last letter. Or didn’t read it—more like, tolerated it. Like she was somewhere else.

Not annoyed. Not flattered. Just... distant.

He'd thought she'd brush the whole thing off, laugh like she always did. But something in her jaw had tightened. Something behind her eyes had flickered. And then, that damn dog. Not just a dog. That thing wasn’t normal. But it loved her. And she let it. He hadn’t expected that—watching her crouch down and kiss its head like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like that was where all her softness went when no one was looking.

Jacob frowned, arms crossed, his mind circling. She hadn’t looked at him much after the “single” comment. That bothered him more than it should have. Because, for a second there, he thought she’d been about to.

He’d been trying not to stare at her all night. Trying to play it cool. She didn’t even seem to notice, she was too busy roasting everyone like it was second nature. And maybe it was.

But under all of it—the wit, the smugness, the violence-in-a-smile, there was something else.
Something that pulled back when things got too close.
Something that watched more than it let on.
Something he wanted to understand.

Scott threw a pillow at Stiles, yelling about glitter. Jacob blinked, dragged back into the room, but that lingering weight stayed with him. He couldn’t help it. She was confusing. Sharp-tongued, unreadable, and somehow still lodged in his head like a splinter.

Jacob sat back down, but the game felt dull now. He didn’t know what she was hiding, but whatever it was... He kind of wanted to find out.

☽☽☽

Emmett burst into the house like a storm, moving with purpose, his expression set with one clear objective. He didn’t bother taking off his jacket, didn’t even pause to acknowledge anyone else—just made a beeline straight for Carlisle, who sat calmly in his study, flipping through a medical journal like he didn’t have a care in the world.

Emmett planted his hands on the desk, looming like a six-foot-five wall of urgency. “She needs a car.”

Carlisle sighed, setting his book aside. “Good evening to you too, Emmett.”

“No, seriously,” Emmett insisted, throwing himself into the chair across from Carlisle’s desk. “She just said it. Like, out loud. She’s getting a car. So, we need to get her a car.”

Carlisle, patient as always, folded his hands together. “We need to?”

“Yes.”

That, finally, made Carlisle glance up, his golden gaze settling on him with quiet amusement. “She needs to earn it.”

Emmett’s scowl deepened. “She literally fights me every day for survival. I’d say she’s earned it.”

Carlisle just tilted his head, giving him the kind of look that meant he was unmoved by Emmett’s dramatics. “That’s not the same.”

“She’s gonna need to drive,” Emmett pushed. “She’s tired of being stuck and having to wait on us to drive her places.”

Carlisle exhaled, considering that point. “That I can believe.”

Emmett leaned forward, all enthusiasm. “So? Let’s get her something.”

Carlisle shook his head. “We’re not buying her a brand-new car.”

Emmett groaned. “Why not? Just let her pick something cool. We’ll pay for it—”

Carlisle’s expression was patient, composed—infuriatingly logical. “She doesn’t need a gift. She needs something to build. Something that’s hers because she worked for it.”

That shut Emmett up. Not because he agreed—but because he hated that it made sense. Gwendolyn didn’t do well with things just given to her. She needed something she could work on, something to claim as her own. Otherwise, it wouldn’t feel real.

Carlisle let that sink in before continuing, his tone thoughtful. “Dr. Snow mentioned he was getting rid of an old Mustang. If we get to it before he scraps it, she’ll have something to work with.”

Emmett wasn’t impressed. “An old Mustang? What year?”

Carlisle shrugged. “Didn’t say.”

Emmett let out a deep, suffering sigh. “Fine. Let’s see it.”

Carlisle checked his watch. “He should be getting off shift in twenty minutes.”

Emmett grinned. “Perfect.”

So, at 11 PM on a school night, Emmett and Carlisle rolled into Dr. Snow’s driveway, finding the old Mustang sitting there, neglected, rusted, but still standing.

Emmett wasn’t expecting much. But five seconds into seeing the car, he nearly blacked out. The second his eyes landed on it, his entire demeanor changed. The casual disinterest vanished, replaced with a spark of raw excitement. He circled the car like a predator locking onto prey, running a hand over the faded metal, the worn-down edges, the potential humming beneath its surface. And then he saw the emblem. His heart nearly stopped.

Carlisle, ever calm, stood beside him, watching his reaction with mild curiosity. “So?”

Emmett inhaled sharply. “Carlisle.”

Carlisle raised an eyebrow.

“Do you know what this is?” Emmett’s voice pitched slightly higher than normal, his eyes wild as he turned toward him.

Carlisle tilted his head, considering. “A Mustang?”

“Not just a mustang.” Emmett practically vibrated. “It’s a Boss 429.”

Carlisle blinked, unimpressed.

Emmett was losing his goddamn mind. “This is a muscle car. A legendary one. Do you know how rare this thing is?!”

Carlisle sighed. “I assume you’re saying this is a good choice.”

Emmett clutched his chest like he was having a spiritual experience. “Carlisle, this isn’t just a good choice. This is destiny.”

Carlisle, still unmoved, glanced at the rust eating away at the edges, the half-dead tires, the wreck of what the car once was. “It needs work.”

Emmett let out a hysterical laugh. “Duh. That’s what makes it perfect.”

Carlisle’s lips twitched slightly. “So we’re agreed?”

Emmett grinned, feral. “Hell yes, we’re agreed.”

Carlisle, amused but still entirely calm, nodded toward the house. “Let’s go talk to him before you explode.”

Emmett practically bounced toward the door. Dr. Snow, halfway through locking up for the night, blinked in surprise when he saw them. “Carlisle? What brings you here?”

Carlisle smiled politely. “You mentioned getting rid of a car.”

Dr. Snow glanced over at the Mustang in his driveway. “Oh, that old thing? Yeah, I’m probably gonna scrap it. It’s not worth much—"

“How much?” Emmett cut in immediately.

Dr. Snow frowned. “I don’t know, a couple hundred bucks?”

Carlisle pulled out his wallet before Emmett could lose his mind. “We’ll take it.”

Dr. Snow blinked. “Huh. Alright, sure. You’re doing me a favor.”

Emmett, grinning like a lunatic, clapped Carlisle on the back as soon as they walked away. “Oh my god. We just stole his car!”

Carlisle sighed. “Emmett, we paid him.”

“He doesn’t know what he had! We just committed highway robbery!”

Carlisle just shook his head, unlocking the Mercedes. “Let’s bring it home.”

Emmett was practically vibrating the entire drive back. The second they pulled into the driveway, he bolted for the stairs, ready to wake Gwendolyn up. Emmett was practically shaking with excitement. He needed to tell Gwendolyn immediately. He needed her to see this masterpiece.

Carlisle caught him by the collar. “No.”

Emmett groaned in pain. “Why?”

Carlisle’s voice was firm. “She needs sleep, Emmett.”

“Come on,” Emmett muttered, frustrated. “You know she’s probably not even sleeping. Half the time she ends up on some stroll in the woods or at the cliffs—and even when she’s in her room…”

Carlisle’s voice stayed calm. “She charms it so no one hears her. So, she doesn’t hear us.” A pause. Then quieter, “But you and I both know she’s probably tossing the whole time.”

Emmett went still, jaw tight.

He remembered the early weeks. When Gwendolyn didn’t sleep at all—pushing herself past the point of exhaustion with caster rituals and half-finished sigils. He remembered finding her slumped against the porch railing at dawn, Boo curled protectively at her side. How her magic had started to slip—sparking at random, twitchy and unpredictable. The time she’d passed out in the hallway with spell ink still staining her fingers.

Carlisle didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.

“She’s tried everything,” he said softly, not looking away. “Potions, sedatives. Alcohol. Pills. None of it holds. And when something does—it comes at a cost.”

There was more, of course. The nosebleeds. The sleepwalking. The one night she collapsed mid-spell, and Boo had to drag her to safety. Carlisle had locked the cabinet after that. Gwendolyn hadn’t spoken to him for six days.

“She may not talk about it,” Carlisle continued, “but she’s not waking rested. Let her rest—even if she doesn’t think she needs it.”

Emmett let out a breath, sharp and reluctant. He hated this. Hated knowing she was up there, probably pretending to sleep. Probably failing. But he didn’t fight it. He just muttered, “Fine,” and paced until morning.

☽☽☽

Gwendolyn woke up to a loud bang against her door, followed by thudding footsteps in her room, and Emmett’s booming voice, “Gremlin, get up!”

She groaned, shoving her face deeper into her pillow. “Fuck off.”

Emmett ignored that. She barely had time to react before he was grabbing her arm, hauling her out of bed with way too much enthusiasm for this hour. “Outside. Now.”

“Jesus, Emmett—” She rubbed her eyes, half-asleep, already plotting his murder.

He practically dragged her down the stairs, ignoring Alice’s smug grin as they passed by. Boo trotted behind them, fully aware that something was happening. Gwendolyn barely had time to blink against the morning light before she saw it.

A car sat in the driveway. Rusty. Beaten up. Half-dead.

She squinted. “What the fuck is that?”

Emmett looked personally offended. “That,” he said, “is your new car.”

Gwendolyn blinked. Then blinked again. Slowly, her brain caught up. She turned, taking in the way Carlisle stood off to the side, calm but watching. The way Emmett was grinning like a lunatic. The way Alice was waiting for her reaction, practically buzzing. And Rosalie—arms crossed, skeptical, but here. They did this for her.

She rolled her shoulders, forcing a scoff. “It looks like shit.”

Emmett beamed. “Yeah, but it’s your shit.”

Carlisle, standing off to the side with his usual calm expression, nodded. “It needs work. But if you’re serious, it’s yours.”

She took a slow step forward, running her hand along the hood. Metal under her fingertips. Cold metal, rough with rust. But under her fingertips, it almost felt warm—like something waiting to wake up. She didn’t know why that thought hit her. But it did. Real. Tangible. Hers.

“What is it?” she muttered.

Emmett almost exploded. “Are you kidding me?”

Carlisle, amused, answered instead. “It’s a Boss 429.”

Gwendolyn stared at him. “…And that means?”

Emmett physically vibrated. “It means it’s a badass car, Gwen! It means it’s a muscle car! It means you have a fucking legend in your hands!”

Gwendolyn just blinked. “Huh.”

Emmett looked like he was going to pass out.

Carlisle sighed. “Dr. Snow was getting rid of it. We thought it would be a good project for you.”

Gwendolyn let that sink in. Not just a car. A project.  Something to work for. Something to build.

Rosalie scoffed, arms still crossed. “It’s not a lost cause, but you’re gonna have to put in actual effort if you don’t want to be driving a death trap.”

Gwendolyn exhaled slowly. Then, finally, she smirked. “Guess I better get started.”

Emmett let out a victorious whoop. Carlisle simply smiled.

Rosalie, inspecting the car again, muttered, “If you ruin it, I’m revoking all car privileges.”

And Gwendolyn ran her fingers along the car one more time, pretending it didn’t mean as much as it did. But when no one was looking, she smiled. Just a little.

☽☽☽

Chapter Text

Gwendolyn wasn’t the type to keep a calendar, but this date was burned into her memory. February 21st. Ridley’s birthday.

She frowned at the mark she’d drawn on the corner of her notebook. A simple 17 scrawled in ink. Not quite red, not quite ominous, but it might as well have been. As she stared at it, something shifted. The edges of the number blurred, darkening slightly, the ink bleeding into the paper. She blinked, inhaling sharply, willing herself to steady. The ink stopped moving, but the number still sat there. Still looming. She clenched her jaw and flipped the notebook shut.

In the Duchannes family, her maternal side, birthdays weren’t milestones, they were countdowns.

One step closer to eighteen.

One step closer to the unknown.

One step closer to doomsday.

Her pen tapped rhythmically against the desk, but her thoughts were elsewhere. Why did she even keep track? Habit? Dread? The stupid, tiny, stubborn part of her that still clung to hope? In the back of her mind, she could hear Ridley’s voice, teasing— Come on, Gwen, you’re not gonna get all broody on me now, are you?

She hadn’t spoken to Ridley in weeks. Not properly. Just a few half-hearted replies, a couple ignored calls. Messages she read and mostly never answered. Not because she didn’t care, but because talking to them meant remembering. And lately, she’d gotten really good at not doing that. But now, the weight of not calling felt worse.

It was already past midnight in England. Her thumb hovered over the contact for a long moment. Her chest felt tight, like something was caught behind her ribs. Then she tapped. It rang once. Twice.

“About time, cuz.” Ridley’s voice cut through the line, bright and unapologetic.

Gwendolyn exhaled shakily. Something in her uncoiled.  A warmth settled in her chest, but she ignored it, focusing on the teasing lilt in Ridley’s voice instead.

“You always call first thing,” Ridley added. “What, did you forget your favorite cousin’s birthday?”

Gwendolyn smiled before she could stop herself. “I was occupied.”

Ridley snorted. “Wow. Thoughtful. Occupied with what? Your super normal vampire family?” She teased, “What do you do for fun, play chess and read 19th-century poetry?”

“You’re insufferable,” Gwendolyn muttered, but her voice cracked at the edges. Not enough to notice. Not unless you knew her.

“Oi!” Larkin shouted from the background. “Tell her we’re already plotting her abduction.”

“Wait—” Gwendolyn started, but Ridley steamrolled right over her.

“We’re going out,” Ridley declared. “No arguing.”

Gwendolyn hesitated. “You mean, like, in person?”

“Well, yeah,” Ridley drawled. “You think I wanna celebrate my birthday sitting around with these losers in my dorm?”

Larkin drawled, voice rich with amusement. “So, do we have to portal to Forks and drag your sorry ass out of your brooding cave, or are you coming willingly?”

“Gwendolyn,” Ridley pressed, dragging out her name, playful but insistent. “You’re not making me beg, are you?”

There was familiar laughter in the background. Gwendolyn clenched her jaw. She missed this. She missed them. And they hadn’t asked. Not once. Not about Macon. Not about her silence. Not even tonight. And that, more than anything, made her throat tighten. No expectations. No questions. Just Ridley and Larkin.

Her eyes burned, but she blinked quickly and kept her voice steady. “Alright. Just give me a few minutes.”

Ridley let out a victorious ha! in the background, and Larkin snorted, “Tell the parental figures you’re off to do completely innocent and non-reckless things,” Larkin said. “We’ll be there in thirty.”

“And wear something hot.” Cried Ridley before hanging up.

The line went dead and Gwendolyn was still smiling. She wiped at her eyes before anything could fall, shook out her hands like it would calm the restless energy in her chest.

☽☽☽

Gwendolyn found Esme in the kitchen, stirring something on the stove. The warmth of the house, the soft bubbling of whatever was cooking, the scent of something sweet baking in the oven—it all pressed against her like a memory she hadn’t lived. Something in her chest squeezed again.

Esme smiled warmly when she saw her, but her eyes flicked up in that knowing way. “You have that look on your face.”

Gwendolyn leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “I’m heading out for the night.”

Esme arched a brow, clearly expecting more.

“To see my cousins, it’s Ridley’s birthday,” Gwendolyn elaborated, shifting her weight. “I’ll be back in a few hours.”

Gwendolyn braced herself for a lecture, but it never came. Instead, Esme simply wiped her hands on a dish towel and gave her a small smile. “That’s good. She’ll be happy to see you.” There was a flicker of something behind Esme’s eyes—understanding, maybe—but she didn’t press. Didn’t ask how long it had been since Gwendolyn last saw them. Didn’t mention all the missed calls or unanswered texts.

Gwendolyn was a bit surprised. “You’re not gonna tell me to be careful?”

Esme smiled, that same maddeningly gentle smile she always gave when Gwendolyn was trying to hold her ground. “I could. But I think you already know.” Then softer, “Just don’t forget you have school tomorrow, and let me know if you need anything, alright?”

Gwendolyn looked away, jaw tightening. It wasn’t even a big deal, Esme being Esme. But that quiet, unwavering trust in her voice, the total lack of suspicion or guilt-tripping—it made her feel unsteady. Off-kilter. Like maybe she didn’t deserve it. Like maybe she wanted to deserve it.

“Got it,” she muttered, snatching a cookie off the counter like it made the moment less serious. She didn’t meet Esme’s eyes as she turned to leave. Just tossed a quick wave over her shoulder and slipped out the front door before any of the others could ask where she was going or what it meant.

☽☽☽

Ridley and Larkin were already waiting outside the Cullens’ home. Ridley, all long legs and soft pink hair under a faux-fur-lined jacket, her arms crossed like she’d been pretending not to pace. Larkin, smug as ever, leaned against a tree, golden curls windblown and wild, like he’d just rolled out of bed with no intention of apologizing for it.

Ridley let out a slow, appreciative whistle, looking Gwendolyn up and down. “Damn. Look who made an effort.”

Gwendolyn smirked, flicking her blue curls over her shoulder. She always wore them loose when dancing was involved. “Thank Rosalie. This is her dress, which I may or may not have borrowed without asking.” She didn’t elaborate, but she didn’t have to. It wasn’t the first time. Gwendolyn had a habit of slipping into Rosalie’s closet and quietly claiming whatever piece caught her eye—usually something dark, dramatic, and stupidly well-tailored. Rosalie always noticed. Always gave her a flat look the next day and muttered something about boundaries, but she never actually stopped her. Not once. Gwendolyn liked to think it was a silent truce between them. Rosalie didn’t dote anymore like she had when Gwendolyn was small, but the affection was still there—buried under snark, mutual irritation, and a shared love of good clothes.

Ridley let out a low whistle. “Well, you wore it better.”

“You wore it better,” Ridley said without missing a beat. Her voice was easy. Her eyes weren’t.

Larkin stepped forward, and—for once—he didn’t start with a joke. He just pulled her into a one-armed hug, brief but solid. Gwendolyn stiffened, then let it happen. Let herself lean in, just for a second. She felt Ridley’s hand brush her shoulder, gentle, grounding. No one said anything about how long it had been. No one mentioned the unanswered calls or the silence. Or the fact that when Macon died, Gwendolyn didn’t ask them for anything.

Larkin finally pulled back and looped his arms through both of theirs like it hadn’t hurt. “Well, you look stunning, dear cousin.” Then, with a wicked grin, “Alright, darlings. Let’s find some questionable drinks and make terrible decisions.” And with a flicker of his wrist, they vanished.

☽☽☽

The club was packed. Flashing neon, pulsing bass, bodies moving like one heaving, breathless creature. Larkin grabbed their drinks first, handing one to Ridley and Gwendolyn with a flourish before lifting his own in a toast. “To Ridley’s last year of freedom before doomsday.”

“Gee, thanks,” Ridley deadpanned, knocking back her shot.

And then, they danced. The kind of dancing that wasn’t careful. That wasn’t for anyone else.  That was all instinct, heat, and rhythm. Gwendolyn threw her head back, laughing as Larkin spun her into a half-dip, but she didn’t notice the way the condensation on her glass rippled, tiny droplets sliding against gravity. Didn’t notice the way loose strands of her hair lifted just slightly, like the air itself was holding them. She didn’t care. Not tonight.

Larkin, the theatrical bastard, twirled them like they were in a ballroom instead of a club. Gwendolyn laughed, actually laughed, when Ridley nearly tripped into her. “You suck at this,” She teased, catching her cousin by the waist before she could stumble.

Ridley only grinned. “Not my fault the floor is moving.”

Larkin snorted. “That’s the alcohol, Rid.”

Time blurred. They stole drinks from each other. Gwendolyn threatened to hex an asshole who got too handsy with Ridley (he backed off fast). Larkin flirted with someone’s girlfriend and almost got himself beaten. They were reckless, stupid teenagers. And maybe, just maybe, they were running from something. But for now, they were together and that was enough.

☽☽☽

Somewhere between drinks, they ended up on the club’s rooftop balcony, overlooking the hazy sprawl of the Seattle skyline. The music below still pulsed faintly through the floorboards, but up here, the air was sharp and clean, the cold slicing through the heat of their skin. It smelled like city wind and cigarette smoke and something electric in the dark.

Gwendolyn settled on the arm of a worn couch, her boots dangling over the side. Ridley was draped across the floor like a drunk nymph in a renaissance painting, her drink precariously balanced against her chest. Larkin, naturally, had claimed the whole couch, his long legs kicked up on the railing like he was lounging in a throne, not on a rooftop.

Gwendolyn tilted her head back, watching the clouds smear across the sky, thick and low. The stars were smothered tonight. She didn’t mind. It suited her.

“Okay,” Ridley announced suddenly, breaking the lull. Her voice carried with that careless brightness that always made Gwendolyn feel like they were kids again. “Tell me everything about Forks. And don’t just say it’s ‘boring as hell.’”

Gwendolyn let out a quiet snort, peeling the label off her bottle. “Boring as hell,” she drawled, “with extra fog.”

Larkin huffed a laugh. “Wow. Living the dream.”

“I like the rain,” Gwendolyn muttered defensively, though she wasn’t sure if that was still true. It wasn’t just the weather she liked—it was the way it drowned everything else out. The quiet between downpours. The stillness.

Ridley waved a hand. “Yeah, yeah, we get it, you’re secretly an emo poet. But there’s gotta be some drama. Any cute boys?” She waggled her eyebrows.

Gwendolyn made a face. “Please.”

Larkin leaned forward, drink in hand. “So that’s a yes.”

“No, it’s a please stop talking.”

Ridley gasped. “Gwen, you hesitated.”

“I didn’t!”

Larkin leaned in with exaggerated curiosity. “Wait, wait—let me guess. Dark and brooding? Or pretty and dumb?”

“I hate you both,” Gwendolyn muttered, but her voice cracked at the edges with barely restrained laughter.

“Damn,” Larkin said, sipping his drink. “That means both.”

Ridley burst out laughing. “Holy hell, she does have a type.”

Gwendolyn picked up a bottle cap and launched it at Ridley’s head. “Next topic.”

Ridley ducked it, still grinning. “Fine, fine. What about school? You terrorizing the humans yet?”

Gwendolyn shrugged, letting her head tip back against the wall. The stone was cold against her neck “They whisper a lot. ‘Oh my God, is she one of them?’ ‘I heard she’s dating one of them.’” She rolled her eyes. “Because clearly, I’m the type to date a vampire.”

Larkin smirked. “You live with them, though.”

“I live with them,” she echoed flatly. “Not with them.”

Ridley made a noise of mock contemplation. “Details, details.”

Larkin leaned forward again, balancing his drink on his knee. “Any drama? Cute boys aside.”

Gwendolyn sighed, letting her head tip back. “There’s this kid. Stiles.”

Ridley perked up immediately. “Wait—a kid?”

“A human kid?” Larkin added, scandalized.

“Unfortunately,” Gwendolyn muttered.

Ridley clutched her heart like she’d been stabbed. “Gwen. Are you telling me you have a friend?”

Larkin wiped an imaginary tear. “They grow up so fast.”

Gwendolyn rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t suppress the small, reluctant smile tugging at her mouth. “Shut up.”

“No, no, this is huge.” Ridley leaned forward, eyes sparkling. “Tell me more. What’s he like?”

Gwendolyn snorted. “Nerdy and clueless. Thinks my entire life is some government cover-up. He’s got conspiracy boards. Actual. Conspiracy. Boards.”

Larkin choked on his drink. “Oh, that’s incredible.”

Ridley cackled. “You only attract the weirdos.”

“I know,” Gwendolyn muttered. “He’s exhausting.”

Larkin tilted his head. “And? Any others? Or is this a one-human situation?”

Gwendolyn shrugged. “Scott’s normal. Suspiciously normal. Too kind.”

“And yet?” Ridley asked, eyebrow raised.

“And yet,” Gwendolyn muttered, “somehow, I end up around them all the time.”

That earned the look. Larkin and Ridley exchanged a glance, one of those silent sibling telepathy exchanges that Gwendolyn always pretended not to notice.

“Holy fuck,” Larkin whispered, mock-horrified. “She’s socializing.”

Ridley nodded solemnly. “Next thing you know, she’ll be holding hands and singing campfire songs.”

Gwendolyn rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth twitched. There was something about them—about this—that made her edges soften. She didn’t know what to do with that. They were still laughing when Ridley’s smile faltered, just slightly. It was subtle, but Gwendolyn noticed. She always noticed with Ridley. Ridley looked up at her, lashes low, voice quiet. “Man, I miss you.”

Gwendolyn’s chest twisted. The warmth from earlier—the laughter, the banter—curled inward like smoke. Her throat tightened. She didn’t look away. Larkin, for once, didn’t tease either. He nodded slowly, his voice low and steady. “Yeah. School’s dull without you.” Then, with a grin, “No one sets anything on fire anymore.”

Gwendolyn swallowed hard. She let the words settle. Let herself feel them, just for a second. Her fingers tightened slightly around the neck of her bottle. “Yeah, well,” she said softly, “Carlisle says that’s a good thing.” But even as she said it, her heart ached because it wasn’t the same without them. Not really. Not even close.

☽☽☽

By the time they stumbled out into the night, they were a mess.

Ridley was half-drunk, half-asleep, leaning against Gwendolyn with the grace of a newborn deer. Larkin, still riding the high of the night, was making increasingly dramatic proclamations about their next adventure, despite the fact that his steps were anything but steady.  Gwendolyn was very tipsy, but aware enough to know they were all too far gone to make rational decisions.

“Right,” Larkin slurred, ruffling through his pockets. “Where to next?”

Gwendolyn groaned. “Are you seriously suggesting we go anywhere else? We need to crash.”

Ridley hummed in agreement, leaning against Gwendolyn’s side, half-awake, half-asleep.

Larkin frowned. “Well, I could portal us back to—”

“Absolutely fucking not,” Gwendolyn interrupted, glaring at him. “You’re wasted. You’ll land us in a lake.”

Larkin scoffed. “I would never.”

“Do you even know where we are right now?”

Larkin paused. “...Vaguely.”

“Exactly.” Gwendolyn huffed, already hailing a cab. “We’re taking the normal-person route.”

Ridley groaned dramatically. “But where?”

Gwendolyn thought about it. Forks was hours away. Technically, they could book a hotel. She sighed. “My place.”

Larkin blinked. “You’re offering up your creepy vampire mansion?”

“It’s not creepy,” Gwendolyn muttered.

Ridley giggled. “Lies.”

☽☽☽

By the time they stumbled out of the cab, it was nearly 6 AM.

The ride from Seattle to Forks had been an absolute nightmare. Gwendolyn, trapped in the middle seat, had regretted everything the second the cab pulled onto the highway. Larkin had passed out immediately, head slumped against the window, drooling slightly. Ridley, on the other hand, had spent the first twenty minutes drunkenly narrating their night, then started singing off-key to the cab’s radio, then passed out with her head in Gwendolyn’s lap. Which would have been fine, except she kept twitching and kicking Gwendolyn in her sleep.

To make things worse, their driver was far too chatty for Gwendolyn’s liking, some middle-aged guy who seemed to thrive on sleep-deprived conversations. “So, where you kids from?”

“Forks,” Gwendolyn mumbled.

“Oh yeah? What brings you out there?”

“Crime.” Larkin said sleepily from the window.

The cabbie went quiet after that. Gwendolyn had almost felt bad for him—almost. By the time they reached Forks, Gwendolyn was exhausted, cranky, and sore as hell. When they stumbled into the Cullens’ house, the place was quiet, save for the soft hum of some distant classical music. They barely made it past the entrance before Larkin collapsed dramatically onto the couch. Ridley followed, kicking off her heels with enough force to send one flying. Gwendolyn just sighed and perched on the armrest, rubbing her temples.

Emmett appeared out of nowhere, arms crossed, amusement all over his face, “Well, well, well—what do we have here? Rough night?”

Gwendolyn winced. “Bloody hell, Emmett, inside voice.”

Emmett grinned like a wolf, arms crossed as he took in the disaster that was her and her cousins. Alice poked her head out from the kitchen, grinning. “Oh, this is amazing. Did you drink?”

“Of course, she did,” Emmett said. “She actually looks like she had fun.”

Gwendolyn groaned, slumping back. “Kill me.”

Larkin groaned from where he lay sprawled. “Later. Let me sleep first.”

Ridley, half-buried in cushions, let out a content sigh. “Which one’s your room?”

“Third floor.”

Larkin opened one eye. “...We’ll never make it.”

Ridley exhaled. “Fuck it. I’m taking the couch.”

There was a shuffle of limbs as they all just settled there, too exhausted, too comfortable, too drunk to care. Ridley kicked off her other shoe which hit something. Gwendolyn didn’t even look, she only heard Alice giggle.

Esme appeared next, soft and motherly, shaking her head, “You didn’t call.”

Gwendolyn huffed, avoiding her gaze, “Didn’t think anyone would notice.”

Esme’s gaze softened, but her voice stayed steady. “Of course we notice.”
She took a quiet breath. “You don’t have to tell us everything, Gwendolyn. But you don’t have to disappear, either. We want to know you’re safe.”

Gwendolyn looked away, jaw tight. The words hit something she wasn’t ready for—something raw and heavy that settled right beneath her ribs. She didn’t say it like a reprimand. Just a fact. One Gwendolyn wasn’t used to hearing. That was worse. She would have preferred it if Esme had yelled at her. That, she could handle. That, she knew what to do with. But this? This quiet, steady kind of trust? She didn’t deserve that. She knew how to fight expectations. She didn’t know how to fight care that was this warm and open.

Esme sighed, before murmuring “I suppose leaving you all there isn’t an option.”

A second later, strong arms lifted Gwendolyn effortlessly and she barely registered it before realizing Emmett was carrying her.

“What the hell?” she slurred, half-heartedly squirming.

“You’re not sleeping on the couch,” he said simply, already heading for the stairs.

Larkin and Ridley, equally dazed, were also being carried—Jasper with Larkin slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, and Alice carrying Ridley bridal-style, which Ridley found hilarious. By the time they were dropped onto Gwendolyn’s bed, none of them had the energy to argue.

☽☽☽

At some point in the night, Gwendolyn stirred. She blinked, adjusting to the dim light, and found Ridley already awake. She wasn’t moving. Just staring, pale blue eyes locked on Gwendolyn’s in the darkness. For a second, neither of them spoke.

“Do you think we’ll make it?”

The words were so soft, they nearly dissolved into the dark, but Gwendolyn heard them. And she knew exactly what Ridley meant, even if she didn’t want to.

Gwendolyn’s throat felt tight. She didn’t know what to say, so she didn’t say anything at all. She just shifted closer, wrapping an arm around Ridley’s shoulders, pulling her in tight. Ridley exhaled, tension melting slightly, and tucked her head against Gwendolyn’s shoulder.

Neither of them spoke again.

☽☽☽

Gwendolyn woke up to the worst headache of her life. Her mouth was dry, her limbs felt like lead, and the sunlight stabbing through the curtains was a personal attack. Every sound was too loud, every movement too much.

Someone groaned beside her.

She turned her head slowly and painfully to find Ridley sprawled across the blankets, her arm flung dramatically over her face like she was a Victorian woman in distress. On her other side, Larkin was way too awake for someone who had also been drinking all night. His blond hair was an absolute mess, sticking up in every direction.

Gwendolyn let out a noise of pure suffering and slammed the pillow over her head.

“Never drinking again,” Ridley mumbled.

Larkin snorted. “That’s what you said last time.”

“You’re lucky I can’t kill you right now,” Gwendolyn rasped.

There was a beat of silence, then Ridley groaned, rolling onto her back. “I need food.”

“No,” Gwendolyn muttered.

“Yes,” Ridley said, louder. “American food. I want the full experience. Greasy pancakes, weird bacon, and gallons of shitty coffee.”

“No,” Gwendolyn repeated.

Larkin was already sitting up, stretching lazily. “I second this. We have survived a brutal journey, and nourishment is required.”

Gwendolyn just burrowed deeper under the covers. “You’re both the worst.”

Ridley kicked her ankle. “Get up, loser. We’re going to a diner.”

☽☽☽

By some miracle of willpower, Gwendolyn managed to drag herself out of bed, throw on something vaguely acceptable – a pleated skirt, a sweater she didn’t remember stealing from Alice, and boots over her tights –  and drag herself downstairs, announcing they were going out for a bite.

Downstairs, the Cullens were watching them like a pack of amused, but concerned babysitters. Emmett leaned against the counter, grinning. “You guys look like you got hit by a truck.”

“We feel like we got hit by a truck,” Gwendolyn muttered, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge.

“You do know you missed a day of school?” Esme asked.

Gwendolyn checked the time on the clock that adorned the wall, it was already 3 PM. Well, there was nothing she could do about that, so she just shrugged, avoiding Esme’s gaze. She didn’t want to feel the disappointment that she was sure she’d found.

Rosalie arched an eyebrow. “Are you seriously thinking of driving in this state?”

“We’re fine,” Ridley said immediately, despite still being wrapped in a blanket like a hungover Victorian widow.

Jasper snorted. “You can’t even stand up straight.”

Carlisle, ever the responsible one, sighed. “I assume you want a car?”

“Duh,” Ridley grinned.

Carlisle looked at Gwendolyn, “You’re the only one getting keys. And we expect you to be home at a reasonable hour.”

Gwendolyn only nodded silently, but Ridley and Larkin immediately protested.

“What? I know how to drive!” Ridley huffed.

Emmett smirked, ignoring her and tossing the keys to Gwendolyn. “Have fun, kids. Try not to die.”

Gwendolyn sighed but grabbed them. “Let’s just go before someone changes their mind.” She rubbed her temples, dragging her hungover cousins toward the garage, feeling every step rattle through her skull like a personal attack. The moment the doors of the garage slid open, Ridley gasped dramatically, clutching her chest like she had just witnessed the gates of heaven. “What the holy hell,” she breathed, staring at the line-up of sleek, ridiculously expensive cars. “Is this a garage or a damn luxury showroom?”

Larkin let out a low whistle, stepping toward Rosalie’s bright red M3, running a hand over the hood with pure reverence. “Now, this is a car. Look at her, Gwen. She deserves to be taken out for a spin.”

Gwendolyn snorted, already knowing what was coming next. “Don’t even think about it,” she muttered, stepping past them with the keys Emmett had oh-so-kindly tossed her. Larkin and Ridley immediately perked up, turning to see which keys she had.

And then Ridley screamed in betrayal. “No. No way.” She snatched the keys out of Gwendolyn’s hand, staring at them like they personally offended her. “You’re joking. This isn’t real. Tell me this isn’t real.”

Larkin peeked over her shoulder. Then he made a wounded noise and turned dramatically toward the garage, throwing his hands in the air. “We’re surrounded by Aston Martins and BMWs, and they give us the Volvo?”

Gwendolyn sighed. This entire trip was already exhausting. “It’s not that bad,” she muttered.

“No, no, no,” Ridley continued, completely ignoring her. “Look at that”—she pointed at Emmett’s Jeep—“absolute beast. We could be running over pedestrians in style. Or that—” she waved at Rosalie’s car—“we could be sexy and fast.”

“But no,” Larkin joined in, arms crossed. “We get the Brick.”

Ridley snapped. “Look at her. Look at her sitting there, all gray and boring. This is an insult.”

“It’s so—” Larkin scrunched his nose “—practical.”

“It blends in,” Gwendolyn mocked in her best Edward impression, complete with a broody expression. “‘I just want to be normal.’”

Ridley snorted. “Yeah, because nothing says normal like a family of models living in a glass house.”

The three of them were still grumbling about the tragedy of being stuck with Edward’s Volvo when Gwendolyn suddenly veered toward the back of the garage.

“What are you doing?” Ridley demanded. “The Car of Disappointment is right here.”

Gwendolyn ignored her and grinned, stopping in front of another car. Hers. It was a wreck. A beat-up Mustang, rusted in all the wrong places, paint peeling, hood slightly dented.

Larkin blinked. “What the hell is this?”

Gwendolyn beamed, resting a hand on the Mustang’s roof like it was her prized possession. “My car.”

Ridley stared. Then slowly turned to look at her, expression unreadable. Larkin scratched the back of his neck, hesitating. “Uh… You know it’s broken, right?”

“Obviously,” Gwendolyn snorted.

Ridley narrowed her eyes. “This thing is one dramatic shove away from falling apart.”

Gwendolyn rolled her eyes. “Carlisle found it for cheap. It’s a project. Something to work on.”

“Work on?” Larkin perked up. “Like… you’re fixing it?”

“Yes, with Emmett’s help, maybe even Rosalie’s,” Gwendolyn corrected with a small grin.

Ridley crossed her arms, tapping her fingers against her bicep. “So, let me get this straight. You, who still don’t have a license, are fixing up a car that is currently un-drivable?”

Gwendolyn shrugged. “Yeah.”

Ridley squinted. “You’re insane.”

Larkin nodded. “Completely.”

Gwendolyn just grinned. “And yet, you’re both still jealous.”

Larkin sighed. “Maybe a little.”

Ridley huffed, but her eyes flicked over the Mustang again, a hint of curiosity creeping into her features. “Okay, fine. It’s kinda cool.”

Gwendolyn smirked, knocking her knuckles against the car’s roof. “Damn right it is.”

Ridley pointed at her. “If it ever actually works, you owe me a ride.”

“Deal.”

☽☽☽

The diner was exactly what Ridley had hoped for. Checkered floors, red leather booths worn from decades of use, the scent of coffee, syrup, and bad decisions lingering in the air. Ridley turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. “This is exactly what I imagined.”

Larkin gave her a skeptical look. “You imagined… a greasy, dimly lit establishment full of exhausted truckers?”

“Yes,” Ridley said, dropping into a booth dramatically. “It’s called vibes.”

Gwendolyn muttered something about how too much alcohol fried her last two brain cells as she grabbed a menu. Ridley, meanwhile, continued her analysis of their surroundings. “Look at all the plaid. The mustaches. The old men drinking coffee and judging people.”

Gwendolyn smirked. “Feels like home, huh?”

Ridley rolled her eyes. “Piss off.”

They ended up ordering an ungodly amount of food. Pancakes, waffles, eggs, hash browns, bacon, sausage, milkshakes, and, because Larkin insisted, an absolutely massive stack of chili cheese fries.

Gwendolyn dunked a hash brown in syrup, ignoring the look of horror on Ridley’s face. “Say what you want. America gets breakfast right.”

Ridley, cautiously poking at her waffles, muttered, “This much sugar should be illegal.”

Larkin pointed his fork at her. “You literally downed an entire bottle of vodka last night, but sugar is where you draw the line?”

Ridley glared. “Alcohol is sophisticated.”

“Not when you drank it through a neon pink straw,” Gwendolyn quipped.

Larkin howled in laughter, and Ridley groaned, throwing her head back. By the time Ridley gave in and inhaled half a pancake stack, Larkin was choking on laughter and Gwendolyn had to smack him on the back. They were too loud. Other patrons stared. They didn’t care. They had always been a storm, and today was no different.

☽☽☽

After breakfast, they drove down to First Beach, the sky stretched in a soft, overcast gray. The waves moved slowly and steadily, almost lazy. A lull before the storm. Gwendolyn exhaled, stepping toward the shore, letting the wind tug at her hair, at her clothes, at everything that had been weighing on her. The three of them kicked off their shoes, walked through the sand, and let the cold wind bite at their skin. It was quiet. The good kind. The kind that existed when it was just them.

For a moment, it was just that. No curses. No questions. No waiting for something awful to happen. Just three cousins standing at the edge of the world, feet in the sand, waves reaching for them but never quite touching.

Gwendolyn crouched, running her fingers through the damp sand, feeling the cool, grainy texture between her fingertips. Absentmindedly, she picked up a small, smooth shell – a deep purple, its edges worn down by the tide. She turned it over in her palm, the ridges pressing into her skin.  Without thinking, she pressed the sharp edge into the damp sand beside her foot. A line. A curve.  A sharp point. The sigil formed instinctively beneath her touch, a shape she had drawn countless times before without thinking. A protection sigil. A quiet offering, a tether to something deeper than fear. She didn’t think about it, but she felt the shift. The tug in the air around her. The waves curled up just a little closer, the wind stilled for half a breath, like something unseen was watching, listening. She inhaled slowly. Then, in one quick motion, she dragged her hand through it, erasing the shape before anyone could see. The tide would have taken it anyway.

Gwendolyn closed her eyes, breathing the crisp air in. Then she, casually, asked, “So, how’s Moira doing?”

And just like that, the moment cracked. Ridley raised a brow. “Moira?”

Gwendolyn shrugged. “Yeah. You know, the massive cunt.”

Larkin made a dramatic, mocking gasp. “How dare you speak of Moira like that. She is an upstanding citizen. A pillar of our beloved school.”

Gwendolyn rolled her eyes. “So, full back to massive cunt mode, then?”

“Oh, absolutely,” Ridley replied. “Got the best healers. Looks like nothing ever happened to her. You’d think she wasn’t almost murdered in a classroom.”

Gwendolyn pressed her lips together. The weight of it settled over her like wet sand. “Yeah. Funny how that works.”

Ridley shook her head, “I still can’t believe she had the nerve to show her face again like nothing happened.”

Gwendolyn exhaled, jaw tight. “I didn’t plan it. She just—” She cut herself off, pressing her lips together. “She knew exactly what she was doing.”

Larkin snorted. “Yeah, and you nearly ran her mouth straight into the ground.”

Gwendolyn didn’t say anything, just shoved her hands into her coat pockets. Moira had always been a spoiled, cruel thing. But she had taken it too far. Way too far. She had laughed about Gwendolyn’s parents. About how her mother had died—about how all the Ravenwoods and Duchannes ended up the same way. She had smiled when she said it. She had called it a mercy and Gwendolyn had snapped.

One second, her mind was buzzing, filled with static and rage, loud and choking. The next, Moira was on the ground, barely conscious, blood dripping from her face, a hand clutching her ribs. It had taken three instructors to pull her back.

She had felt it. The magic inside her, that restless energy twisting and coiling and wanting more. She had liked it, and that scared her more than anything. She had been expelled the next day. But facing Macon had been worse. He hadn’t yelled. Hadn’t scolded. Hadn’t even looked disappointed. He had just looked at her. The kind of look that saw straight through her, past her excuses, past the walls she threw up, past everything. And then, in his usual dry voice, he had simply said, “So, what have we learned?”

That had broken her. Not punishment. Not exile. Just... the expectation that she could do better.

Gwendolyn inhaled, tilting her head toward the sky, pushing it all back.

“You’re lucky,” Larkin said, voice light but edged with something sharp. “The council could’ve done a lot worse.”

Gwendolyn let out a breath, looking down at the crashing waves on the shore. She knew. A lesser student—someone without the ancient caster bloodline or without Macon’s protection—wouldn’t have just been expelled. Wouldn’t have just had their advanced training revoked. They would have been locked up or worse.

But what stung more was that someone else should have had her back. Emmaline Duchannes. Matriarch. Powerhouse. Puppet-master. The one who could snap her fingers and make an entire bloodline vanish from existence. And yet, when her granddaughter had been on the edge of expulsion—when she had almost been cast out like some rabid dog—she had done nothing. She hadn’t lifted a single cursed finger.

Gwendolyn swallowed, clenching her fists against the cold sand. She had never expected love from Emmaline, but she had expected power, and she had only gotten silence.

She swallowed, forcing a smirk. “Yeah. Guess I should be grateful for my glorified babysitter visits.”

Ridley didn’t look at her, just tilted her head, voice bitter. “You know Moira still tells people about it?”

Gwendolyn’s fingers curled in the fabric of her coat. “What?”

Ridley let out a cold laugh. “Oh yeah. Apparently, getting your throat almost ripped out and your face and ribs cracked is a fun little ‘near-death experience’ to tell at parties.” She turned to Gwendolyn, raising an eyebrow. “Funny how she leaves out the part where she deserved it.”

Larkin, for once, said nothing.

Gwendolyn swallowed. “Ridley—”

But Ridley just shook her head, shoving her hands into her coat pockets. “Nah, it’s fine. It’s whatever. Just thought you’d want to know.”

A silence settled until Larkin was the one who finally muttered, “Fucking cunt.”

No one disagreed. For a few moments, none of them spoke. They just listened to the crash of the waves and the cry of a distant seagull.

Then, finally, Ridley exhaled. “You ever think about it?”

Gwendolyn frowned. “About what?”

Ridley’s pale blue eyes met hers. “Turning eighteen.”

The words hung there. Larkin threw a pebble into the waves. It barely made a splash. Ridley let out a laugh—but it was thin, brittle. “Guess it’s all downhill from here, huh?”

“Ridley,” Gwendolyn started, but she just shook her head.

“No, really. One year left.”

Larkin tossed another pebble. Then another.

Ridley just exhaled, and then, quieter—“I get it, Gwen.”

Gwendolyn’s head snapped toward her. Ridley wasn’t looking at her. She was staring out at the water, arms wrapped around herself, “I get it.” Her voice was soft and strained.

Larkin’s smirk faded. “Ridley?”

Ridley’s jaw clenched. “It’s not just a date on a calendar.”

A cold wind whipped between them. The tide dragged back. Gwendolyn took a slow step towards her cousin. “…Did something happen?”

Ridley exhaled. “I’ve been hearing things recently.”

The words settled like stones in Gwendolyn’s stomach. The wind shifted. A whispering gust curled around them, sharp and biting. The waves pulled back, just slightly, as if holding their breath.

Larkin’s shoulders tensed. “What kind of things?”

Ridley finally turned toward them, her expression guarded. “Voices. In the back of my head. It’s not like hearing someone talk, not really. It’s more like… a pull. A feeling.”

Gwendolyn felt something cold settle over her skin. She didn’t like this. “Ridley…”

Ridley huffed out a short, humorless laugh. “I’m not an idiot, Gwen. I know what this means.”

Larkin ran a hand through his hair, agitated. “You don’t know that. The curse isn’t—”

“Isn’t what?” Ridley snapped. “Real? Effective? Because, newsflash, Larkin, it’s happened to almost every Duchannes girl before me.”

Larkin didn’t answer, what could he respond to that?

Ridley let out a slow, shaky breath. “It’s just whispers, now.” She hesitated. “But what happens when they start sounding like my own thoughts?”

Gwendolyn froze with fear because she’d never thought about it that way. That slow descent. That moment where you stop realizing which thoughts are yours. The moment you become something else. She could feel the wind gust slightly around them, in sync with her own rapid beating heart.

Larkin kicked at the sand, rubbing the back of his neck. “…You’re stronger than this.”

Ridley scoffed. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he insisted. “You’re still you. You’re going to stay you. We’re not losing you to some bullshit curse.”

Ridley didn’t answer right away. So Gwendolyn reached for her wrist. She wanted to tell Ridley it would be fine. That nothing would change. But she didn’t because she wasn’t sure that was true.

So instead, she stepped closer, “I don’t care what the curse says,” Gwendolyn muttered. “You’re stuck with us no matter what happens.”

Ridley looked at her. Something flickered across her face—something raw and unreadable. She swallowed hard, “Yeah. Stuck with you.”

It wasn’t much, but it was enough. The waves rolled in, just a little closer.

Then Larkin said it, soft but certain. “You ever think about him?”

Gwendolyn didn’t look up. Her thumb still rested lightly on Ridley’s wrist.

“About Macon.”

The name dropped between them like it carried weight. Gwendolyn’s breath caught for a moment. Not enough to see. Just enough to feel. Her chest tightened. The salt in the air felt sharper all of a sudden. Like it cut deeper just for her. She never said his name out loud anymore, not since that night.

“I think about him every day,” she said eventually, voice low. “But I don’t talk about it. Because when I talk about it, it feels real. And I—” She stopped, swallowed hard. “It’s easier not to.”

The silence that followed was both soft and terrible. Ridley shifted closer beside her, but didn’t speak. The waves lapped higher up the shore, brushing the edges of their feet. Gwendolyn looked at the ocean instead. At the horizon she used to believe led home.

She hadn’t meant to disappear after that night, but everything had shattered. Macon was gone. Her father was dead. She had made sure of that. She never said those words though, not even to herself. Not really. But she remembered his face in the firelight. Remembered the way he looked at her in the end. Confused. Broken. Already lost. The smell of smoke still lived somewhere in her bones.

“I lost them both that day,” she said finally. “But losing Macon hurt more.”

The wind moved softly, almost like it was listening.

“I didn’t mean to disappear,” she added. “I just couldn’t... keep pretending like I was okay.”

Larkin bent down and picked up a smooth pebble, rubbing it between his fingers, not looking at her. “We know,” he said, gently.

“We missed you,” Ridley added, voice barely audible. Her arm brushed against Gwendolyn’s who didn’t pull away.

Gwendolyn finally looked up at them. Her jaw was tight, her throat burned, but she nodded, “I missed you too.”

☽☽☽

By the time they got back to the Cullens’ house, it was early in the evening. The sky had settled into a soft gray, the kind that made shadows stretch long and light leak gold around the edges of the trees.

Larkin was finally recovered, stretching his arms with exaggerated ease, as if he hadn’t been half-dead in the backseat earlier. Ridley, full and satisfied, was already plotting their next visit. But the weight of her birthday still lingered. It sat just beneath the surface, a quiet hum neither of them wanted to acknowledge yet.  They didn’t talk about it. Not yet.

Larkin cracked his neck, then flexed his hands. “Alright. You ready?”

Ridley sighed, glancing up at the sky, like she was making sure it was still the same one she had left the night before. “Guess so.”

Gwendolyn folded her arms. “You sure you’re sober enough to do this?”

Larkin snorted. “It’s been hours. I’m fine.”

Gwendolyn gave him a pointed look. “You also said you were fine right before you puked into that alley last night.”

Larkin scowled. “That was different.”

Ridley smirked tiredly, stepping up beside him. “See you on the other side, cuz.”

Gwendolyn hesitated. Just for a second. It was stupid. They did this often enough. Larkin’s portals were smooth, efficient, and mostly safe. But after last night, after this morning, after the voices in Ridley’s head— It felt different. So instead of a joke, or some smartass remark, Gwendolyn just reached forward and squeezed Ridley’s wrist. Ridley blinked, surprised for a moment. Then, with a small, quiet smile, she squeezed back. The moment passed between them like static, quiet but charged. And then Larkin flicked his fingers, and the portal ripped open, shimmering like liquid glass. The glow reflected in Ridley’s pale eyes, and for a second, Gwendolyn’s fingers tightened on her wrist.

Ridley stepped through first. The instant she vanished, the portal flickered colder than usual. A shiver rolled through Gwendolyn’s arms. Then Larkin followed, and they were gone.

Gwendolyn stood there for a long moment, staring at the place where they’d been. Like if she stared long enough, they’d step right back through, but the silence stayed.

She swallowed hard, exhaled, and finally turned toward the house. Esme was watching from the porch, concern soft in her golden eyes. She didn’t speak, just tilted her head slightly, the kind of gesture that meant I’m here, if you want me to be.

Gwendolyn forced a small smile, a hollow thing.

“Everything okay?” Esme asked gently.

Gwendolyn wanted to say yes. That everything was fine. That she was fine. But the words didn’t come. So, she just nodded once, and walked inside.

Boo was waiting just beyond the threshold. He didn’t nudge her or brush against her leg, he only watched, those amber eyes following her every movement like he was checking her for wounds she wouldn’t admit to. Gwendolyn let out a breath and reached down, fingers brushing against his thick fur.

☽☽☽

Chapter Text

Wednesday 2^nd March 2005

Gwendolyn had never really been invested in Edward’s ongoing drama with the Swan girl. She was aware of it, sure—kind of hard not to be when she lived in the same house and watched Edward bounce between brooding like some tragic novel character and avoiding Bella like she was the plague. But caring? Yeah. No.

But as she stood next to Alice and Emmett in the school parking lot, waiting for Esme to pick her up, she had to admit—whatever was happening now? It was weird.

Her gaze locked on the familiar silver Volvo parked deliberately in the way of the exit lane, blocking anyone behind it from leaving. And of course, directly behind it, in her rusty old truck, was Bella Swan. Gwendolyn’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Is he seriously blocking the exit?”

“Looks like it,” Emmett muttered. He sounded more amused than annoyed, arms crossed over his chest.

Edward, meanwhile, was staring intently at the rearview mirror. Gwendolyn followed his line of sight and found the source of his attention. Tyler Crowley—junior, track team, generally harmless—was currently asking Bella to the upcoming school dance. Bella, looking increasingly uncomfortable, was trying to let him down gently. And then, Edward laughed. A sharp, unexpected bark of laughter, deep and genuine.

Gwendolyn blinked. “…What the—?” she muttered, exchanging a look with Alice and Emmett.

Emmett let out a low whistle. “Is he laughing at Bella?”

“I think so,” Alice said, squinting at Edward like he had just started breakdancing in the middle of the parking lot.

Gwendolyn had no answer for that. They all turned their attention back just in time to hear Tyler enthusiastically promise Bella that he’d ask her to prom in a few months. Bella looked horrified, while Edward was still laughing.

Gwendolyn’s eyebrows shot up. “Okay, no, seriously. What’s so funny?”

Emmett shook his head. “Dunno. But I’ve never seen him laugh like that.”

Gwendolyn hated to admit it, but he was right. Edward wasn’t just laughing. He was smirking, his expression bordering on outright amusement, and it was bizarre. For weeks, Edward had been in full-on tortured soul mode. Miserable, brooding, and avoiding Bella like she was radioactive. And now? Laughing because some guy asked her out? Weird.

Bella, meanwhile, had finally escaped the conversation with Tyler and turned back toward her truck. Her eyes flickered toward Edward’s car. Edward’s smirk softened slightly. The laughter slowed. Gwendolyn didn’t know what the hell that was about, but she did not like it.

Alice tilted her head slightly. “Huh.”

Emmett frowned. “What?”

Alice didn’t answer immediately, watching Edward with a strange expression. Then, after a beat, she exhaled. “I think he’s done avoiding her.”

Gwendolyn let out a groan. “Fantastic.” But something twisted in her stomach. Edward had spent weeks brooding, tortured by his own instincts, by the inevitability of what he was. And yet, here he was, laughing, smirking, and letting go of his resolve like it had never even existed in the first place.

She should have been mocking him. Would have, usually. But instead, the sight of it made something cold settle under her skin. Because she knew what this was. It was the moment before everything changed. The moment someone stopped fighting what they already knew was coming. She could feel it creeping closer for her, too. Every time she thought about Ridley. Every time she looked at a calendar. Every time she felt the weight of something she wasn’t ready to name. No one outran this forever.

Gwendolyn crossed her arms, forcing herself to scoff. “Well. That’s great. Guess we’re all just doomed to be part of a dramatic supernatural love story, huh?”

Alice gave her a look, as if she’d caught the weight behind the joke, but she just smiled. “That’s one way to put it.”

Emmett grinned. “Oh, this is gonna be fun.”

Gwendolyn highly doubted that. As she turned toward the curb, she spotted Esme’s car pulling up, the sleek black sedan coming to a smooth stop. Gwendolyn wasted no time yanking the door open and sliding inside, already feeling the secondhand exhaustion of whatever the hell Edward’s new phase was about to be.

Esme glanced at her as she buckled in, smiling gently. “How was school?”

Gwendolyn exhaled. “Oh, you know. Edward’s having a great time blocking traffic and laughing at Bella Swan’s dating life.”

Esme blinked. “I… see.”

Gwendolyn shook her head. “No. No, you don’t.”

Esme chuckled softly, but she didn’t press further. Gwendolyn didn’t think much of it at first. But later that night, when she noticed Edward was still in an unreasonably good mood? Yeah. She was definitely gonna regret this.

☽☽☽

Thursday 3^rd March 2005

The following morning, Gwendolyn was at Stiles’ locker, leaning against the row of metal doors as he dug through his backpack like a man on the verge of a breakdown. “Do you ever clean that thing out?” she asked dryly.

“Do I look like someone who has their life together?” Stiles shot back, yanking out a crumpled worksheet.

“Fair point.”

A few lockers down, Bella Swan was switching out her books. She didn’t seem to be paying them much attention, until she closed her locker and casually turned to Stiles. “Are you guys going to the beach this weekend?”

Stiles blinked. “What?”

“The group trip to La Push,” Bella clarified. “Some of the juniors were talking about it.”

“Oh, that.” Stiles made a face. “I dunno, maybe? Scott’s been bugging me about it. We haven’t seen Jacob in a while.” He glanced at Gwendolyn. “Hey, you should come. You liked Jacob, right?”

Gwendolyn blinked. She… what now?

“Jacob’s fun, right?” Stiles, completely oblivious, kept going. “I mean, he’s easy to talk to, always happy. You guys got along, right? Bowling night? My house? He’s like… cool but also kinda dorky, but in a way that makes people like him—”

Gwendolyn shrugged, cutting off his rambling. “He’s less annoying than you for one.”

Stiles scoffed. “Wow. High praise.”

Bella smiled slightly. “So, are you coming?”

Gwendolyn exhaled. “Can’t. I have plans.”

Which wasn’t a lie. Carlisle had already taken time off work for the weekend and the beginning of the week, and the Cullens were all supposed to be on their usual "family hiking trip" excuse. Gwendolyn didn’t technically need to be part of the official lie, but she wasn’t about to start breaking the script now.

Bella just nodded, accepting the answer easily.

Stiles, however, narrowed his eyes slightly. “Plans?”

Gwendolyn shot him a look. “Yes, Stiles. Plans.”

Stiles, not satisfied, squinted at her, waiting.

She sighed. “Hiking trip or something. Forced bonding time.” She made a vague, suffering gesture. “Poor me.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes further. “Sounds fake.”

Gwendolyn rolled her eyes. “Everything sounds fake when you have trust issues, Stiles.”

Bella snorted quietly.

Stiles didn’t drop the subject, but before he could continue his interrogation, Bella spoke again. “Guess it’ll just be me, then.”

Gwendolyn, finally, actually looked at her.

Bella was pretty, in a quiet kind of way. Big, dark eyes, long lashes, sharp cheekbones that made her look almost delicate. But there was something off about her. Not in a bad way, just… odd. Like she didn’t quite fit into herself. Like she was always thinking about something else. She wasn’t what Gwendolyn expected, not that she’d expected anything, really. But with how much Edward had been acting like this girl was either the best or worst thing to ever happen to him, Gwendolyn had kind of assumed she’d be… louder? More confident? More something. Instead, she was just a girl. A cute one, yeah. But not worth losing his mind over.

Gwendolyn’s gaze flickered between Bella and Stiles. She already knew they were neighbors—she had been to Stiles’ house enough times to recognize the red truck parked at the house across the street. What she didn’t know was if they were actually friends.

Bella must have noticed her expression because she added, “Our dads work together.”

Stiles nodded. “And we’re neighbors.”

Gwendolyn tilted her head slightly. Yeah. That, she knew. But were they close?

Bella wasn’t acting like someone new to town trying to force friendships, but she also wasn’t acting like someone who had known Stiles forever. The dynamic felt… neutral. Casual. Not forced, but not deeply familiar, either. Like they just kind of existed in the same orbit.

Gwendolyn didn’t say anything at first, just hummed slightly, pushing off the lockers. “Alright, well. Enjoy your beach trip. Try not to die or anything.”

Stiles scoffed. “Love the concern.”

Gwendolyn smirked, already turning down the hall. “You’re welcome.”

☽☽☽

If there was one thing Gwendolyn hated about high school, it was the never-ending cycle of drama. She dropped her tray at the Cullen table, already resigned to whatever fresh nonsense was brewing. But the second she sat down, the energy felt off. It was too quiet, too still, even for the Cullens. She glanced up and paused. Edward’s seat was empty.

Her brow furrowed. She followed Emmett’s gaze, then Alice’s. Her eyes landed across the cafeteria. And there he was, sitting at another table. A table that was very much not theirs. With Bella Swan.

Gwendolyn stared in surprise.

Emmett, who had just shoved a bite of food in his mouth – he had taken Gwendolyn’s bashing very seriously and was trying to up his food game – did the same. “Wha’ the fuh—?” he mumbled through a mouthful of food.

Rosalie glared, while Alice, smiling slightly, just hummed. Jasper, to his credit, looked like he was already preparing for a long few months ahead.

Gwendolyn slowly turned back to their table, propping her elbow on the surface and resting her chin on her palm. “So. I missed a memo?”

Alice just grinned. “Nope. This is new.”

“Right,” Gwendolyn muttered, watching as Edward—the same Edward who had been avoiding Bella Swan for weeks like she carried the plague—was now casually chatting her up like he hadn’t been a tortured wreck days ago.

“So, what are we thinking?” Gwendolyn asked, poking at her food. “Midlife crisis? Full personality transplant? Or just finally snapping from repression?”

Rosalie scoffed. “I’m thinking a lapse in judgment.”

Emmett was still chewing. “I dunno. Kinda fun to watch.”

Gwendolyn rolled her eyes.

Alice, unsurprisingly, just kept watching with amusement. “It’s sweet.”

“It’s unhinged,” Gwendolyn corrected.

Jasper, shaking his head, muttered, “This won’t end well.”

Gwendolyn smirked. “What, you don’t think an immortal undead seventeen-year-old dating a human is gonna go smoothly?”

Jasper gave her a flat look. Gwendolyn sighed, stabbing at her food again. “Fine. Whatever. As long as he doesn’t start composing tragic love ballads over her or some shit.”

☽☽☽

Edward drove Bella home that afternoon. Which, on its own, was already newsworthy. But the way he drove her home? That was gold to Gwendolyn.

“Let me get this straight,” Emmett said later that evening, sprawled out on the couch as Gwendolyn leaned against the armrest beside him. “She fainted from blood?”

“Yes,” Edward muttered, looking like he wanted to be anywhere but here.

“Just from the sight of it?” Gwendolyn added, raising an eyebrow.

Edward’s jaw tightened. “Yes.”

“And then,” Emmett continued, fighting a grin, “you—immortal blood-drinking predator—what? Heroically scooped her up and carried her off?”

Edward shot him a glare. “I escorted her to the nurse.”

Gwendolyn smirked. “Like a knight in sparkling armor.”

Edward visibly resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Emmett was having way too much fun with this. “And then?”

Edward exhaled sharply. “And then, I drove her home.”

Gwendolyn and Emmett shared a look.

“Holy hell,” Gwendolyn muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose. “He’s officially gone.”

Edward scowled. “It was practical. She was lightheaded.”

Emmett grinned. “Uh-huh. Real practical, man.”

Edward ignored them, choosing instead to stare out the window like he was above this conversation, but Gwendolyn wasn’t done. “You know,” she mused, crossing her arms. “You’ve been playing the piano a lot lately.”

Edward stiffened. “So?”

Gwendolyn grinned. “Don’t tell me you’re composing.”

Edward said nothing, which, really, was an answer in itself.

Gwendolyn’s eyes widened. “Shit. You are actually writing a song for her.”

Edward shot her an exasperated look. “So what if I am?”

Emmett let out a roar of laughter. “Bro, this is amazing.”

Gwendolyn shook her head, grinning. “I was joking about the tragic love ballads!”

Edward groaned, rubbing his temples.

Alice, who was passing through the room, beamed. “It’s sweet.”

“It’s unhinged,” Gwendolyn corrected, “You barely know her.”

But Edward was already tuning them out, muttering something about “insufferable siblings” and stalking off toward the piano. As the first few hauntingly dramatic notes filled the air, Gwendolyn just shook her head, sinking further into the couch.

Emmett, still grinning, elbowed her. “Five bucks says he starts writing poetry next.”

Gwendolyn scoffed. “I’d rather die than read it.”

☽☽☽

Sunday 6^th March 2005

Gwendolyn hated being stuck in the house.

It wasn’t just the whole “family hiking trip” excuse—though that was definitely stupid—it was the forced stillness. The whole production of disappearing for a few days just because the sun was out. She understood the logic, sure. Couldn’t have people questioning why the Cullens sparkled like disco balls in direct sunlight. But that didn’t make it any less irritating. Especially because everyone else had something to do. Emmett and Edward had left Friday afternoon for a long hunting trip, and Alice and Jasper had taken off separately Saturday morning. Which meant that, for most of the weekend, it was just her, Esme, Rosalie, and Carlisle.

And Gwendolyn was going out of her mind. Not that she was sulking. She didn’t do that. She just hated being stuck somewhere for no good reason. So, instead of sitting around twiddling her thumbs, she had filled the time. Saturday morning, she took off into the woods, letting herself run at full speed, her senses sharpening, her muscles burning. The wind roared in her ears, the trees blurred past, and for a moment, she could pretend she was moving toward something rather than just escaping stillness.

Boo kept pace effortlessly, a black shadow against the trees, his paws silent despite his massive frame. He didn’t question her, didn’t try to slow her down. He just ran alongside her, matching her stride for stride. It helped a little.

Later, when the restlessness still wouldn’t settle, she had gone to the river.

The Cullens rarely bothered with this stretch of water, so it was hers. Cold, quiet, slow-moving. She perched on a flat rock at the edge, dipping her fingers into the water, feeling the pulse of it beneath her skin. Water magic was always easier for her. It was fluid, adaptable, but deceptively strong.

Boo settled beside her, silent as ever. His tail flicked once, then stilled, golden eyes fixed on the current.

Gwendolyn traced idle runes on her palm at first, letting the magic hum under her skin, but the buzz wasn’t enough. The ache in her chest—the need to do something—kept rising.

So she moved.

One pulse through her palm, and the river shifted. The surface curled into jagged points, sharp as glass. Ice. Clear and lethal. With a flick of her wrist, she launched the frozen shards toward a fallen tree across the riverbank.

The impact cracked loud and clean. Bark split. Wood groaned.

She didn’t stop.

She drew heat next. Magic coiled beneath her skin like a second heartbeat. The river near her hand began to boil. Steam hissed into the cold air. Boo didn’t flinch.

Not enough.

She stood, eyes fixed on a boulder downriver. Steady. Anchored. She wanted to see if she could change that. With both hands, she carved through the air—pulling the current into a blade, water curling unnaturally into a tight, scythe-like arc. She snapped her wrist. The strike hit dead-on. Stone cracked. A chunk of the boulder sheared clean off, splashing into the water with a heavy thud.

Her chest rose and fell in time with the ripples. The river was still again, but she wasn’t. The power still hummed beneath her skin, just beneath the surface—waiting.

Gwendolyn exhaled slowly, pressing her hand against the water one last time. The current welcomed her touch. Obeyed. And when she pulled away, she let the magic fade. Let the water forget what it had become. The current rushed back, silent and slow, erasing everything.

Boo didn’t move. He just watched her with that quiet, unshakeable stare.

She didn’t look at him. She just muttered, “Still not enough.”

It never felt like enough.

That evening, she pulled a book from her shelf. An old leather-bound volume of poetry, something half-stolen from Macon’s collection years ago. The spine was cracked, the pages soft with age, but she still flipped through it mindlessly, letting the words settle into her skin.

Boo stretched out on the floor beside her bed, golden eyes half-lidded, his tail flicking whenever she turned a page too hard. Halfway through, she found a poem she had once underlined. She traced over the ink absently, feeling the weight of the words settle in her chest.

No one outruns the tide, child.
It comes whether you will it or not.
It does not ask. It does not falter.
It does not stop at your feet and say,
"Not yet."

Her fingers clenched around the page before she forced herself to turn it.

Boo huffed. She ignored him.

She didn’t believe in fate. Didn’t believe in prophecies, in predestination, in anything that meant her choices were meaningless. And yet, every time she looked at a calendar, at the months slipping by, at her own unavoidable end creeping closer, she felt that weight, pressing against her ribs like a hand pushing her forward.

No one outruns the tide, child.

She shoved the book shut and tossed it onto the nightstand. Boo watched her like he already knew what she was thinking.

Gwendolyn scowled. "Don’t start."

Boo flicked an ear and turned away.

Fine. Whatever. At least she still had her car to distract her. The Mustang was still barely holding itself together, but at least now, there was a plan.

Emmett had helped her map out everything—what needed to be replaced, what could be salvaged, what parts they had to order. They had spent hours sprawled across the garage floor, surrounded by tools and manuals, arguing over which repairs to prioritize first. And somehow, it had become their thing.

Because if there was one person Gwendolyn could actually work with, it was Emmett. Not just because he was strong enough to lift entire sections of the car with one hand, but because he actually made it fun. He didn’t hover like Carlisle, didn’t correct her like Rosalie, and didn’t treat her like she’d break something beyond repair. He let her mess up, curse, and figure it out. And she was learning fast.

They had already tackled some of the basics—gutting out the interior, checking the engine block, confirming that yes, the wiring was a complete disaster. But the real work? That was still ahead of them. So, they had mapped out everything. They knew what they needed. They had lists upon lists of parts to order. Gwendolyn was finally going to start the real work.

So, on Sunday morning, she tried to lose herself in fixing her Mustang, but even that had limits. The parts she needed hadn’t arrived yet, and she was at a standstill until they did. She spent an hour rearranging the tools, double-checking the list Emmett had helped her put together, but it only made her more antsy.

Boo sat outside the garage, head on his paws, watching her with lazy amusement. When she finally groaned and threw a wrench onto the workbench, Boo let out a low huff. The kind that wasn’t quite a growl, but definitely meant ‘You’re being dramatic.’

Gwendolyn shot him a glare. "Don’t judge me."

Boo stretched and yawned before looking away.

The disrespect.

Gwendolyn only rolled her eyes.

Which is how, by Sunday afternoon, when Emmett finally returned from his trip, she was one snide comment away from setting Edward’s piano on fire.

“Movie night, just you and me,” Emmett announced, throwing himself onto the couch, shaking off three days’ worth of wilderness like it was nothing. “Let’s go.”

Gwendolyn glanced up from where she was slumped in the armchair. “Go where?”

“Port Angeles. Shaun of the Dead is playing. Zombie movie. You in?”

The alternative was another night of Edward dramatically composing for his one true love while Rosalie moodily polished car parts and Alice muttered about color palettes.

Gwendolyn didn’t even hesitate, “I’m getting my coat.”

Boo, still sprawled out on the floor, let out an exasperated sigh—like he already knew he wasn’t invited. She smirked. “Oh, don’t be dramatic. You’d hate it.”

Boo turned away. Gwendolyn rolled her eyes and grabbed her coat.

Emmett grinned. “Let’s go watch some zombies.”

                                                              ☽☽☽

The theater was packed. Which made sense, because there was only so much to do in a town this small, and Shaun of the Dead was exactly the kind of ridiculous that people needed.

And Emmett was having the time of his life. “This is art,” he whispered loudly five minutes into the movie.

Gwendolyn rolled her eyes, stuffing popcorn into her mouth. “Shut up.”

“No, but seriously—” He gestured vaguely at the screen. “You see this? Peak cinema.”

Gwen snorted. “I thought you hated zombies.”

Emmett grinned. “Yeah, the real ones. But these guys? These guys are pathetic. It’s hilarious.”

Gwendolyn shook her head, but she was grinning, too. She had to admit, it was funny. She hadn’t expected to enjoy it as much as she did, but something about the absurdity, the ridiculous characters, the dry humor—it just worked. But halfway through the movie, somewhere between the cricket bat scene and the grocery store bit, her mind drifted.

Macon would have hated this.

She could picture it perfectly—him sitting stiffly in his chair, eyebrows slightly raised in vague disapproval, fingers drumming idly against his knee. He wouldn’t have outright walked out. No, he would have suffered through it, but only so he could properly eviscerate it later.

“This is what modern audiences find entertaining?”

“The cinematography is pedestrian at best.”

“Are we truly expected to root for characters with such profound idiocy?”

And yet…She could just as easily imagine him liking it, in his own, deeply judgmental way. If only for the sheer Britishness of it all. He might have appreciated the humor—not that he would have laughed, but she knew the exact moment his mouth would have twitched in reluctant amusement. He had a sharp wit, dry as bone, and though he preferred his films stylish, methodical, and gothic, he had a quiet fondness for satire.

She could almost hear him scoffing. Almost. She snapped out of it, blinking back to the present, finding Emmett practically in tears laughing at some of the British slang.

By the time they walked out of the theater, Emmett was still quoting it, “Oi, Gwen, you’ve got red on you.”

She shot him a look. “I swear I will hex your mouth shut.”

He grinned. “Don’t go out there! There’s zombies out there!”

Gwendolyn sighed. “We are in a parking lot, Emmett.”

“Yeah, but imagine if it wasn’t.”

She shoved him lightly. “Imagine if you shut up.”

Emmett only snickered.

☽☽☽

They stopped at a gas station before heading home. Emmett was still going on about the movie, fully committed to mocking the accents now.

“Oh, bugger all, mate!” he said dramatically, while Gwendolyn grabbed a drink from the fridge.

She groaned. “Please. Never do that again.”

“Oh no, bruv!”

Gwendolyn physically cringed. At that exact moment, they were interrupted, “Uh… hey?”

She turned. Scott and Stiles were standing by the snack aisle, both staring at Emmett like he had grown a second head. Emmett grinned, completely unfazed.

Gwendolyn sighed. “Great.”

Stiles pointed at Emmett. “What… is happening?”

Gwendolyn pinched the bridge of her nose. “Don’t ask.”

Scott, ever polite, gave a hesitant smile. “Didn’t think we’d see you guys here.”

Gwendolyn shrugged. “Didn’t think I’d be allowed out of the woods.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes. “Why wouldn’t you be allowed out?”

“Hiking trip,” she said flatly, like it was obvious.

Scott frowned. “But… you’re here.”

“Finished early,” she said, as if that explained everything.

Stiles still wasn’t buying it, but for once, it wasn’t him Gwendolyn noticed watching her. It was Scott. He didn’t look suspicious, he didn’t press, but he was definitely clocking every word she said. She could tell he wasn’t sure if she was lying, but he knew something was off.  She hated that. The way his gaze didn’t judge, didn’t accuse—just saw. Like he was trying to understand. Like he wanted to.

Scott asked. “So does that mean you’ll be at school tomorrow?”

Gwendolyn tilted her head. “…No?”

Scott looked confused. “But you just said—”

“Probably going somewhere again,” she cut in, before Scott could finish. “You know. Family bonding.” She gave a dramatic sigh.

Stiles stared at her suspiciously. “Uh-huh.”

Gwendolyn just raised a brow. “What?”

Stiles squinted. “Nothing. Just… suspicious, is all.”

Scott, who had wisely chosen not to engage, just nodded. “Well… have fun with, uh… more hiking?”

Gwendolyn grinned. “Oh, I will.”

She turned back toward the register, effectively ending the conversation. She had no patience for this cover story, but it was easier than explaining the truth.

Emmett, however, was still snickering to himself. As they left, he nudged her. “Family bonding, huh?”

She shot him a look. “Say one more word and I’m leaving you here.”

Emmett only smirked. “You’d miss me.”

She didn’t answer because he wasn’t wrong.

☽☽☽

The drive home was quieter, but Emmett was still grinning. “You know, those friends of yours?” he said casually, drumming his fingers against the wheel. “They’re gonna figure it out eventually.”

Gwendolyn exhaled, resting her head against the window. “Well, I don’t know if I’d call them friends, and they already think I’m weird so...”

“They’re not wrong, and they totally are your friends, kid. You hang out with them at school, even spend time with them outside of school, and don’t think I haven’t seen you looking at those online games Stiles keeps rambling about,” Emmett smirked.

Gwendolyn huffed, crossing her arms, but didn’t argue. Emmett was quiet for a moment, his usual teasing smirk fading just slightly. Then, in a rare, unguarded moment, he said—

“Listen, I know you think there’s no point in all this—making friends, letting people in—because you’re convinced your life ends at eighteen.” His voice was softer now, but firm. “But it doesn’t have to. You don’t have to live like you’re counting down the days.”

Gwendolyn’s throat tightened. Her chest felt warm, too warm, like something deep inside her was unraveling before she could shove it back into place. Because that’s exactly what she was doing, wasn’t it? Counting down.

The days on the calendar weren’t just passing—they were vanishing, burning up like old paper in a fire. It was inevitable. One Duchannes girl per generation. Always. Maybe more, but never less. Her mother had escaped, which meant she probably wouldn’t, not when she already was half-monster half-caster.

Her parents tried to break the curse. They died.
Hell how many of her ancestors died trying ? Probably too many to count.
And Gwendolyn wasn’t stupid enough to think she’d be the exception.

She wasn’t a Cullen, frozen in time, defying nature itself. She wasn’t only Duchannes. She was Ravenwood, too—a thing meant to crave and consume. She wasn’t getting out of this alive.

And Emmett didn’t get it. None of them did. They wanted to believe she’d pull through. That she was too good, too strong, too Gwendolyn to be claimed by whatever darkness lurked in her blood.

But Alice’s visions stopped at her birthday. Blank. Like something was waiting. She didn’t know what to say to that. So, she said nothing. She just stared out the window, letting the words settle, trying not to think about how much she wanted to believe him.

After a moment, Emmett glanced at her again, back to his usual self but still watching her closely, “You did have fun, though, right?”

She hesitated. “Yeah,” she admitted. “It was fun.”

Emmett grinned, “Good.”

Then—because he couldn’t help himself—he cleared his throat and, in his worst possible British accent, muttered, “You’ve got red on you.”

Gwendolyn shoved him so hard the Jeep swerved slightly. She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched, just a little.

Emmett laughed the entire way home.

☽☽☽

Chapter Text

Monday 7^th March 2005

Gwendolyn knew something was off the moment she walked into the house. It wasn’t just the usual eerie silence of the Cullens’ place or the fact that she could hear faint murmurs of conversation before even stepping inside. No, this was something else.

The air felt heavier, charged with an unfamiliar presence. And then she saw them. Two vampires she had never met before stood near the grand piano, watching her with open curiosity. Their eyes, red instead of gold, stood out starkly, and even though their postures were relaxed, something about them screamed danger.

Jasper was standing closest to them, casual but alert, as if monitoring the entire room’s emotions at once. Peter gave Jasper a brief look, not wary, nor warm, just the kind of nod that belonged to someone who’d fought beside you once and lived to talk about it. Charlotte didn’t glance at Jasper, but she stood just slightly closer to his side than to the Cullens, like it was instinct.

Alice was beside them, beaming, as if she wasn’t standing next to two literal predators. “Gwendolyn,” Alice called cheerfully, “this is Peter and Charlotte.”

Peter, the taller one with light brown hair and an easy grin, tipped an imaginary hat in her direction. “Well, ain’t you just a surprise.”

Charlotte, a blonde woman with sharp, assessing eyes, gave a polite nod. “Interesting company you keep.”

Gwendolyn crossed her arms, feeling the weight of their scrutiny. The way they looked at her—like she was some kind of puzzle, something that didn’t fit into their carefully constructed world, made her skin itch. It wasn’t hostility, not exactly. Just curiosity. And Gwendolyn hated curiosity when it was directed at her. “Yeah, I know,” she said flatly. “I’m a freak of nature. Let’s move on.”

Peter chuckled, eyes still fixed on her like he was trying to solve a puzzle. “I like you. Got some fire.”

Before anything could get weirder, Emmett walked in, clapping Gwendolyn on the shoulder so hard she nearly stumbled. “You ready, Gremlin?”

Gwendolyn looked up. “For what?”

Emmett grinned. “Baseball.”

☽☽☽

The only thing keeping Gwendolyn from losing her mind was the fact that Peter and Charlotte weren’t staying inside all day. Because if they had? She might have actually snapped.

Instead, they spent their time outdoors.

If there was one thing the Cullens knew how to do, it was making the most out of their inhuman abilities. And apparently, Peter and Charlotte were more than willing to partake in Cullen family pastimes—namely, baseball and football.

And Gwendolyn thrived in chaos. She lived for vampire baseball. The pure adrenaline of it—the speed, the impact, the ridiculousness of it all. And after being cooped up for days, she was more than ready to unleash herself.

The clearing was massive, wide open with just enough tree cover to keep them hidden, but the moment they all took their positions, Gwendolyn knew she was in for it.

Carlisle stood at home plate, acting as the designated pitcher—his throws were fast and damn-near impossible to track with human eyes. Esme was watching from the sidelines, arms crossed in amusement, while Alice bounced on her heels, waiting to run bases.

Jasper and Rosalie were on outfield defense, ready to catch anything that came their way.

Emmett stood next to Gwendolyn, gripping his bat, looking way too excited.

Peter, naturally, had already started talking shit. “You sure you can keep up, kid?” He called out as Gwendolyn stepped up to bat.

Gwendolyn arched an eyebrow. “You sure you can?”

Charlotte chuckled at that, and Emmett clapped Gwendolyn on the back like a proud big brother.

The game was absolute chaos. Carlisle threw some insane curveballs that Gwendolyn had no hope of hitting; Emmett hit three home runs, nearly taking Jasper’s head off with one of them. Alice darted around the bases so fast Gwendolyn nearly got whiplash trying to keep track of her. Rosalie made it her personal mission to get Gwendolyn out at every opportunity. Jasper somehow faked out Peter twice, which sent the older vampire into a full-blown rant about cheating. Esme laughed from the sidelines, shaking her head.

When it was Gwendolyn’s turn to run bases, she didn’t hesitate. She slid into home base twice, kicking up dirt and grass, which earned her a very dramatic sigh from Rosalie, who muttered something about “reckless idiots” before whipping the ball across the field.

At one point, Gwendolyn nearly collided with Charlotte in the outfield, but the older vampire twisted away at the last second, smirking at her. By the time the game ended, Peter was dramatically bemoaning his loss, Emmett was grinning like an idiot, and Gwendolyn was just happy she hadn’t gotten tackled into a tree.

☽☽☽

The next day, Football was worse.

Not because it wasn’t fun—it was ridiculously fun. But because it was ruthless.

The teams had been divided semi-fairly, but that didn’t stop Emmett from trucking Peter to the ground within five minutes. Peter had barely caught the ball before Emmett slammed into him like a goddamn wrecking ball, sending him flying through the air. He hit the ground with an oof that rattled the trees.

Charlotte was terrifyingly fast. She weaved through tackles like she was weightless, and Jasper was somehow predicting every play before it even happened.

The ball was snapped, and Charlotte was on Gwendolyn instantly.

Gwendolyn barely had time to register the vampire speed coming at her before she juked hard to the right, narrowly dodging Charlotte’s tackle. She cut left, sprinting full force down the field, the wind cutting against her skin. Jasper was waiting for her, looking far too smug.

Oh, hell no.

Instead of outrunning him, Gwendolyn did something incredibly stupid—she threw herself into a slide. Jasper lunged, but she was already ducking, slipping beneath his reach, the ball still in her hands. The second she was clear, she popped back up and bolted for the end zone.

Alice’s laughter rang out from the sideline. “Oh my god, did she just—?”

Emmett lost his mind. “Hell yeah, Gremlin! Break some ankles!”

Gwendolyn hit the end zone and turned, breathless but beaming. Jasper, now standing right where she had been, stared at her. Then he gave a slow, approving nod. “Clever.”

Peter whistled while Charlotte, walking up beside Gwendolyn, gave her an appraising look. “Alright,” she said, tossing the ball back to Emmett. “I’m impressed.”

Gwendolyn, still catching her breath, grinned. “High praise.”

The game continued, getting rougher, faster, and just a little bit more dangerous.

And then, it happened. Gwendolyn had the ball, running full speed, when Emmett came out of nowhere. She saw him at the last second, but there was no time to dodge. His massive frame barreled toward her, and she braced for impact. The hit sent her airborne.

For a few terrifying seconds, she felt weightless, then the ground slammed into her side, hard.

The sound cracked through the clearing—sharp, unmistakable. Bone. The impact rattled through her bones, white-hot pain flaring in her side. She barely registered the collective intake of breath around her, the way every Cullen in the clearing froze—except for Emmett, who was still staring at her, wide-eyed, like he had just committed a felony. Because Emmett knew before she did. Because he heard it, felt it, saw the way her body crumpled slightly upon impact. “Shit! Gwen?”

But before she could react, before anyone could—a low, rumbling growl ripped through the clearing. It was a sound older than anger, deeper than instinct. A sound that made even Jasper stiffen, that made Alice’s head snap up in alarm.

Boo exploded onto the field like a shadow torn from the night, his massive frame moving too fast, too silent, until he was standing between her and Emmett, teeth bared, golden eyes burning with something feral.

“Shit,” Emmett muttered, immediately putting his hands up. “Boo, buddy, it was an accident.”

Boo did not care. The growl deepened, a guttural, earth-shaking sound, and he stalked forward—one slow, deliberate step at a time. His ears flattened, his lips curled back. If Emmett even twitched, Boo would tear his head off.

“Whoa—” Alice was already moving, a blur of motion as she cut between them. “Hey, hey, hey, stand down!”

“He’s not listening,” Rosalie muttered, her expression tense.

Jasper felt it, the raw, burning rage pouring off Boo in waves. His jaw tightened. “He’s about to attack.”

Esme stepped in. “Boo.” Her voice was calm, firm. “Enough.”

For a long, stretched second, nothing happened. Boo’s chest rose and fell with deep, slow breaths, his muscles coiled so tight he was nearly vibrating. His gaze didn’t leave Emmett. His claws flexed against the ground.

Gwendolyn, still dazed, finally reached out, barely brushing her fingers against his fur. “Hey,” she muttered, voice raw. “I’m good.”

Boo’s ear flicked. His body didn’t relax, but he shifted just slightly, glancing at her. And finally, he pulled back.

His growl didn’t stop, but he circled back toward her, pressing close to her side. His tail flicked once. He would not be moving from her side anytime soon. Gwendolyn exhaled, relieved that he was at least backing down from chewing Emmett’s head off.

“Jesus,” Emmett muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I thought I was about to die.”

Rosalie didn’t look amused. “You were.”

For a moment, Gwendolyn didn’t react, didn’t even breathe. But when she did, trying to stand up, pain flared up her side, sharp and suffocating, and she realized—oh, fuck. That was not good. Something was definitely broken.

“Gwen?” Emmett’s voice was tight, too tight.

She forced herself to breathe, even though it hurt. Swallowed down the pain, trying not to let it show. She blinked up at Emmett, “I’m fine,” she lied.

Emmett’s jaw clenched. “No. You’re not.”

Boo stayed pressed against her, golden eyes locked on Emmett like a silent, unmoving warning. His breath was steady, controlled now, but his claws still flexed slightly against the ground every time someone got too close.

Carlisle came beside her. The moment his hands moved toward Gwendolyn, Boo’s head snapped to him. The growl wasn’t loud this time—it was quiet, low, a rumble in his chest, but it carried weight. Watch your hands.

Carlisle paused. He didn’t flinch—he was used to predators—but he did lift his hands slightly, placating. “I need to check her ribs,” he said evenly. “You know that.”

Boo didn’t move.

Gwendolyn, still biting back the worst of the pain, let her fingers brush through his fur. “It’s okay,” she muttered.

Boo exhaled sharply through his nose but reluctantly shifted just enough for Carlisle to work. But he did not relax. Not even close.

Carlisle was already moving. “Three ribs, maybe four,” he murmured, pressing his fingers gently against Gwendolyn’s side. “She needs to sit.”

Gwendolyn gritted her teeth. “I’m fine.”

Alice shot her a look. “You’re lying.”

Gwendolyn sighed. “Okay, maybe.”

Emmett still looked horrified, like he had just killed a puppy. “I didn’t—” His voice faltered. “Shit, Gwen, I—”

Gwendolyn waved a hand, trying to play it off, even though her ribs were on fire. “I’ll live.”

Jasper was still watching her, sensing everything she was trying to suppress.

Peter whistled lowly from the sidelines. “Damn, kid.”

Charlotte tilted her head slightly, gaze flicking back to Boo, then to Gwendolyn’s bruised ribs. “Not many mortals could take a hit like that and stay standing.”

Gwendolyn didn’t respond, mostly because staying upright was already enough of a struggle.

Carlisle finally put his foot down. “Gwendolyn. Sit. Now.”

She sighed. “Fine.”

She let Carlisle lower her carefully to the ground, trying not to wince. Esme appeared seconds later, kneeling beside her. “We should get her home.” Carlisle only nodded silently.

Gwendolyn groaned. “I hate this.”

Rosalie, unimpressed, crossed her arms. “Maybe don’t play tackle football with a vampire next time.”

Emmett was still watching her like she was made of glass.

“Emmett,” Gwendolyn muttered. “Stop looking like you killed my dog.”

Emmett exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I hit you too hard.”

Carlisle, helping her up, cut in. “You didn’t mean to.”

Emmett didn’t look convinced.

Gwendolyn rolled her eyes, even though it hurt. “I’ll live. But I’m totally milking this. You’re going to be my bitch for the next few weeks.”

☽☽☽

Gwendolyn had never been this sore and in pain in her life.

By the time Carlisle finished wrapping her ribs, she was ready to throw herself out a window. Esme had helped her upstairs, Alice had fussed, Rosalie had muttered something about recklessness, and Emmett still looked like he was debating eternal self-exile.

And to top it all off, Carlisle was useless.

“Are you serious?” Gwendolyn groaned, staring at the bottle of Tylenol he had just handed her.

Carlisle, ever patient, raised an eyebrow. “It’s effective for minor pain.”

“Minor pain?” Gwendolyn wheezed. “Carlisle, my ribs are shattered.”

“They’re fractured.”

“Same thing!”

“They are not.”

Boo —who had been watching the whole time, pressed close against Gwendolyn, and tracking every movement, every twitch of pain on Gwendolyn’s face — growled. The sound was low, disapproving. Not outright hostile, but pointed like a judge handing down a verdict.

Esme shot Boo a look, “He’s a doctor, Boo.”

Boo did not care, he only huffed sharply, shifting his stance, his tail flicking once in clear displeasure.

Gwendolyn smirked, “See? Even he thinks you’re being stingy!”

Carlisle only sighed, “Boo, I appreciate your concern, but —”

Boo only growled louder, not caring about where he was going with this. Carlisle ran a hand down on his face, muttering something under his breath about dealing with two children.

Gwendolyn scowled. “Carlisle, where’s the good stuff?”

Carlisle sighed. “Gwendolyn.”

“Come on,” she pleaded, holding the bottle up like an offensive object. “You literally have morphine.”

Boo sat up straighter at that, ears perked up. Carlisle gave Boo a pointed look. “You are not helping.” Then turned to Gwendolyn, “And you are not getting morphine.”

“Why not?”

“Because I know you,” he said simply.

That shut her up for a beat. Just long enough for the truth of it to land. Boo huffed once, tail flicking, unsurprised.

“That was one time,” she muttered looking down at her hands on her thighs.

“Three,” Carlisle corrected gently.

She scowled at him. “Still. Rude.”

She didn’t argue though, because she remembered. The first time, she’d barely been sixteen, curled on the floor of her room, clutching a bottle she’d stolen from his locked cabinet and slurring nonsense in ancient Latin between hitched breaths. Carlisle had found her. He hadn’t raised his voice. He just sat beside her until the bottle tipped from her fingers and the magic fizzled out of her skin.

The second time had been worse.

The third? She didn’t even remember most of it—just the aftermath. The look in Carlisle’s eyes. Boo refusing to leave her side for days. The cold edge of shame that still clung to the memory, sharp as broken glass.

Carlisle chuckled, unfazed. “Take the Tylenol, Gwendolyn.”

Gwendolyn groaned, flopping onto the bed. “I hate you. And you better not be hiding the whiskey too.”

Carlisle just gave her a look.

“Seriously,” she gasped. “You are.”

“Consider it preventative care.”

“Tylenol is not gonna do shit,” she grumbled. “Do you have any idea how bad it is trying to sleep through this?”

Carlisle gave her a look. “You’ve been sleeping a bit better lately.”

She snorted, bitter. “Barely.”

“It’s what you’re getting.”

Gwendolyn narrowed her eyes. “I hope you know this is child abuse.”

Carlisle just patted her shoulder gently. “You’ll live.”

Gwendolyn muttered something decidedly ungrateful under her breath, while Boo only glared at Carlisle, before letting out one last, drawn-out huff. The kind of dramatic sigh that said, Unbelievable. What kind of incompetent medical care is this?

By the time he left the room, Gwendolyn was scowling at the bottle like it personally betrayed her. If Carlisle wasn’t gonna help her, she’d do it herself.

☽☽☽

Gwendolyn’s ribs throbbed with every breath. Every shift, every movement, every inhale felt like a knifepoint pressing into her side. And if she had to endure this for weeks, she was going to lose it. So, it was time for plan B.

She pulled herself upright, biting back a groan. By the time she made it to her room, she had to press a hand against the doorframe to steady herself. Boo plopped on her bed, watching her next moves.

Okay. Breathe. Figure it out.

She shut the door behind her, locking it for good measure, and immediately tugged off her jacket. Her shirt and the bandage followed. Gwendolyn stood in front of the mirror, sucking in a breath at the sight of it.

Dark bruising was already forming along her side, ugly shades of blue and purple blooming across her ribs. She ran her fingers over them carefully, wincing as she found the most tender spots.

She was not about to deal with this for six weeks or more. No way.

With a deep breath that hurt, she reached into the top drawer of her dresser, rummaging through the small wooden box she kept hidden there. It was full of little things, things she had gathered over time. Old spells, sigils, carved stones, a few small vials of caster remedies. But what she needed now—

There.

She pulled out the small knife, turning it over in her fingers. It was sharp, well-worn from use. Not many casters carved runes into their skin, but Gwendolyn had learned that sometimes, magic worked best when it came straight from the source.

She didn’t hesitate. Pressing the blade just above her ribs, she carved a small rune into the skin. The cut was shallow, just enough to hold the magic, to let it sink in, but the pain was immediate, sharp and stinging. Gwendolyn barely flinched, she only gritted her teeth. She had done this before.

She could feel Boo watching, tense. But he didn’t move, didn’t growl, didn’t stop her. He knew what she was doing, he knew this was different from recklessness. This was control. That didn’t mean he had to like it, as his tail flicked sharply against the mattress once.

As soon as the rune was carved, she pressed her fingers over it, murmuring an incantation under her breath. Heat flared beneath her skin, a pulse of energy flooding through her ribs. It wasn’t a full heal—it wouldn’t fix them—but it would speed things up. Finally, she reached for the small tin tucked into the corner of the box. When she popped it open, the familiar scent of herbs filled the air. Ridley had given her this ages ago, something she had stolen from their grandmother Emmaline’s apothecary.

“Gonna burn like a bitch,” Gwendolyn muttered to herself before she smeared the ointment over the bruising.

She sucked in a sharp breath, bracing herself against the dresser as the balm sank in. The sensation was not pleasant—an icy-hot sting that burned before it soothed. But within minutes, the worst of the pain dulled, fading into something more manageable. Gwendolyn exhaled, slumping slightly against the dresser.

Better.

Not perfect, but better.

She let the magic settle, wiping the blade clean. Then, with a sigh, she flopped back against the pillows on her bed, letting exhaustion take over. Carlisle’s painkillers could suck it.

Boo exhaled, a deep, slow and heavy breath. Then he huffed loudly.

Gwendolyn shot him a look. “Oh, don’t start.”

Boo narrowed his eyes. Then, very deliberately, he lowered his head onto his paws and turned away from her.

Gwendolyn groaned. “Are you seriously ignoring me right now?”

He did not respond.

“Boo.”

Silence.

“Bloody hell, you’re that mad?”

A single, slow ear flick.

“You’re being dramatic.”

His tail flicked.

Gwendolyn sighed, rubbing a hand down her face. “You knew I was going to do it.”

Nothing.

“You didn’t even stop me.”

Still nothing.

“Oh, come on.”

Still. Nothing.

Gwendolyn flopped onto her back, defeated. “Fine. Be mad. See if I care.” She cared, but she was also too stubborn to continue trying to talk him down.

Boo did not move. But an hour later—when she finally started dozing off—he curled up next to her.

☽☽☽

Gwendolyn finally learned where Edward had been the past few days. She had noticed him missing, and honestly didn’t mind it. Edward had been acting too weird. But this was another level. It had gotten bad fast.

“Let me get this straight,” Gwendolyn said, voice flat, staring at him from where she was sprawled on the couch.

She shifted slightly, and—fuck. Pain shot through her ribs, sharp enough to make her grimace. She bit the inside of her cheek, adjusting herself more carefully this time. Note to self: sudden movements suck.

Edward, meanwhile, was sitting stiffly in an armchair, not meeting anyone’s eyes.

“You watch her?” Gwendolyn repeated, making sure she heard correctly.

“For her protection,” Edward said.

Emmett, still in his self-punishment phase, let out a snort. “Dude, this is how horror movies start.”

Edward shot him a glare. “It’s not like that.”

Alice, ever the optimist, chimed in. “It’s romantic—”

“No,” Gwendolyn cut in immediately, shaking her head. She regretted it instantly as pain flared again, and she let out a quiet exhale through her nose, trying not to react. Okay. Cool. Fantastic. Pain is my new best friend.

Alice pouted. “You don’t understand.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Gwendolyn countered, carefully shifting into a slightly more comfortable position. “Edward. You watch her sleep. Do you hear how messed up that sounds?”

Edward sighed. “It’s not as—”

“—as bad as it sounds?” Gwendolyn finished, arching a brow. “Because it sounds pretty bad.”

Even Rosalie, who usually didn’t get involved in Edward’s drama, muttered, “She’s not wrong.”

Edward pinched the bridge of his nose, looking like he was reconsidering immortality. “You’re all being ridiculous.”

“No, you’re being ridiculous,” Gwendolyn shot back. “Edward, you broke into her room.”

Edward clenched his jaw. “It’s for her safety.”

Gwendolyn snorted, shifting again and immediately regretting it. She barely held back a wince. She wanted to keep making fun of Edward, but laughing hurt. “Okay, sure,” she muttered, rolling her shoulders carefully. “And the monsters under my bed are totally real.”

Edward shot her a look, but didn’t argue further.

Rosalie let out an exasperated sigh. “Unbelievable.”

Gwendolyn exhaled slowly, pressing her head back against the couch. The banter was fun, but she was exhausted.

Edward was still brooding, Alice was still convinced this was peak romance, and Emmett still looked guilty as hell. Gwendolyn let her eyes slip shut for a second. At this rate, she’d be spending the rest of March bullying Edward through sheer pain.

Well. At least she’d get some enjoyment out of it.

☽☽☽

Wednesday 9^th March 2005

Gwendolyn should have stayed home.

She knew it the second she stepped out of Esme’s car and felt the way her ribs protested against the movement. It had been one day since Emmett had crushed her, and while the pain wasn’t as sharp anymore—thanks to her— every deep breath and sudden movement still sent a dull ache radiating through her chest.

She refused to baby herself, though. No way in hell was she going to spend another day stuck inside the house.

Still, she regretted it immediately. Because navigating Forks High School in a fragile state was like walking into a battlefield full of landmines. By third period, Gwendolyn had winced so many times she was sure someone would call her out on it. And of course, it had to be Stiles and Scott.

"Alright, what’s up with you?" Stiles demanded the moment she slumped into her seat next to him in history.

Gwendolyn didn’t even look at him. "What are you talking about?"

Scott, ever the concerned one, frowned. "You flinched when you sat down."

Gwendolyn tensed. "I did not."

Stiles, staring at her suspiciously, leaned in. "Yes. You did. And you’ve been moving like an old man all morning."

Gwendolyn scoffed. "Maybe I just woke up on the wrong side of the bed."

Stiles was not buying it.

Scott tilted his head. "Did you… get into a fight or something?"

Oh. If only they knew.

Gwendolyn smirked. "Yep. Took down a bear with my bare hands."

Scott sighed. "Seriously."

"Seriously," she shot back. "Why do you guys care so much? Maybe I’m just sore."

Stiles narrowed his eyes. "You are sore. Which means something happened."

Scott folded his arms. "Did one of the Cullens push you off a cliff?"

Gwendolyn snorted and regretted it because ow. The pain flared up her ribs, quick and sharp. She inhaled through her nose, trying not to react. That did not go unnoticed.

"That!" Stiles pointed aggressively. "You just made a face!"

Gwendolyn exhaled, pressing her lips together. "I make a lot of faces."

Scott gave her a look. "Gwen."

She groaned. They weren’t going to drop it. "Fine," she muttered. "I was wrestling Emmett. Happy?"

"You were what?!" Stiles screeched.

Scott blinked. "Wait. You wrestled Emmett Cullen?"

Gwendolyn shrugged. "Yeah." She didn’t mean to sound so casual—it just came out that way. Like if she acknowledged how bad it really was, they’d look at her different.

"Are you insane?!" Stiles demanded. “Do you have any idea how physics works? He could throw a tree. A tree, Gwen. And you—what, you decided to square up? For fun? What if he sneezed in your direction and snapped your spine? What if he tripped? What if you tripped? Honestly, I’m starting to think you have a death wish disguised as a personality.”

"Possibly."

Scott’s eyebrows furrowed in pure confusion. "Why would you do that?"

Gwendolyn smirked, propping her elbow on the desk. "Because I make excellent life choices, Scott."

Scott opened his mouth, then closed it. He had no response for that.

Stiles, still horrified, ran a hand down his face. "Dude. What even is your life?"

Gwendolyn smirked. "Spend five minutes in my shoes and see how sane you turn out.”

They kept side-eyeing her for the rest of the period. Gwendolyn did her best to ignore them.

☽☽☽

The moment Gwendolyn stepped into the house after school, she knew something was off.

The Cullens were all in the living room, which never happened unless Movie Night or something big was going down. Rosalie looked pissed and Edward had his guilty face on. Gwendolyn sighed and lowered herself onto the couch, moving slower than usual. Her ribs twinged in protest, and she bit back a wince, shifting carefully to find a position that didn’t feel like someone was stabbing her.

Boo was glued to her side. Not in a casual, lounging-around way—no, this was pure vigilance. He sat pressed against the couch, ears flicking at every movement, golden eyes locked on Emmett every time he walked into the room. And every time, Emmett hesitated.

“Seriously,” Emmett muttered. “He’s still looking at me like that?”

Boo’s tail flicked. The growl that rumbled in his chest was low, but undeniable.

Gwendolyn smirked. “Oh yeah. You’re officially his least favorite person.”

“I said I was sorry,” Emmett muttered.

Boo did not care.

“I’m so sorry, Rose,” Edward said, voice quiet, finally breaking the tension.

Gwendolyn, who had been more focused on not breathing wrong, barely caught it. Her brows furrowed as she looked at Emmett, and whispered “What did I miss?”

Emmett, still watching Boo like he might get his head bitten off, whispered back “Swan knows.”

Gwendolyn froze, ignoring the way Boo tensed beside her when Emmett leaned in to whisper. Knows?

She started to sit up carefully, exhaling sharply through her nose, gripping the couch to stop herself from making a sound. Emmett, perched beside her but not too close because of Boo, noticed. His eyes flicked toward her ribs, but he wisely said nothing.

Rosalie’s eyes flashed. “Why?” she demanded. “Why did you tell her?”

“I’m actually surprised you were able to,” Emmett admitted. “You rarely say the word, even with us. It’s not your favorite.”

“You’re not wrong,” Edward sighed. “I doubt I would have been able to say it myself.”

Gwendolyn frowned. “Then how?”

Edward exhaled. “It wasn’t intentional. It’s something we should have foreseen.”

Gwendolyn exasperated, “For fuck’s sake Edward, just be clear.”

“Bella is friends with the great-grandson of Ephraim Black. He told her.”

Gwendolyn groaned. Who the fuck was Ephraim Black? Who was his great-grandson? And why couldn’t Edward just answer in a straightforward manner. “And who the fuck is that?”

“Jacob Black” answered Edward with a sigh before he turned to look at her.

For half a second, it didn’t mean anything to Gwendolyn, she didn’t know any Blacks. Then she realized she knew a Jacob, and really how many Jacobs can there be on the reservation?

Her ribs protested again as she straightened up fully, but she didn’t care.

Jacob told Bella?

Jacob knew?

Of course it had to be Jacob. The same boy who looked at her like he already knew something she didn’t. Something about that made her chest feel too tight and not just because of the broken ribs. At that moment Carlisle also appeared in the doorway, this was no longer a fight between Edward and Rosalie. It concerned them all.

“We should have known, Carlisle,” Edward murmured. “Of course the elders would warn the next generation when we came back. And of course the next generation wouldn’t credit any of it. It’s just a silly story to them. The boy who answered Bella’s questions didn’t believe anything he was telling her.”

“You’re right” Carlisle said. “Naturally, it would play out that way. It’s no surprise he would have heard the stories.” He sighed. “It’s just bad luck Ephraim’s progeny had such a knowledgeable audience.”

“Hardly bad luck” Rosalie’s voice was sharp, biting. “It’s Edward’s fault that the girl knows anything.”

Boo let out a low, warning growl.

Rosalie’s golden eyes flicked toward him, unimpressed. “Oh, what? I’m not even talking about your idiot.”

Boo’s tail flicked sharply.

Gwendolyn, exhausted, barely resisted the urge to groan. “Please, I’m begging you, don’t start a supernatural pissing contest in the living room.”

For once though, Edward didn’t argue with Rosalie. “I know,” he admitted. “I’ve made an enormous mess of everything.”

Gwendolyn, still processing the words Jacob Black, ran a hand through her hair. She let out a slow breath—which hurt, because everything hurt—but not as much as this realization.

She wasn’t stupid. She immediately started replaying every interaction with Jacob in her head.

Every lingering glance. Every weird pause when she mentioned the Cullens. Had she missed the signs? Had he?

Jacob had never acted like he believed any of the stories. But now… she wasn’t so sure.

Gwendolyn let out another breath, “Okay, okay. So, Bella knows. Big whoop. For the record? Still think stalking her was worse. Can someone please explain why this Ephraim Black guy matters? Because I swear, Edward, if you keep talking in riddles, I will throw something at you.”

Carlisle stepped in then, his expression calm but serious. “The Quileute tribe has known about us for generations.”

Gwendolyn frowned. “Okay…?”

“They have legends,” Edward clarified, his voice tight. “Stories about creatures like us. Warnings passed down from their ancestors.”

Gwendolyn was still trying to piece it together, her brows furrowed. “So, what? They have some anti-vampire bedtime stories?”

Rosalie let out a sharp breath. “Not just stories.”

Carlisle nodded. “Their ancestors encountered our kind. And as a result, a treaty was formed—one that still stands to this day.”

Gwendolyn processed that for a second. “Wait. Treaty?”

Edward nodded. “A deal. We stay off their land, and they don’t expose us.”

Gwendolyn’s head was spinning. “And Jacob—”

“Great-grandson of Ephraim Black,” Edward confirmed. “He’s heard the stories, but he doesn’t believe them.”

Gwendolyn huffed. “He doesn’t believe the stories, but he still told her?”

Edward sighed. “She asked. Probably didn’t realize how accurate it was.”

Gwendolyn muttered something under her breath. She was still caught up on the fact that Jacob—the same Jacob she’d seen a few times, the same Jacob she had spoken to barely a few weeks ago—knew this much about the Cullens.

Had he known? Had he sensed something about her?

She pressed a hand absently to her ribs, not from pain this time, but from a weird, growing unease.

She looked at Edward. “And you’re sure he doesn’t believe any of it?”

Edward sighed. “He treated it like a joke.”

Carlisle exhaled. “Which works in our favor. If he truly thought we were dangerous, the tribe would have already warned him not to speak about it.”

Rosalie scoffed. “Or they’d be coming after us already.”

Gwendolyn frowned. “Wait, but you guys said they encountered your kind before. What do you mean? Like… they hunted vampires?”

Carlisle’s lips pressed into a thin line. Edward hesitated. Then, Jasper—who had been silent until now—spoke. “They didn’t just hunt them,” he said quietly. “They became something.”

Gwendolyn’s stomach twisted. “Became?”

“They weren’t just humans,” Jasper explained, his voice slow and careful. “They shifted into wolves”

“Are you saying,” she said slowly, “that the Quileutes are… werewolves?”

Emmett, who had been suspiciously quiet, finally snorted. “No, just shapeshifters. They can transform into huge wolves.”

Gwendolyn turned back to Carlisle, waiting for confirmation. He nodded. “That’s the distinction we’ve always made.”

She exhaled, trying to wrap her head around this. “And… they still do that?”

Edward shook his head. “No. The bloodline thinned over time. The gene hasn’t surfaced in generations.”

Gwendolyn stared at him. “So… there are no more shapeshifters?”

"The shapeshifter gene hasn’t surfaced in generations," Carlisle was saying. "As far as we know, it’s dormant."

Gwendolyn swallowed. As far as we know. That phrase didn’t sit right.

"Right," she muttered, shifting slightly again—which was another mistake. Pain flared through her ribs, and she grimaced. This time, Emmett did notice. She felt his gaze flick to her, like he was debating saying something. He hesitated, then nudged her foot under the table, a light, silent check-in.

Boo moved before she did. A sharp, guttural growl. The sound was enough to make everyone stop. Emmett snatched his foot back like he had been burned. “Are you serious?” he hissed, eyeing Boo like he was some kind of demon, which, to be fair, was not entirely wrong.

“He’s serious,” Alice murmured, fighting a grin as she stepped in the living room.

“This is ridiculous,” Emmett muttered.

Boo narrowed his golden eyes.

Gwendolyn, still exhausted, just sighed. “Emmett?”

“Yeah?”

She gave him a flat look. “Stop touching me.”

Boo flicked his tail smugly.

Edward kept talking, but Gwendolyn wasn’t listening. She was thinking.

She already felt like an outsider in the world. She was something that shouldn’t exist—half-incubus, half-caster, neither one nor the other. Not really human. Just mortal. And she had spent weeks unknowingly sitting next to someone who had the blood of a hunter in his veins.

Something about that made her feel smaller. More monstrous. More… wrong.

She hated that feeling. She exhaled sharply, pressing her lips together, still lost in thought.

Jacob Black.

The Quileute legends.

The way his eyes had lingered on her. Was it all a coincidence? Or had she been blind this entire time?

Her fingers dug into her sleeve. She suddenly felt deeply unsettled. Like something was shifting beneath her feet, and she had no idea when the ground was going to cave in.

She hated not knowing.

And for the first time in a long time, she had a gut feeling that things were about to get so much worse.

☽☽☽

Saturday 5^th February 2005

Jacob hadn’t planned on going to Forks again, not really.

…Okay, maybe a little.

Maybe he had been making excuses—volunteering to run errands, offering to pick up parts for the shop, driving out just because—anything that might give him an excuse to pass by the school, or the library, or wherever-the-hell she might be.

It wasn’t even a conscious decision, not at first. He just found himself in Forks more often.
And Quil had definitely called him out on it. More than once.
“Dude, are we just not gonna talk about how you keep showing up there for no reason?”
“It’s not for ‘no reason.’”
Quil snorted. “Yeah? Then name the reason.”
Jacob had come up empty.

And it was stupid, and maybe a little pathetic. And maybe he was losing it, but it was like she had some kind of gravitational pull.

It wasn’t like they were friends. He’d seen her multiple times at the beach sitting in the sand, staring out at the waves, looking like she belonged to them. But they’d actually only met twice—bowling night, and the last time at Stiles’ place, where they played video games and made fun of all the Valentine letters she had received.

Not once had it been just the two of them. There were always people around them. She wasn’t even particularly nice, not in the traditional way. She was sharp-edged and sarcastic, the kind of girl who met the world with a smirk instead of a smile. But there was something about her. Something sharp, something different, something familiar in a way that made no sense.

And that was the problem.

Because Jacob wasn’t like this.

Sure, he noticed girls. He wasn’t blind. But he wasn’t the kind of guy to get all weird about someone he barely knew. He wasn’t the type to get stuck on a girl after seeing her three times. And yet he thought about her more than he should.

It wasn’t just that she was pretty. (Though, god, she was—that dark blue hair, those pale blue eyes, the way she wore whatever the hell she wanted like she dared anyone to say something about it.)

It was the way she was herself.

Like she didn’t care what people thought.

Like she’d carved out her place in the world and refused to apologize for it.

Like…

Like she could be someone who understood him.

And that thought? That was the one that really got to him.

Because maybe it was just the stories his dad told, the weird superstitions and warnings he’d spent his life hearing. Maybe it was the way she wasn’t from here, but she fit in a way that made no sense. Or maybe it was something deeper. Maybe it was the fact that, from the moment he met her, she felt like a kindred spirit. Someone just outside the lines of where they were supposed to fit.

Something he wasn’t ready to think about.

So instead, he did what he was good at—he ignored it.

Focused on normal things. Friends, school, fixing up his bike.

And yeah, maybe it was stupid, but it stuck with him.

So, when Bella Swan showed up at First Beach, Jacob smiled without even thinking about it.
It was a slow day—cloudy, windy. He’d been messing around with Quil and Embry near the water when the group from Forks arrived. He hadn’t really been paying attention until he caught a glimpse of Bella, and the memory clicked—Charlie’s daughter. They’d met when they were kids, and even if it was distant, it was enough to make him genuinely glad to see her again. Quil and Embry, of course, immediately wandered off to chat up the rest of the group, and before Jacob could follow, Bella ended up beside him, her expression curious and careful. “Can I ask you something?”

Jacob glanced at her, not sure what to expect. “Sure.”

She hesitated, then asked, “What did that guy mean? When he said ‘The Cullens don’t come here’?”

Jacob tensed for a second. Crap. That again. His dad would kill him if he knew Bella was asking questions. He tried to shrug it off. “Oh. That.” He leaned back on his hands. “Why? You know them or something?”

"Not that much, I’ve only ever talked to Edward. And Gwendolyn" she said lightly.

Jacob blinked. What? He barely even registered the first part of her sentence, because the only thing his brain actually processed was Gwendolyn. His pulse jumped. His brain did something stupid like forget how to think.

“Gwendolyn?” He tried to sound bored, neutral and failed miserably. “What about her? You know her?”

Bella raised an eyebrow at him, and tilted her head slightly, like she wasn’t doing anything on purpose. “Oh, nothing.” She gave a tiny shrug and added casually. “Just that she’s mentioned you before.”

That shouldn’t have made his heart kick like that, but it did. Jacob’s brain short-circuited, the tips of his ears went hot. His first, most ridiculous thought was, She talked about me?

His second was, Oh, shit. That… wasn’t the kind of thing he should be getting excited over. But he couldn’t help it. Because Gwendolyn Ravenwood didn’t talk about people. She wasn’t chatty. She wasn’t the type to gossip. If she had mentioned him, even in passing, it meant she thought about him, at least a little.

Bella caught it immediately, the way his posture shifted, the way his fingers twitched like he wanted to ask more. And she knew exactly what she was doing when she gave him an easy smile.

Jacob forced himself to look unimpressed, to play it cool. "Yeah? What’d she say?"

Bella’s smile stayed. “Huh,” she mused, tapping her chin. “I mean, she didn’t say much. But she definitely said something.”

Jacob squinted. That was a bullshit answer. And yet, his dumb sixteen-year-old brain wanted to believe it.

"So," Bella said, shifting topics before he could press further, "about the Cullens. You do know something, don’t you?"

Jacob barely even heard her at first. His brain was still stuck on She’s mentioned you before. But then the question caught up to him, and his stomach twisted slightly. This was tribal stuff. Stories that weren’t meant to be shared with outsiders. The kind of thing his dad would kill him for talking about. His dad’s warnings flickered in his head, but Bella was looking at him expectantly, and his brain was still buzzing with She’s mentioned you before.
And for some reason, that made it easier to ignore the voice telling him to shut up.
It’s just a story.

He huffed, shaking his head. "You really wanna know?"

Bella nodded way too fast.

Jacob exhaled dramatically. "Alright. But I warn you—it’s a scary story."

Still, he grinned and motioned for her to follow him toward the driftwood logs. If she wanted legends, he’d give her legends. And if she happened to casually drop Gwendolyn’s name again? …Jacob wouldn’t mind hearing it.

And the moment he did, a little voice in the back of his head told him he was going to regret it.

☽☽☽

Chapter Text

Gwendolyn had not been looking forward to today.

Not because she particularly cared about Edward bringing Bella Swan home—he could do whatever he wanted—but because the entire house had been vibrating with tension for days.

Alice had been practically bouncing off the walls. Esme had gone into full hostess mode. Rosalie had been slamming doors like she was trying to break the sound barrier. And Edward had been his usual overdramatic self, brooding and overthinking every possible way this could go wrong.

All of it had been too much noise.

And now, as she sat in the living room, sore from her ribs and increasingly fed up, she sighed as the front door opened.

Here we go.

Boo, curled up beside her, barely flicked an ear as Edward stepped in first, Bella just a step behind, clearly out of her depth. She stuck close to him, scanning the room like she was walking into a museum where she didn’t belong. Which, to be fair, she kind of was.

Esme moved forward first, all warmth and grace. “Bella, welcome. We’re so glad to have you here.”

Bella smiled, polite, but nervous, her eyes widening slightly when she took Esme in. Gwendolyn almost laughed. Watching someone react in real time to how unfairly perfect this family was never got old.

Edward introduced Bella like she was some rare treasure. This is Bella. My fragile, breakable, human girlfriend who I cannot, under any circumstances, leave alone for five seconds because she might trip over air and die.

Okay, he didn’t say that, but it was written all over his face.

Bella’s eyes flicked around the room and landed on Gwendolyn. Boo barely reacted, but the second Bella shifted closer, he let out the softest, most unimpressed growl—a slow, deliberate stay right there, stranger.

Bella immediately stopped moving. "Oh, uh—hi."

Edward, standing beside her, tensed slightly at Boo’s reaction, but didn’t comment. Instead, his voice was tight, controlled. "You’ve met Gwendolyn already." It wasn’t rude. Not outright. But it was definitely strained, like he was desperately trying to manage this entire situation before it could spiral. Bella blinked at him but didn’t push it. Gwendolyn, meanwhile, just smirked. Oh, so that’s how we’re playing this?

She stretched lazily, then tilted her head toward Bella. “Welcome to the freak show.”

Bella let out a quick, surprised breath, almost like she wasn’t sure if Gwendolyn was joking or not. Gwendolyn just grinned and went back to flicking one of Boo’s ears, which he tolerated purely because it was her.

Alice, of course, was completely undeterred by any awkwardness and immediately materialized beside Bella like she’d been summoned. “Hi, Bella!” she grinned. “We’ve been dying to meet you.”

Bella blinked at her enthusiasm. “…Oh. Uh, hi.”

Alice grabbed her hand like they were already best friends. Gwendolyn could tell Bella wasn’t used to this level of energy.

“Would you like to see the house?” Esme offered smoothly.

Bella nodded, still glancing around like she couldn’t believe she was here. Which, again, fair. The place looked like it belonged in a magazine, not the middle of a damp Washington forest.

Then, just as the tour began—

"I hope you enjoy disappointment."

Gwendolyn didn’t even have to turn to know Rosalie was standing at the top of the staircase, arms crossed, looking like she was about to launch a full-scale denial of service attack on Bella’s self-esteem.

Bella flinched slightly, but to her credit, didn’t completely shrink away.

Esme sighed. “Rose.”

Rosalie, unbothered, continued, “I mean it. If we’re all going to pretend this is normal, we might as well be honest with the girl.”

Edward’s entire posture locked up. “Rosalie.”

Bella let out a quiet breath, like she had expected worse.

Gwendolyn tilted her head, glancing between the two. “So, you don’t scare easy, huh?”

Bella offered a dry, nervous smile. “Not yet.”

Gwendolyn snorted. “Give it time.”

Rosalie shot her a glare, but Gwendolyn didn’t budge. If she thought Gwendolyn was going to back her up, she was sadly mistaken.

Esme turned back to Bella, apologetic. “I’m sorry about that.”

Bella forced a small smile. “It’s okay. I get it.”

Gwendolyn raised an eyebrow. Do you, though?

Rosalie huffed and stormed upstairs. Boo watched her go but didn’t even flick his tail. He had already decided Rosalie was exhausting and not worth his energy. Edward looked like he wanted to murder someone, but he let her go as well.

Alice, as if nothing had happened, clapped her hands together. “Well! Want to see the rest of the house?”

Bella nodded hesitantly, and Edward led her toward the next room.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Gwendolyn stretched, wincing slightly when her ribs reminded her they were still a problem. “Should’ve brought popcorn.”

☽☽☽

Eventually, Bella made her way back down the stairs, still looking half in shock from whatever speech Edward had just given her about Carlisle’s past. Gwendolyn was half-draped over the couch, flipping through a book she wasn’t really reading. She had a pen in one hand, lazily doodling in the margins of the book, because she was too tired to get her sketchbook from upstairs. The page was already full of random sketches—swirling patterns, half-finished faces, little ghostly figures that stared blankly at the text. Boo was curled up at her feet, his massive form draped across the cushions like he owned the place.

She looked up as Bella hesitated near the piano, where Esme was watching Edward who turned toward the piano. He lifted the cover and started playing something way too romantic. Gwendolyn, under her breath, scoffed.  

Bella froze. "You wrote this?" she asked, like she couldn’t believe it.

Esme, glowing, nodded. "It’s your song."

Bella’s eyes widened. "My song?"

Gwendolyn buried her face in the couch cushion. “I knew this was going to happen.”

Emmett, who sat on the armrest next to her, choked on a laugh and elbowed her in the ribs—except unfortunately, he forgot they were still healing. A sharp hiss of pain slipped through Gwendolyn’s teeth. Before Gwendolyn even had time to react, Boo did. A low, deep, furious growl rumbled through the room, so sharp and immediate that even Edward paused mid-keystroke.

Gwendolyn’s pen slipped, smearing ink across the page as Boo exploded into motion, his fur bristling like a storm, his growl low and rolling like distant thunder. In a heartbeat, he was there—a wall of muscle and fury between her and Emmett, fangs bared, golden eyes locked onto his next target. The sheer force of it was enough to make Emmett take an instinctive step back. It was the first time Gwendolyn had ever seen Emmett hesitate.

“Okay,” Emmett muttered, raising his hands. “That’s new.”

Boo kept staring at him. Gwendolyn reached out, wincing, pressing a hand into Boo’s fur. “Chill. I’m good.”

There was a long, stretched second of tension before Boo finally pulled back. He stayed pressed against Gwendolyn, tail flicking once in a sharp, unimpressed motion before settling back down beside her like a stone guardian.

Emmett let out a slow breath, visibly relaxing. "Hell," he muttered. "I’m never gonna get on his good side again, am I?"

Gwendolyn smirked, rubbing the ink smudge off her fingers as she exhaled. “Not if you keep pulling shit like that.”

Bella, concerned, glanced over. “Are you okay?”

Gwendolyn gritted her teeth and forced a casual shrug. "I’m fine. Emmett’s just an idiot."

Emmett didn’t even argue. Esme gave Gwendolyn a look, but didn’t call her out for downplaying it. Instead, she gently steered the conversation back to Edward’s very dramatic composition.

Gwendolyn picked up her pen again, flipping to a new page. Instead of doodling, she started scribbling dramatic, angsty song lyrics just to mock Edward in her now unshielded mind. She sank deeper into the couch, muttering under her breath. "Can’t believe this is my life now."

☽☽☽

Gwendolyn hadn’t exactly wanted to come to the baseball game. Normally, she’d be all over watching the Cullens show off their absurd superhuman skills. But her ribs still ached with every deep breath, and the idea of standing in the middle of a wide-open field, completely useless, wasn’t exactly her idea of a good time.

Alice had insisted. “Come on, Gwen. You need fresh air.”

Fresh air my ass, she thought as Emmett launched himself at a ball like he was trying to send it into orbit.

She was propped against a fallen tree, arms crossed, ignoring the constant, dull pain that came with every shift of her weight. Boo sat beside her, his massive frame planted firmly against her leg, watching the others with a level of disinterest that matched hers. He flicked an ear every time Emmett shouted – his only sign of annoyance.

Bella stood nearby, shifting awkwardly, clearly trying to follow the game. Gwendolyn still didn’t know what to make of her. She wasn’t... awful, just kind of there. And for someone dating an undead disaster like Edward Cullen, she was weirdly unshaken by all this—which either meant she was brave or stupid. Or maybe she just didn’t know yet what it meant to be chosen.

A loud crack echoed through the clearing as Jasper sent the ball flying. Emmett took off after it, whooping like a kid on a sugar high.

Gwendolyn sighed. “Show-offs.”

Bella turned slightly. “This is normal for them, isn’t it?”

Gwendolyn huffed a quiet laugh. “Pretty much.” She was about to make some sarcastic remark about Emmett when Alice froze. Her golden eyes went distant, her whole body going rigid as the vision took hold.

Everyone stilled.

Boo’s body tensed against Gwendolyn’s leg. A low, warning growl rumbled from his chest, golden eyes fixed on Alice with sharp awareness.

Alice’s voice trembled as she whispered, “I didn’t see... I didn’t know.”

Carlisle stepped forward. “What is it, Alice?” His voice was calm, but firm.

Alice inhaled sharply, blinking through the haze of her vision. “They’re coming.”

Gwendolyn’s expression didn’t shift. “Who’s coming?” she asked, voice even.

Alice turned to her, and for the first time in a long time, she looked genuinely unsettled. “The vampires I saw earlier today,” she murmured. “They’re close. They heard us playing—it changed their path.”

Jasper’s hand hovered over Alice’s shoulder, his eyes already flicking toward the trees. “How soon?”

Edward’s head snapped up, his expression dark and unreadable. “Less than five minutes. They’re running. They want to play.”

Emmett cracked his knuckles. “Let them come.”

Gwendolyn resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Of course he was excited.

After debating on their best next move, Carlisle made the decision. “We’ll continue the game,” he said. His voice was even, but there was an edge to it.

“That’s optimistic,” Gwendolyn muttered under her breath.

Edward was already moving, positioning himself in front of Bella with a tension that felt like an iron wall slamming into place. Instinct pulled Gwendolyn closer, shifting slightly so she stood at Bella’s side. Boo didn’t move, his entire body was locked tight, golden eyes tracking the wind like it was a living thing.

"Take your hair down," Edward ordered Bella.

Bella obeyed without hesitation, shaking her hair loose in an attempt to shield her scent. Gwendolyn exhaled through her nose, already knowing it wouldn’t work. She glanced at the shifting breeze, the way the air curled and carried with movement unseen to human eyes. Not good.

“It won’t help,” she murmured. “I could smell her from across the field.”

Edward’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. Instead, his golden eyes flicked to her, waiting.

Gwendolyn inhaled sharply, focusing on feeling the air. Then she pushed. The air around them stilled, not in a natural way, but in a way that felt wrong. Like the wind had been commanded to halt mid-motion, held in place by something unseen. It took effort, like keeping a door shut against an oncoming storm, but Gwendolyn focused. She wove control into the air itself, twisting currents to disperse Bella’s scent before it could settle.

"I’ll keep the wind from shifting," she muttered. "No guarantees, but it should hold."

Edward shot her a glance, not his usual annoyed look, but something closer to actual appreciation.

The air remained unnaturally still. For a moment, it was enough.

Then she heard the sound of movement. It was fast. Too fast.

Boo’s hackles shot up. His golden eyes snapped toward the trees, muscles tensing like a coiled wire ready to snap. The stillness shattered as three figures emerged from the shadows, slipping into the clearing with an eerie, fluid grace. Gwendolyn didn’t flinch when the trio appeared—just adjusted her stance slightly, letting Boo step forward first.

The first was tall, dark-skinned, and regal-looking, his posture deceptively relaxed. The second was lanky, with sun-bleached hair and a predatory gleam in his blood-red eyes. And the third, she was the worst. A woman with fiery curls, her movements restless and calculated, her gaze flickering over the group like she was already picking out the weakest link.

Boo’s growl rumbled louder. There was tension, yes, but no fear. Not with Boo beside her. Not with magic ready at her fingertips.

Edward lunged forward, a low snarl tearing from his throat as he positioned himself fully in front of Bella. Boo stepped forward with him, his entire body locked tight with aggression. Gwendolyn barely had time to register it before the three strangers came to a halt, their interest unmistakable.

The regal one smiled easily, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m Laurent,” he introduced himself, before gesturing to his companions. “This is Victoria and James.”

Victoria’s gaze flicked toward Gwendolyn. Something in her expression darkened for a split second before shifting back to idle curiosity. Gwendolyn held her gaze, unwilling to be the first to look away.

They know I’m not like them.

Boo let out another deep, warning growl beside her.

Carlisle stepped forward, diplomatic as ever. “I’m Carlisle. These are my family.”

Laurent glanced around, taking them all in. “I see. We didn’t expect to find a coven here.”

Boo shifted against Gwendolyn’s leg, muscles locking tight. His tail flicked once, slow and deliberate, but his ears pinned flat, watching Laurent. Gwendolyn could feel it too, the pause in his words, the way his eyes lingered on her for half a second longer than the others.

Edward’s muscles coiled visibly, every part of him vibrating with tension. “We have a home here,” he said stiffly.

Laurent smiled again. “So it seems.”

It was subtle, but Gwendolyn felt it, the way their postures shifted when Laurent mentioned hunting. The second those words left his mouth, the tension sharpened into something dangerous.

Carlisle’s voice was level, but firm. “We prefer not to hunt within our territory.”

Laurent raised an eyebrow, but his tone remained conversational. “Interesting.”

Then James’s head tilted slightly. A wicked grin curled his lips.

For a second, Gwendolyn didn’t understand. Then she felt it, the frenzy of the predator.

James hadn’t smelled Bella. He had heard her.

Gwendolyn saw it click in real-time—the moment James locked onto the too-fast, too-loud sound of Bella’s heartbeat. His whole body tensed. His crimson eyes snapped toward Bella, his nostrils flaring, every muscle in his body winding tight.

The scent had been handled. The wind was locked in place. But her heartbeat had given her away, it had stood out against Boo’s and her own heartbeat which were steadier, calmer.

Gwendolyn barely had time to react before Edward exploded into movement.  A deep, vicious snarl ripped through the clearing as he threw himself between James and Bella, his hands curling into fists, his entire being radiating murder. Gwendolyn moved instinctively, stepping closer to Bella just as Esme and Emmett flanked them both. Her ribs screamed in protest, but she ignored it.

Laurent’s eyes flickered toward James, his voice sharp. “James.”

But James wasn’t listening. His eyes were locked on Bella, his entire being coiled for the hunt. “But she’s human,” he murmured, the words thick with hunger.

Carlisle didn’t hesitate. “She is with us,” he said, his voice colder than Gwendolyn had ever heard it. Then, Emmett stepped forward, his massive frame radiating pure menace. “Yeah,” he rumbled. “She is.”

She saw James hesitate just slightly.

Laurent, sensing the shift, cleared his throat. “We meant no trouble,” he said smoothly. “Perhaps we can discuss this further.”

Carlisle nodded once. “Of course.”

But James’s gaze flickered to Gwendolyn, who hadn’t spoken a word. She wasn’t standing as close to Bella as Edward was, but she was still positioned at her side. Still between James and his new favorite obsession. And something about that intrigued him. She didn’t let herself blink when James looked at her. She just looked back, jaw set, eyes flat.

Boo lunged forward too, fangs bared.

James’s lips twitched into something close to amusement. Then, just as fast as it came, James seemed to lose interest. He turned away, following Laurent and Victoria. Edward was still vibrating with tension, his eyes burning with something unreadable.

Boo remained pressed against Gwendolyn, muscles tight. But Gwendolyn knew one thing for sure, this wasn’t over.

☽☽☽

The atmosphere inside the Cullens’ home was thick with tension, the kind that settled deep in the bones and didn’t let go. Gwendolyn could feel it shifting under the surface—not panic, not fear, but readiness. This wasn’t about danger anymore. This was strategy. Boo sat pressed against her leg, ears pinned back, muscles tight. He didn’t like the energy in the room, and neither did she.

Laurent stood near the center, hands raised in a passive gesture, but his words did nothing to cut through the weight in the air. "I’m sorry," he said. "I was afraid, when your boy there defended her, that it would set him off."

Carlisle’s gaze was steady. "Can you stop him?"

Laurent shook his head, his face darkening. "Nothing stops James when he gets started."

"We’ll stop him."

Emmett’s voice was cool, filled with confidence, and Gwendolyn knew he meant it. But Laurent just laughed, the sound humorless. "You can’t bring him down. I’ve never seen anything like him in my three hundred years. He’s absolutely lethal. That’s why I joined his coven." His gaze flickered toward Carlisle, almost curious. "Are you sure it’s worth it?"

Edward’s roar filled the room before anyone could answer. Gwendolyn didn’t so much as twitch, but Laurent cringed back, his eyes flickering to the exit like he was seriously considering running for it.

Carlisle’s voice, steady as steel, cut through the tension. "I’m afraid you’re going to have to make a choice."

Laurent exhaled. "I’m intrigued by the life you’ve created here. But I won’t get in the middle of this. I bear none of you any enmity, but I won’t go up against James." He hesitated, then added, "I think I will head north—to that Clan in Denali."

Gwendolyn’s jaw shifted slightly. "So that’s it? You run?"

Laurent looked at her, and there was no malice in his eyes. If anything, there was pity. "You don’t understand what you’re dealing with." He turned back to Carlisle. "Don’t underestimate James. He’s got a brilliant mind and unparalleled senses. He’s every bit as comfortable in the human world as you seem to be, and he won’t come at you head-on." A pause. "I’m truly sorry for what’s been unleashed here."

Carlisle’s voice remained formal. "Go in peace."

Laurent hesitated for only a moment longer before disappearing through the door, the heavy silence swallowing him whole. And then, without a word, Esme moved to one of the walls touching a switch. A soft beep, a barely-there shift of movement and then the huge metal shutters groaned into place, sealing the glass walls, locking them inside like a fortress bracing for battle.

Boo let out a single sharp breath. Gwendolyn didn’t move. Her thoughts were already ahead of the moment. No more illusions. No more games.

Edward’s head snapped up, his voice clipped. "How close?"

"Three miles out past the river." His golden eyes burned with fury. "He’s circling back to meet up with the female."

Carlisle exhaled, his calm mask unwavering, but Gwendolyn saw the way his fingers curled into his palms. "What’s the plan?"

Edward didn’t hesitate. "We lead him off. Gwen, Jasper, and Alice take Bella south."

Gwendolyn’s jaw clenched. She wasn’t stupid, she knew she wasn’t in any condition to fight. Her ribs ached with every breath, and she would slow them down if she tried to go after James. But the idea of being removed from the action still burned. Her arms crossed over her chest. "And then?"

Edward met her gaze, unreadable. "Once Bella is clear, we hunt him."

No room for debate or mercy.

Carlisle’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he nodded. "No other choice."

His gaze flicked toward Rosalie. "Rosalie—"

"No." The word was sharp, slicing through the moment like a blade.

Edward barely blinked. "Get her upstairs and trade clothes."

Rosalie bristled, anger crackling off her like a live wire. "Why should I?" she hissed. "What is she to me? Except a menace, a danger you’ve chosen to inflict on all of us."

Edward didn’t budge.

"Rose." Emmett’s voice was softer this time, his large hand resting lightly on her shoulder.

She shrugged it off. "No."

Boo let out a slow, deep growl, ears flat against his head. Gwendolyn knew what that meant. Division was risk and risk was weakness.

"Esme?" Edward’s voice was calm, but edged with tension.

"Of course." Esme’s answer was quiet but firm, and just like that, Bella was being led upstairs while the others moved into action.

Gwendolyn barely heard the rest as Esme took Bella upstairs. The others were already moving, grabbing bags, preparing the cars, tossing disposable cell phones between them like soldiers gearing up for war.

She stayed still and just watched. Because that was the thing, wasn’t it?

Bella got plans. Backup. A war council springing to life the second her heart skipped a beat. No hesitation. No questions.

Gwendolyn? She got Tylenol. Carlisle’s sighs. Alice’s teasing. Emmett’s bruised apologies. She got affection—real affection—but it was quiet. Fragmented. No war councils. No absolute lines drawn in blood and silver.

And maybe that was fine. Maybe she didn’t need it.

But seeing it—how fast they moved for Bella, how willing they were to risk everything without blinking—left a bitter taste in her mouth she couldn’t quite scrub out.

Would they do the same for her? If things turned? If someone like James came for her instead?

She didn’t know.
She hated that she didn’t know.

Because she knew she would. No hesitation. No second thoughts. If it had been any of them. Hell, even Rosalie. She would’ve gone. She would’ve fought. No one would have had to ask.

And maybe that was what stung most. Not that they didn’t care, but that she still didn’t know if she was theirs the way they were hers.

She didn’t want to need what Bella had, didn’t want to crave that kind of certainty.

And Rosalie… that glare she aimed at Bella? The sharp-edged, ice-brittle kind of loathing? Gwendolyn had lived under that look. Too many times to count. It was strange. Seeing it aimed somewhere else. At someone else. But familiar enough that it made her stomach twist.

But watching it unfold? Watching Rosalie spit venom and the rest of the family move anyway?

Yeah. It stung. More than she’d ever admit out loud.

☽☽☽

Across the garage, Alice stood eerily still. Not a good still. Not the poised, elegant stillness she usually carried. No, this was the vision-heavy stillness—the kind where she was somewhere else entirely.

Gwendolyn stepped closer. “What is it?”

Alice’s lips parted slightly before she blinked rapidly, snapping back to the present. Her eyes darted to Edward. “They’ll take the bait,” she murmured, certainty laced in her words.

Edward exhaled. “He’ll track you,” he said to Carlisle. “The woman will follow the truck. We should be able to leave after that.”

Carlisle nodded once before turning to Bella, who had just reentered the garage. “Esme and Rosalie will be taking your truck, Bella.”

Bella only nodded, her face pale.

Carlisle continued, handing Alice the keys. “Alice, Jasper, Gwen—you take the Mercedes. You’ll need the dark tint in the south.”

Gwendolyn glanced at Jasper, who gave a single, slight nod.

Carlisle turned back to Edward. “You and I are taking the Jeep.”

Edward barely nodded before turning back to Bella. His hand hovered near her face, hesitating, before he cupped her cheek briefly. “You’re leaving tonight.”

Bella’s breath hitched, her throat working around the lump of fear that had settled there. Carlisle touched Gwendolyn’s shoulder lightly before turning away, heading toward the kitchen. It grounded her more than she expected. Edward pressed a final kiss to Bella’s forehead and followed after him.

Bella broke then. Silent tears slipping down her cheeks.

Gwendolyn shifted slightly, pretending not to notice and resisting the urge to step away when Esme suddenly turned toward her. Before she could react, Esme gently cupped her face and pressed a kiss on her forehead. Gwendolyn froze. Not stiffly, not in rejection, just… unsure. She wasn’t used to warmth that asked for nothing in return. For half a second, she thought about pulling away, but didn’t. She let it happen. And it lingered longer than she expected, the warmth settling somewhere deep in her chest, confusing and steady all at once. Esme had always been so gentle with her, even when Gwendolyn wasn’t sure she deserved it.

Boo huffed quietly, the closest thing to an observation, but didn’t move.

Then Esme glanced at Bella, placing a hand on her shoulder and squeezing it lightly, “Be safe,” she whispered. Bella nodded once, wiping her cheek with the back of her hand, her fingers trembling slightly. Then Esme was gone, Rosalie trailing after her—heels clicking sharply, her back turned, not even a glance spared in her or Bella’s direction.

Gwendolyn didn’t know why that stung a little.

She felt Alice move beside her before she saw her. No words at first, just the soft shift of weight, the faint scent of rainwater and something floral as Alice leaned in.

“I don’t like this either,” Alice murmured under her breath, too soft for human ears.

Gwendolyn didn’t answer right away. Her ribs were throbbing, her hand curled slightly against her side, but that wasn’t what made her feel off-kilter. It was the unease clawing at her spine. The way this felt like a trap before it had even begun.

Alice bumped her arm gently. “Just stick close, okay?”

Gwendolyn glanced sideways. Alice wasn’t smiling. For once, there was no manic cheer in her expression, just quiet seriousness. Gwendolyn gave the faintest nod, almost imperceptible. She didn’t trust the words in her throat. But Alice seemed to get it anyway.

Not long after, Alice’s phone buzzed. It was their turn to leave.

☽☽☽

Chapter Text

The faint hum of city life pressed against the walls of the hotel suite. Phoenix felt wrong. Too hot, too dry, too open. The city sounds never stopped—muffled traffic, distant sirens, the occasional horn slicing through the night. Even now, before sunrise, the air felt restless.

Gwendolyn sat curled up in an armchair by the window, shuffling a battered deck of cards idly between her fingers. Boo was sprawled at her feet, his massive frame stretched across the floor, ears instinctively twitching at every distant noise.

Alice sat frozen on the couch, eyes distant, locked onto some future only she could see. Jasper was beside her, stiff and silent, tension rippling beneath his stillness. The atmosphere in the suite was thick and heavy with waiting.

A shift in the air made Gwendolyn glance toward the bedroom. Bella stepped into the spacious living room, rubbing at her face, looking groggy and unsteady.  The suite was large, too large for a group trying to lay low, but Alice had insisted on two bedrooms, a full kitchen, and a sitting area with windows overlooking the city.

Gwendolyn barely glanced up from her cards. “You sleep okay?”

Bella sighed, dropping into the other armchair beside her. “I guess.”

Gwendolyn’s lips curled slightly. “That’s as good as we’re gonna get, huh?”

Bella gave a weak chuckle, rubbing her face. Without thinking, Gwendolyn nudged a plate of cut fruits toward her. “Breakfast of champions.”

Bella hesitated before picking up a slice of orange. She didn’t look hungry, but she ate it anyway. She cast another glance toward Alice and Jasper. “Anything?”

Alice blinked once, slow and deliberate. “No.”

Jasper didn’t even look up.

Bella swallowed looking around. “Right.”

Gwendolyn watched her for a beat, sensing the unease rolling off her. The quiet, the waiting—it was getting to her. Gwendolyn hated this. Not because she was scared, but because she wasn't. She trusted the Cullens. She trusted Alice’s visions. She trusted herself. This wasn’t some hopeless fight against an enemy they couldn’t handle—James might be dangerous, but he wasn’t some unbeatable force. He was just another predator who had chosen the wrong people to mess with.

And yet, they were stuck waiting. The past two days had blurred together – an endless loop of silence, and vision updates. The hotel felt like a cage, too luxurious for the tension it held. They hadn’t moved, hadn’t fought. They just waited, and waiting had its own kind of violence.

Finally, after some time, she pushed herself up and nudged Bella’s foot with her own. “C’mon.”

Bella frowned. “What?”

Gwendolyn gestured toward the bedroom. “Let’s get out of the tension chamber. I could use a break from their weird statue routine.”

Bella hesitated, glancing at Alice, who didn’t react, still caught in the weight of whatever future she was tracking.

“Yeah,” Bella muttered, standing. “Okay.”

The two of them slipped into the other room, Gwendolyn closing the door behind them with a soft click. The space felt warmer, less suffocating. It was like stepping out of the eye of the storm. She let out a slow breath before leaning back against the door for a second, rolling her shoulders carefully. Bella sat down on the edge of the bed, watching her.

Gwendolyn crossed her arms. “You okay?”

Bella let out a short, humorless laugh. “I mean, not really.”

“Fair.” Gwendolyn smirked. “You’re holding up better than I expected, though.”

Bella exhaled, fiddling with the hem of her shirt. “I think I’m still waiting for reality to hit me.”

Gwendolyn snorted. “It already did. You’re just too stubborn to fall apart.”

Bella blinked at her. “You say that like it’s a compliment.”

“It is.”

Bella huffed a soft laugh, shaking her head. “I don’t know how you’re so… calm about all of this.”

Gwendolyn let out a short laugh, pushing off the door. “Because there’s no reason not to be.”

Seeing the look of confusion on Bella, Gwendolyn shrugged. “We have a plan. We have a lead. We have Alice. There’s nothing to panic about.” She sat on the edge of the bed, next to Bella, adjusting her weight to avoid aggravating her ribs. “James isn’t the first monster we’ve had to deal with.”

Bella’s lips pressed together.

“And before you ask—no, I’m not ignoring the danger.” Gwendolyn leaned back slightly, bracing her hands behind her. “I know what he is. I know what he can do. But he’s not special. He’s not some untouchable force of nature. He’s just another predator with an ego.”

Bella let out a slow breath, studying her. “You don’t think he’s unstoppable?”

Gwendolyn’s smirk was sharp. “Nobody is.”

Bella was quiet for a long moment, before she spoke again. “I wish I could think like that.”

Gwendolyn tilted her head, looking straight at her. “You can.”

Bella let out a weak huff of laughter, but her shoulders still sagged with exhaustion. Gwendolyn reached for her bag on the floor, pulling out a small tin.

Bella frowned. “What’s that?”

“Pain salve.” Gwendolyn popped the lid and pressed two fingers into the cool herbal paste. She pushed up her shirt just enough to rub it along her ribs, careful and precise. From the corner of her eye, Gwendolyn saw Bella’s widened eyes at the deep purple bruising along Gwendolyn’s ribs. She also sensed when Bella noticed the ink on her ribs. Curving beneath her breasts, there was a tattoo of moon phases, the dark ink contrasting against her fair skin. At the center of the design, water swirled in intricate, flowing lines, drawn like it was caught mid-motion. It looked old. Not in a faded way, but like it belonged there—like it had always been a part of her. And as Gwendolyn shifted, rubbing more of the salve on her ribs, Bella caught sight of another tattoo on her left side. Starting below her armpit, were two lines of script. The inked words followed the natural shape of her torso, delicate but bold: "Darkness is not the end, only the beginning."

Bella’s mouth opened slightly, then shut, before opening again. “Jesus.”

Gwendolyn snorted. “Yeah, yeah. ‘I’m an idiot for playing football with vampires.’ I’ve heard it already.”

Bella still looked startled. “That looks awful. Are you—?”

“I’m fine.” Gwendolyn rolled her eyes, dabbing more of the salve over the worst of it. She knew Bella had seen the tattoos, but she didn’t bring it up—yet. “Should’ve seen it a few days ago.”

Bella shook her head, still looking half-horrified. She hesitated, like she wanted to ask, but wasn’t sure if she should. “You say that like it’s normal,” she finally muttered instead.

Gwendolyn smirked. “It is.”

Bella exhaled. “And here I thought I had it bad with the whole ‘murderous tracker’ thing.”

Gwendolyn snorted, placing the tin next to her on the bed. “Yeah, well, your problems are a little more pressing than my dumbass decisions.”

Bella hummed, eyeing the tin. “Does it work on humans?”

Gwendolyn shot her a look. “You sore, Bella?”

Bella scoffed. “I feel like I got hit by a truck, so yeah.”

Gwendolyn hummed, tossing the tin towards her. “Go for it.”

Bella hesitated for a second before swiping some of the salve and rubbing it along the back of her neck and shoulders. She looked up at Gwendolyn, surprised. “Okay… that actually does help.”

Gwendolyn smirked. “Told you.”

Bella let out a breath of laughter, rolling her shoulders. “Maybe you should start selling this stuff.”

Gwendolyn snorted. “Yeah, sure. ‘Hey, Carlisle, I know we’re hiding from a murderous tracker, but I think I should start an Etsy shop.’”

Bella actually laughed at that. Gwendolyn joined her—right before pain flared up her side. She winced immediately, gripping her ribs as her breath hitched.

Bella’s laughter cut off. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Gwendolyn wheezed, eyes squeezed shut. “Everything’s fine.”

Bella bit her lip, trying not to laugh again. “Yeah,” she said, smirking. “Sure it is.”

Gwendolyn just groaned, flopping back onto the bed dramatically. “Kill me.”

Bella definitely laughed again, before going back to thinking. Then, she hesitated—just for a second. “…So,” she said, stretching the word out like she was trying to be casual and failing miserably, “what’s with the tattoos?”

Gwendolyn flicked her a look. “Which one?”

Bella gestured vaguely toward Gwendolyn’s ribs. “Both. Any. All of them.”

Gwendolyn sighed dramatically, stretching out on the bed like she was being so burdened by the conversation. “You are way too nosy, Bella.”

Bella rolled her eyes. “You didn’t have to take your shirt half off and give me a free show, then.”

Gwendolyn barked out a painful laugh. “I was putting on medicine, not performing for tips.”

“Still,” Bella muttered, eyes flicking toward the Gwendolyn’s side, where she knew the script stretched. “That one—what does it mean?”

For a moment, Gwendolyn didn’t answer. She just rubbed the last bit of salve into her bruises, her fingers pausing slightly over the ink. Then, too casually, she said, “It’s a reminder.”

Bella frowned. “Of what?”

Gwendolyn flicked her an unimpressed look. “Of how much I hate nosy people.”

Bella huffed. “Come on.”

Gwendolyn rolled her eyes. “It’s personal.” It was more important than Gwendolyn was willing to admit.

Bella hesitated, then nodded. But her gaze flickered to the moon phases and water design. “And the other one?”

Gwendolyn tilted her head slightly, like that one didn’t bother her as much. “Magic thing.”

Bella raised an eyebrow. “Magic thing?”

Gwendolyn smirked. “Yeah. I know it’s shocking, but turns out some casters like getting permanent ink of their affinities.”

Bella hummed, but she didn’t push any further, which Gwendolyn noticed. And, maybe because of that, after a long beat, she tapped her fingers absently against the script tattoo and muttered—just barely audible, like she didn’t mean to say it aloud—“He used to say it a lot.”

Bella blinked. “Who?”

But Gwendolyn had already caught herself. She sat up straught, stretching again like she was bored, shaking off whatever had just slipped through. Before Bella could say anything else, Gwendolyn flicked her forehead.

Bella scowled. “Ow.”

“Are you done interrogating me?” Gwendolyn teased.

Bella sighed dramatically. “Fine. For now.”

Gwendolyn smirked. “Figured.”

Bella huffed, shaking her head. She leaned back slightly, eyes flicking toward the ceiling. Silence settled between them again, but this time, it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was easy, in a way that Gwendolyn hadn’t expected. Bella didn’t talk just to fill space, didn’t ask questions she already knew the answers to. She was blunt, but not pushy, curious but not annoying about it. Gwendolyn could appreciate that.

Which was why, when she noticed Bella giving her a look, she sighed heavily. “Alright,” she drawled, flopping back onto the bed. “Whatever you’re thinking, just say it before it eats a hole through your brain.”

Bella sat up a little, stretching out her legs. “Edward told me something about you.”

Gwendolyn raised an eyebrow from where she was lounging on the bed, absently twirling a ring around her finger. "Did he? Shocking. The man never shuts up."

Bella ignored that. "He said you’re... part incubus? And caster?"

Gwendolyn closed her eyes. "Nope."

Bella frowned. "Nope?"

"Nope.” Gwendolyn stretched lazily, rolling her shoulders. “Not doing this. This is not a supernatural Q&A session."

Bella huffed dramatically. "Oh, come on. I’m not asking for a PowerPoint presentation, I just—"

"—want to know how the half-blood witch-demon girl works? Yeah, I got that," Gwendolyn interrupted. She cracked one eye open. Her smirk was sharp, teasing, but there was an edge to it. "And I’m telling you, not happening."

Bella groaned. "Why not?"

Gwendolyn exhaled, rubbing her temple. "Because, Bella, if I have to sit through a ‘so how does your magic work’ conversation, I will actually lose my mind."

Bella rolled her eyes. "Edward made it sound interesting."

"Edward is a liar," Gwendolyn said dryly. "And dramatic."

" He made it sound like you were the magical lovechild of Merlin and a Bond villain." Bella muttered.

Gwendolyn snorted. Bella crossed her arms, still looking at her expectantly. Gwendolyn considered telling her to drop it. But Bella wasn’t looking at her like she was dangerous or like she was other. She only looked curious.

Gwendolyn sighed. "Fine. You’re lucky you’re cute. I’ll give you one trick."

Bella perked up immediately. Gwendolyn sat up, rolling her wrists like she was preparing for something grand. She held up one hand. For a second, nothing happened. Then, a tiny, pathetic flame flickered to life on one of her fingertips.

Bella furrowed her brows, confused. "That’s it?"

"Yup."

Bella stared. "...That’s the best you’ve got?"

Gwendolyn smirked. "You wanted magic, you got magic."

Bella groaned. "I thought you were going to do something cool!"

"Magic isn’t a party trick, Bella," Gwendolyn said loftily. Then, just to mess with her, Gwendolyn flicked the flame at her. Bella yelped and swatted at the absolutely harmless spark, which fizzled out midair.

Gwendolyn laughed. "Okay, that was fun."

Bella scowled. "For you maybe."

Gwendolyn grinned in response.

Bella muttered something under her breath and flopped back onto the bed. The room fell into a more comfortable silence after that. The weight of their situation still loomed over them, but for a moment, it was easier, lighter.

Then, a soft knock at the door interrupted them.

Alice stepped in, moving gracefully as always, but Gwendolyn immediately noticed something about her posture was off. Tension coiled around her shoulders, her expression smooth but too careful.

"What are you talking about?" Alice asked lightly, though there was an edge in her voice.

Gwendolyn smirked. "Bella was just learning that I’m way less cool than she thought."

Bella shot her a glare. "You scammed me out of real magic."

Alice hummed, amused, before tilting her head toward Bella. “Anything else you’re curious about?”

Bella hesitated for only a second. “Alice, how does someone become a vampire?"

Gwendolyn snorted. "That was direct."

Alice, who had just walked in, froze mid-step. "I’m not supposed to tell you," she admitted, glancing over her shoulder as if Edward might materialize out of thin air. "He’d be furious."

Gwendolyn rolled her eyes. "Oh, for fuck’s sake, Alice, don’t be a coward. Just tell her."

Alice hesitated. Bella perked up at Gwendolyn’s encouragement. “Exactly! If he’s going to brood about something, it might as well be this.”

Alice let out a dramatic sigh, but her lips curved slightly, betraying her amusement. “You two are going to get me in trouble,” she muttered.

Gwendolyn grinned. "What’s new?"

Alice huffed but relented. "It’s simple," she said quietly. "Blood is involved. A human must be bitten, and the venom from a vampire’s bite starts to change their body. It’s excruciating, like fire running through your veins, lasting for days until the transformation is complete."

Bella’s face paled slightly, but she didn’t back down. "And it’s the venom that does it? Not just the bite?"

Alice nodded. "Yes. That’s why we have to be so careful. A bite that isn’t controlled can turn lethal, or worse—it can create another vampire by accident."

Gwendolyn, watching Bella carefully, added, "Which is why it’s not a decision you make lightly. No take-backsies."

Bella shivered, rubbing her arms.

Alice gave Gwendolyn a pointed look. "Edward is going to murder you for this conversation."

Gwendolyn smirked. "He’s welcome to try."

Bella let out a breathy laugh, but her amusement faded as the weight of Alice’s words settled. Before anyone could say more, Alice suddenly froze. The air shifted. The easy energy vanished. Gwendolyn’s spine straightened.

Alice’s golden eyes went distant, her entire body locking into perfect stillness. Jasper was at the doorway instantly, his presence sharp as he crossed the space faster than Gwendolyn could blink.

"Alice," he murmured, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder. "What do you see?"

Alice’s lips parted slightly, her pupils flickering as she watched something they couldn’t see. “I see a room. Long, with mirrors everywhere. The floor is wooden. He’s there, waiting. There’s a gold stripe running across the mirrors.”

“Where is this room?” Jasper pressed.

Alice shook her head, frustration creasing her brow. “I don’t know. Something is missing. Another decision hasn’t been made yet.”

“How much time do we have?” Gwendolyn asked, voice sharper now. Boo let out a low growl from his spot by the door.

“It’s soon. He’ll be there today or maybe tomorrow,” Alice whispered, shivers running down her spine. “He’s in the dark now. Watching something on TV. No... it’s a VCR. It’s in another place.”

Jasper’s jaw tightened. “Can you see where it is?”

“No, it’s too dark.” Alice’s voice trembled. “But the mirror room... there’s also a black table with a big stereo and a TV. He’s touching the VCR there, but he’s waiting for something.”

“It means the tracker’s plans have changed,” Gwendolyn said, her pale blue eyes burning with intensity. “He’s made a decision that leads him to this place, this room with the mirrors and the dark room.”

“But we don’t know where those rooms are?” Bella’s voice quivered.

Jasper’s expression remained hard. “No.”

“But we do know he won’t be in the mountains north of Washington,” Alice said, finally looking up. “He’ll elude them.”

Bella’s face fell, worry creasing her features. “Should we call them?”

Before anyone could answer, the phone rang. The sudden sound made Bella jump, but Alice was already at it, speaking quickly to Carlisle. Moments later, Bella’s voice echoed through the room as she took the receiver, speaking to Edward with a desperation that made Gwendolyn’s heart clench. Boo let out another growl, sensing the tension in Bella’s tone. The moment she hung up, Alice grabbed a pencil and started sketching furiously, the lines of a room taking shape under her deft hand. Bella’s eyes went wide as recognition dawned on her.

“It’s a ballet studio,” Bella whispered. “It looks like the one I used to go to.” The others exchanged quick, serious glances.

“Where was the studio?” Jasper asked, already knowing the answer before she spoke.

“Just around the corner from my mom’s house,” Bella confirmed, her voice tight.

“Here in Phoenix?” Jasper continued, eyes narrowing as the pieces fell into place.

“Yes. 58th Street and Cactus.”

The room’s temperature seemed to drop as they realized how close the danger was. Bella looked desperately between them all. “I need to call my mom. I have to warn her not to come back.”

Alice nodded, already moving to call Edward, arranging for him to come and get Bella. “We’ll meet him at the airport,” Alice said, but worry darkened Bella’s features.

☽☽☽

An hour later, Alice was hunched over the desk, sketching at a speed that made Gwendolyn uneasy, her hand moving so fast the pencil was nearly a blur.

Bella, half-asleep beside her, blinked at the sound. “Alice?” Her voice was hoarse, but the concern in it was sharp enough.

Alice didn’t look up. Gwendolyn already knew what that meant. By the time Alice finally stilled, her fingers trembling against the paper, Bella had scooted closer, her breath catching sharply at the sight of the sketch. Her voice was tight. “It’s my mother’s house.”

A cold weight dropped into Gwendolyn’s stomach.

Jasper, already coiled like a spring, stepped in with his jaw clenched. “We need to move,” he said immediately. His voice was flat and firm, the kind of tone that didn’t allow for arguments. “Alice and I will get a hotel closer to your mother’s house. We need to be ready.”

He was already grabbing his jacket. He didn’t wait for confirmation. Bella barely reacted before the phone rang. Gwendolyn’s head snapped up, and she immediately caught the way Bella’s entire body stiffened before even reaching for it.

“It’s my mom,” Bella whispered, her voice suddenly thin.

That was the moment Gwendolyn made her decision. She wasn’t going to sit here and listen to whatever that conversation was about to be. She rolled her shoulders, stretching out the stiffness in her muscles, then grabbed her bag off the chair. “I’m going with Jasper,” she announced, already moving toward the door.

Alice’s golden eyes flickered toward her, but she didn’t argue. Jasper simply nodded. “We won’t be long.”

Bella barely acknowledged them, too focused on the phone as she stepped away from the group.

Gwendolyn didn’t linger. The second the door closed behind her and Jasper, the air outside felt lighter—not by much, but enough. It felt good to move. To do something instead of waiting like a sitting duck.

Jasper didn’t speak much as they handled checkout, which suited Gwendolyn just fine. He was too focused, too aware of how quickly things were shifting. When they finally stepped back into the elevator, Jasper exhaled sharply, rubbing his forehead. “Something doesn’t feel right,” he muttered.

Gwendolyn glanced at him. “Yeah. You’re not the only one feeling it.”

She wasn’t as attuned to emotional shifts as he was, but the energy around them had shifted—like a puzzle rearranging itself into something worse. They didn’t waste time. The second they got back to the room, Bella was nowhere to be seen.

Gwendolyn’s pulse jumped. “Where—”

Alice, standing stiffly by the window, gestured toward the bathroom. “She’s in the shower.”

The relief was short-lived. Alice’s hands were clenched into fists, her body unnaturally still. Jasper noticed immediately.

“What?” His voice was sharp.

Alice’s eyes flickered toward them both. “I had another vision. I saw Bella in the room,” Alice said, her voice trembling. “The same room with the mirrors.”

Gwendolyn’s eyes darted between Jasper and Alice, confused and heart racing. “But how?” she asked voice low. “We’re going to be far away from here. How could she end up there?”

Something was shifting, like a knot being pulled tighter with every breath they took.

“We need to get to the airport,” Jasper said, urgency in his voice. Gwendolyn glanced at him, noting the hard set of his eyes. He knew what they all did now: the timeline was collapsing faster than anticipated.

Gwendolyn exhaled sharply, nodding once. She shot a look at Alice. “Is he already there?”

Alice hesitated. “Not yet. But soon.”

Bella still looked shell-shocked, when she got out of the bathroom, but Gwendolyn wasn’t in the mood to wait for her to catch up. She grabbed Bella’s wrist, squeezing just enough to ground her. “Get dressed. Now.”

Bella blinked up at her, but listened.

Gwendolyn let go and moved toward Boo, nudging his massive head slightly. “Stay close.”

He huffed softly, as if she needed to remind him.

☽☽☽

The drive to the airport was dead silent. Tension coiled like a storm cloud, thick enough that even Boo didn’t relax. His ears flicked constantly, picking up every sound, every shift of energy around them.

Bella sat in the backseat, arms wrapped around herself, glancing at Alice like she expected her to pull another vision out at will. She leaned toward Alice as they sped down the road. “How do your visions work?” she asked.

“They’re subjective,” Alice replied, her tone sharp with tension. “I can only see the paths people choose once they’ve made a decision. If someone changes their mind, the future shifts.” Gwendolyn didn’t say anything, but her fingers drummed absently against her knee. The waiting was killing her.

They reached Sky Harbor International Airport in record time. The terminal was chaotic, full of bodies and noise. The kind of openness that made Gwendolyn’s skin crawl. She scanned the sea of strangers, hyper-aware of how exposed they were. The others were still flying in—Edward, Carlisle, Emmett—but James was already here. Somewhere.

Bella, still white-knuckling her nerves, spoke suddenly. “I—um—I should eat something.”

Gwendolyn glanced at her, brows raised. Now?

Jasper nodded, his expression unreadable. “I’ll take her.”

Bella looked at Gwendolyn like she expected her to come too, but Gwendolyn gestured lazily to Boo. “I’ll stay here,” she muttered. “Someone’s gotta make sure this one doesn’t bite a security guard.”

Boo let out a sharp huff, unimpressed.

Jasper led Bella toward a café, and they disappeared into the crowd. Alice and Gwendolyn watched them go. Boo shifted beside her, his ears flicking up sharply. Something was off.

Gwendolyn felt it too—a prickle at the base of her spine, a flicker of something wrong. Alice’s brows suddenly furrowed. She turned her head, just slightly, as if trying to focus on something unseen.

When Jasper came back, his eyes were wide.  “She’s gone,” he said, the words slicing through the moment like a gunshot.

Alice spun on her heel, her golden eyes burning with frustration and anger. Gwendolyn was on her feet instantly, her ribs protesting the sudden movement, but she didn’t care. Magic crackled beneath her skin, surging in response to the adrenaline spiking in her veins. Boo let out a deep, furious bark. His hackles raised, his entire body going stiff with alertness.

They all knew.

James had her.

And Bella had walked right into his trap.

☽☽☽

The second Gwendolyn stepped inside the ballet studio, she knew this wasn’t just bad.

It was a fucking disaster.

Bella was on the floor, screaming, her voice raw with pain. She writhed against the wooden panels, her body arched like she was trying to escape her own skin. The thick, unmistakable scent of blood was everywhere, coating the room like a second skin, sharp and metallic, burning in the back of Gwendolyn’s throat, curling at the edges of her control like a taunt. She tried to shove it aside.

James stood over Bella, looking pleased with himself, a twisted smirk curling at the edges of his mouth. Like this was a game he had already won.

Gwendolyn shifted her weight, pressing herself upright, ignoring the sharp pain still blooming in her ribs. Her breath came faster, not just from exertion, but from the sheer toll of everything. She felt it in her fingers, the magic crackling under her skin, still waiting to be used. Still ready to fight. But she was tired, more than she wanted to admit.

There was no time for hesitation though. She moved—vaulting over the balcony railing with barely a sound, landing in a sharp, controlled crouch. The moment her boots hit the floor, she sent a pulse through the air, magic crackling hot and electric beneath her fingertips. The lights flickered violently, shuddering under her influence.

James turned his head just slightly, lips parting, curious. And then, Jasper and Emmett hit him like a wrecking ball. They slammed into James, the force sending all three of them crashing through the mirrored wall, making glass explode outward.

“Gwen! Get the fire going!” Jasper barked, his voice sharp as he maneuvered James into a chokehold, muscles straining.

Gwendolyn’s hands snapped up instantly, heat swelling in her palms like a living thing, raw and ready to be released. She could feel it—too much power, surging through her veins too fast. Fire didn’t hum like her other elements. It roared—too loud, too wild. It never listened first. It just wanted to consume.

She gritted her teeth, trying to coax it back into control. Her vision blurred for half a second, static humming behind her eyes. And then, the fire flared higher than she intended, roaring upward, heat licking at the ceiling.

Shit. Too much.

She clenched her fingers into fists, forcing the flames to coil back, forcing herself to breathe through the sheer overload. Jasper stiffened beside her, eyes flickering toward her, sensing it. Emmett shifted slightly, like he was about to step forward.

Gwendolyn cut him a sharp look. “Don’t.”

Emmett smirked, but his golden eyes were still watchful. “Didn’t do anything, Gremlin.”

Boo let out a single, steady bark, grounding her.

She focused. With a sharp flick of her wrist, the fire burst forward, swirling as it snaked across the floor toward the pile of James’ torn remains that Emmett and Jasper had ruthlessly dismantled. The flames roared to life, devouring what was left of him in a hungry, crackling blaze. The stench of burning flesh filled the air.

James was gone.

But Gwendolyn wasn’t done. The second the fire was contained, she turned back to Bella. She skidded onto her knees beside her, barely feeling the sting of glass against her palms. Bella’s skin was sickly pale, sweat beading on her forehead as she trembled, eyes fluttering in and out of focus.

There was too much blood. Gwendolyn clenched her jaw and pressed down against the open wound on Bella’s leg, her hands already soaked in red. She had smelled blood before. Handled it. Learned how to breathe through it, ignore the burn in the back of her throat, push past the instinctual pull. She was good at control. She had to be. But this—this was too much, too fast. It was sharp, metallic, and thick in the air like a drug.

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to focus. She had done this before. She could do this now. Her hands pressed harder down against the open wound on Bella’s leg, the heat of the blood seeping through her fingers. Her muscles locked up. The scent burned the back of her throat like a slow-moving ember, curling through her chest, smoldering, whispering. Just a taste.

Gwendolyn exhaled sharply, crushing the thought before it could root. Not now. Not ever.

“My bag,” Carlisle ordered. Gwendolyn immediately handed it to him. He glanced up at her, his calm mask slipping to reveal a momentary flicker of concern. “Gwendolyn, can you handle it?”

Her hands were shaking, the blood thick and warm between her fingers. The scent was everywhere—so strong it made her eyes burn. Her pupils dilated without permission, and she felt her fangs press against the inside of her lips, dropping achingly slowly.

Focus. You’re not like him. You’re not like him.

She bit the inside of her cheek—hard—just enough to ground herself in a different kind of pain.

“Yes,” she said, the word clipped and dry, like she had to drag it out of her throat. She felt Carlisle’s eyes on her—felt the pause, like he wasn’t quite convinced. But then he nodded and turned back to his work, trusting her.

You have to be fine. You have no other choice.

She focused on Bella’s leg, ignoring the blood staining her sleeves. The girl’s leg was shattered, the bone protruding.  Gwendolyn steadied herself, pressing down on Bella’s leg as Carlisle directed.

Her instincts whispered something was wrong. “It’s too much,” she muttered, scanning Bella’s body, trying to pinpoint the deeper damage.

“My hand,” Bella cried out, interrupting Gwendolyn’s thoughts.

Edward leaned in, his voice thick with worry. “I know, Bella. Carlisle will help.”

“My hand is burning!” Bella shrieked, and Gwendolyn’s eyes snapped to the crescent-shaped wound carved deep into her skin. Realization crashed over her like a wave.

"He bit her." Carlisle's voice was appalled.

James had fucking bitten her. Gwendolyn cursed viciously, her fingers tightening against Bella’s leg—and she had to force herself to loosen her grip before she made the wound worse.

"Edward, you have to do it," Alice spoke up as she wiped at Bella's face

“NO!” The force of Edward’s snarl filled the space, raw and violent. His entire body shaking with barely restrained fury.

Gwendolyn gritted her teeth. There was no time for this.

Carlisle’s voice cut through the tension. “Edward,” he said, calm, but urgent. “There may be a chance.”

Edward’s head snapped up. “What?”

Carlisle’s hands were already working to slow the bleeding from Bella’s leg, but his golden eyes locked onto Edward’s. “See if you can suck the venom out.”

"Will that even work?" Alice and Gwendolyn asked at the same time

"I don't know." Carlisle answered, "but we have to hurry."

Edward’s expression shattered.

“I—I don’t know if I can do that,” he choked out, terror flashing in his face.

Gwendolyn could see it—his restraint crumbling, his terror choking him. She understood the fear in his eyes. It was the same fear that lurked deep in her own mind. One mistake, and it would be over. One second too long, and Bella wouldn’t survive. But he had to do it.

Gwendolyn exhaled sharply, shifting her position against Bella’s leg. “It’s that or you let her turn, Edward.”

Edward’s head snapped up. A muscle twitched in his jaw. Edward’s eyes locked onto the wound, wild with desperation, but he didn’t move. His whole body shook—fists clenched so tight his knuckles had gone white.

“Edward!” Gwendolyn snapped, voice sharp.

He flinched like he’d been slapped. Her pale blue eyes burned into him. No softness. No sympathy. Just truth. “You don’t get to hesitate.”

Edward sucked in a breath and then, finally, he moved. Gwendolyn braced herself as Bella’s body arched sharply, a guttural cry tearing from her throat as Edward latched onto the wound, his whole body trembling with restraint as he worked to pull the venom out.

Gwendolyn kept her weight steady on Bella’s leg, the blood seeping through her already-ruined sweatshirt. The scent was suffocating, She still felt the phantom pull of it, the raw scent of blood still thick in the air, pressing at the edges of her self-control.

Her lungs ached. She wasn’t breathing. She hadn’t dared to take a breath in nearly a minute.

Good. Better that way.

She locked her muscles into place, keeping her weight steady on Bella’s leg even as the fire in her throat roared up. The scent soaked into her skin, into her clothes, into her lungs. It wrapped around her like a noose. Her head felt light and her vision tunneled for a second—edges going soft and dark. Her fangs ached, fully extended now, and she could feel them when she clenched her jaw.

She stared at anything but the blood. The torn fabric of Bella’s jeans, the sweat curling along her brow, the way Alice’s fingers trembled slightly where they brushed over Bella’s forehead. She focused on details. Anchors. Anything to avoid the pulse of want beneath her skin.

She had smelled this much blood before. Twice.

It was too much. Not just the scent, but the memories of it. The echo of other rooms, other screams, the one time she had wanted— Just a taste.
Her stomach twisted. Her jaw locked. Her fingers dug into her palm until her nails left half-moons behind. She wasn’t going to lose control. Not here. Not again.

Bella shuddered violently, the blood beginning to seep through her sweatshirt. Gwendolyn pushed down the burn in her throat, focusing on the rhythm of Bella’s breathing, the way her eyes fluttered in and out of consciousness. Finally, as the venom was pulled from her system, Bella’s body relaxed. The fire in her eyes dimmed to a dull glimmer, and she whispered Edward’s name before losing consciousness.

Edward’s voice broke. “I’m right here.”

Carlisle leaned forward, checking her pulse. “It’s clean,” he confirmed. “The venom is gone.”

Gwendolyn let out a slow breath, finally easing off Bella’s leg. The tension in her shoulders barely loosened.

Edward pressed a bloodstained kiss to Bella’s forehead. “Stay, Bella. Stay with me.”

“I will,” she whispered.

☽☽☽

Carlisle exhaled. “We need to move her.”

Bella whined softly. “No… wanna sleep.”

Gwendolyn said lightly. “Yeah, well, you can do that in the car.”

Edward scooped Bella into his arms, his expression still haunted, but determined.

Gwendolyn pushed herself to her feet, her body aching but steady. Her magic still thrummed beneath her skin, but it was a dull ember now, smoldering, waiting. She rolled her shoulders, wincing. The scent of blood still clung to her like a second skin. It wouldn’t go away, wouldn’t leave her lungs, wouldn’t leave her head.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t look at any of them. Boo pressed against her side, his fur singed with ash, his golden eyes still locked onto Gwendolyn. He was watching her, making sure she didn’t slip.

She scrubbed a hand over her face, wiping at blood that wasn’t hers. The phantom sensation of it between her fingers made her stomach churn. Her pulse was still too fast. She clenched her fists, shoved them deep into her jacket pockets. If her fingers trembled, no one would see them there.

This was fine.

She had been fine.

But her hands were still shaking.

And no matter how many times she inhaled, she could still taste the blood.

Gwendolyn looked around, trying to distract herself. She saw Alice still on the floor next to where Bella had been and reached down, offering Alice a hand. And that’s when Gwendolyn saw the unease. The way Alice hesitated, her usual brightness dimmed, something rattling loose inside her.

Alice spoke so quietly it was almost a whisper, “He knew me.”

Gwendolyn stiffened. Bella, barely conscious, had muttered something about James watching her old home videos. She glanced toward the camcorder abandoned near the shattered mirrors. She walked toward it slowly, her boots crunching over broken glass. When she bent down, the weight of it felt wrong in her hands—heavy, too real. Without a word, Alice took it from her. She hesitated. And for the first time in a long time, Alice looked small. She nodded once tightly then turned away, clutching the camcorder like it held a ghost.

Gwendolyn flexed her fingers, feeling the last remnants of heat still curling beneath her skin. Her gaze swept over the ashes of James’ ruined body, then the wreckage around them. The blood on the floor. The memories in the walls. It was a place that had seen monsters, and now, it would see fire.

Gwendolyn cracked her knuckles, “Time to burn this place to the ground.”

☽☽☽

Chapter Text

Mornings sucked.

They always had, but now they sucked extra thanks to Alice Cullen. For the past few days, since the whole James fiasco, Gwendolyn had been yanked out of bed at ungodly hours because Alice had decided she needed to be part of "Bella Care Duty." This, of course, meant dragging her along to the Swan house at the crack of dawn to help Bella get dressed. As if Bella was an actual Victorian lady who needed a lady’s maid to lace up her corset or some shit.

And maybe Gwen could’ve handled it better if she were actually sleeping.

She wasn’t waking up gasping anymore—that was something. She’d jerk awake breathless, sometimes not knowing where she was, heart pounding and magic crackling faintly under her skin like it didn’t trust the silence. But her nights were still broken things. Four, maybe five hours of half-restful dozing, never quite deep enough to shake the weight in her chest.

“She literally has one functional hand,” Gwendolyn had grumbled the first morning, bleary-eyed and wrapped in her coat like a spiteful bat. “She can still pull a hoodie over her head, Alice.”

Alice, infuriatingly bright-eyed and chipper as always, had simply ignored her complaints and handed her a to-go cup of coffee like a peace offering before shoving her into the car. And so, Gwendolyn had been stuck in this horrible morning routine ever since.

Bella’s room still smelled like antiseptic and something floral—probably the lotion Alice insisted she use on her bruises. The curtains were half-drawn, the early light bleeding in gold and gray. A discarded sweatshirt lay crumpled near the dresser, and the closet door was ajar like it had lost a battle with Bella’s one working arm.

Gwendolyn stood half-heartedly helping Bella maneuver a blouse over her cast, trying not to sigh too loudly. “You do know that at some point, you’ll have to do this without an entourage, right?”

Bella rolled her eyes. “Tell that to Alice.”

Alice, perched on the edge of Bella’s desk, just grinned. “Nope.”

Gwendolyn groaned and flopped back onto the bed, narrowly missing a stack of books. “Of course not.”

Bella sat down carefully, adjusting her sling with a grimace. Gwendolyn, still lying sideways across the blanket, fished in her pocket and tossed her a small tin.

Bella barely managed to catch it one-handed, looking at it curiously. “What’s this?”

“My salve,” Gwendolyn said, stretching lazily and flinging one arm over her eyes.  “For pain, bruising, scars, whatever. You should’ve used it before they stuck your leg in a cast, but you can still use it on your wrist.”

Bella’s mouth tugged up at the corner. “And all the future wounds my clumsy self is sure to get?”

“Exactly.” Gwendolyn peeked from under her arm and smirked. “Consider it a friendship offering. Or a liability waiver.”

A knock sounded before the door creaked open. Charlie Swan stepped halfway in, coffee mug in hand, boots heavy on the floor. “Alice,” he greeted first, because Alice had somehow managed to charm the man in record time. Then he nodded at Gwendolyn. “Gwendolyn.”

Gwendolyn had the vaguest urge to salute him. Instead, she just gave him a nod and hummed a lazy, “Morning, Chief Swan.”

Charlie narrowed his eyes at her slightly. Like he wasn’t sure if she was the type of teenager he needed to worry about. Gwendolyn straightened up slightly but didn’t drop the smirk.

Charlie grunted. “You’re riding with Stiles this morning?”

“Yep.” She tugged her coat off the back of Bella’s chair and shrugged it on. “Figured it’s less painful than dealing with this one more than necessary before noon.” She nodded toward Alice, who just smiled as if she hadn’t been insulted.

Charlie huffed—low and amused, like he was almost getting used to her. Gwendolyn didn’t respond, just gave him a lazy half-smile as she adjusted her coat. But something itched at the back of her neck. She’d been in and out of this house for days now, and there was something about Charlie Swan that always threw her a little off balance.

He wasn’t flashy. He wasn’t warm, exactly. But he was… steady. Quiet in a way that didn’t feel dangerous. The kind of man who moved through the world without needing to dominate it. And yeah—fine—he was objectively decent-looking for his age. That rugged, flannel-wearing, tired-eyed thing that somehow worked.

She didn’t like how aware she was of that.

It wasn’t a crush. It wasn’t anything. But the calm weight he carried—the way he filled a room without trying. It reminded her of someone she didn’t have anymore. A father figure she hadn’t let herself miss. But right now, she could feel the echo.

“You do realize that Stiles will probably be blasting the most obnoxious playlist on the way to school?” Bella said amused.

Gwendolyn welcomed the distraction. She shrugged, grabbing her bag. “At least it won’t be classical music.”

Alice gasped. “Rude.”

Charlie sipped from his mug, biting back a smile. “Alright, alright. You kids eat breakfast before you leave.”

Gwendolyn patted her bag. “Already packed. Esme’s on a mission to keep us from starving.”

Esme had gotten into the habit of packing breakfast for her, Bella, Scott and Stiles ever since the whole ordeal with James. And since Gwendolyn lived under her roof, she didn’t have much of a choice in the matter.

“See you later, Bells,” Charlie added, moving to ruffle Bella’s hair with the kind of awkward affection only dads seemed to master. Bella winced, but smiled. Gwendolyn caught the shift in her face—the flicker of something not entirely content. Regret, maybe. Or guilt. She didn’t ask.

Alice noticed too. Her expression softened as she reached over, fixing Bella’s collar like she just had to be touching something. “You okay?”

Gwendolyn rolled her eyes at Bella’s hesitation. She made a dramatic show of groaning and stretching her arms over her head before heading for the door. “She’s sulking because Edward didn’t let her turn into a walking corpse.”

Bella glared at her. “Your empathy is overwhelming.”

“I try,” Gwendolyn said sweetly as she stepped outside the room. “Alright, I’m out. If I have to listen to one more romantic sigh about your tragic mortality, I might walk into traffic.”

Bella grabbed a balled-up sock from the bed and lobbed it at her—it missed by a full foot and landed with a sad plop on the rug.

Gwendolyn just laughed. “Devastating. Really. I’ll be emotionally scarred for life.”

She slipped out of the house before anyone could reply.

☽☽☽

Stiles was already parked outside, hunched over the console of his Jeep, fiddling with a mess of tangled aux cords and what looked like an actual cassette adapter—like he was trying to summon sound from the dead.

“Whatever you’re doing,” Gwendolyn muttered as she opened the passenger door, “stop. I don’t trust it.”

He looked up, beaming with the smug satisfaction of a man who had just watched half a how-to thread on a forum called ‘Gearheads Anonymous.’ “You should trust it. I found this hack online at, like, two in the morning. Basically, if I run the cassette adapter through a headphone splitter, then patch that into my Discman aux-in port—which I’ve Velcro’d to the dash, mind you—I can bypass the hum I was getting from the engine interference.”

“…Your what?”

Stiles pointed proudly to a scratched-up silver Discman held in place with duct tape and hope. “It’s analog innovation, Gwen. Old-school meets chaos theory.”

She squinted at the mess of cables. “This feels less like innovation and more like the origin story of a small electrical fire.”

Stiles grinned, completely unbothered. “I’ve got fuses in the glove box. We’ll be fine.”

She slid in, clutching her coffee like a lifeline. The inside of the Jeep was vaguely warm, and Esme’s paper bag of breakfast was nestled between them like a peace offering from another, kinder world.  

“If you hit play and I hear Bon Jovi, I’m tucking and rolling at the next stoplight.”

Stiles smirked, turned the key, and the Jeep immediately blasted an unholy fusion of synth and guitar solo. Gwendolyn sighed, letting her head thunk against the cold window. “You deserve jail.”

“I deserve a Grammy,” he corrected, tapping the steering wheel in rhythm. “Besides, you picked me. This is the price.”

“I was promised a ride, not auditory assault.”

Still, she didn’t jump out. Mostly because Esme had packed them a breakfast, and there was nowhere else in Forks she wanted to be at 7 a.m. and—fine—Stiles’ Jeep felt weirdly safe these days. A little loud, a little chaotic, but safe.

They hadn’t even made it halfway down the block before the music glitched—an awful static screech followed by what sounded like a dying robot and the sad whir of a struggling Discman motor. Gwendolyn didn’t say anything. She just reached over, calmly ejected the cassette, and yeeted it into the backseat.

Stiles winced. “Okay, wow. Rude.”

“Mercy killing,” she muttered, sipping her coffee.

They drove in companionable silence for a few minutes, fog curling low across the edges of the road. The trees looked half-asleep. The town hadn’t fully woken up yet—and neither had she. She took a slow bite of the sandwich Esme had wrapped in brown paper and twine, still warm, still annoyingly perfect.

They pulled up outside the McCall house a few minutes later. The porch light was still on, casting a soft orange glow across the driveway. Stiles honked just once.

“I told Scott if he wasn’t ready by the time we pulled up, I was eating his breakfast.” Stiles said

“Harsh,” Gwendolyn said, sipping her coffee. “Esme would disown you.”

“Which is why I said his breakfast.”

Gwendolyn watched the door, chewing slowly. “If he’s still brushing his hair, I’m eating one of his muffins.”

Stiles blinked. “...He gets two muffins?”

Gwendolyn shrugged, innocent as sin. “Esme likes him better.”

That was a lie. She’d already eaten one of Stiles’ muffins on the way to the car and buried the wrapper under the seat.

He groaned dramatically, banging his head on the steering wheel. “Unacceptable.”

Scott appeared moments later, jogging out the front door with his bag slung across his shoulder, hoodie half-zipped. He opened the back door breathless, “You’re early.”

“You’re late,” Gwendolyn replied. “Get in. We’re not waiting while you brush your hair for forty-five minutes.”

“I don’t brush my—”

“Get in, Scott.”

“You’re lucky we’re nice,” Stiles said.

“I’m lucky you didn’t eat my stuff,” Scott replied, sliding in and immediately rummaging in the bag to check.

Gwendolyn sipped her coffee. “I made no promises.”

Stiles pulled away from the curb, merging back onto the road.

That was the thing, Gwendolyn thought, leaning her head against the glass again. This had become... routine. Getting scooped up before school, arguing about breakfast hierarchy, threatening to weaponize muffins—it wasn’t what her life was supposed to look like. But it didn’t feel bad either.

She wasn’t sure if that scared her or not.

They drove for a few minutes, the highway half-fogged and quiet, until Stiles suddenly said, “Oh, by the way, parent-teacher conference is tonight.”

Gwendolyn paused mid-bite. “…What.”

Stiles side-eyed her. “You didn’t forget, did you?”

“I—” She cleared her throat, swallowing too slowly. “Of course not.”

Scott snorted into his sandwich and Stiles made a noise somewhere between a snort and a cackle. “Oh my god, you did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did. You totally did.”

Gwendolyn sank lower in her seat. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It’s the deal. Your guardians are gonna walk in looking like they stepped out of a J. Crew ad and find out you’ve been bombing chemistry.”

Gwendolyn made a face. “I’m not bombing.”

“You’re limping,” he shot back.

She scowled. “I could still throw your phone out the window.”

“And I could remind Dr. Cullen you skipped every lab last month.”

She glared at him, sharp and unimpressed, but his grin didn’t falter. Of course it didn’t. She’d gone soft. Somewhere along the line, her glares had stopped working on him and Scott— she was becoming too soft or maybe they’d just learned to enjoy them.

“I should superglue your mouth shut,” she muttered.

Stiles leaned back smugly, completely unfazed. “You’d miss it.”

She scoffed. “Like a rash. Or rabies.”

“And yet,” he said, tapping the steering wheel, “you still pick me.”

That shut her up for half a beat. Her jaw tensed. Then she sighed, quiet and not quite defeated. “…Don’t read into it. You’re like a fungus,” Gwendolyn muttered. “Persistent. Mildly useful. Impossible to get rid of.”

And the part of her she never talked about—the part curled deep behind the shield of sarcasm and indifference—knew he wasn’t wrong.

☽☽☽

Esme was glowing when Gwendolyn came back home.

She was positively thrilled to be attending this completely normal, human, parental function.  Esme was the kind of excited that meant she’d already picked out an outfit, reviewed her talking points, and probably baked more muffins just in case. Carlisle was quieter about it, but he had that calm, focused look that meant he was preparing for something serious—like surgery, or a town council meeting, or talking to a teacher about Gwendolyn’s GPA.

Gwendolyn wanted to evaporate. She’d tried to warn them. She had dropped hints, shrugged off questions, grumbled vague things like “It’s just grades, nothing life-threatening.” But they hadn’t taken the bait.

Esme had smiled at her—not with pity, but with belief. The kind of belief that said she still saw something good, something whole, buried underneath the mess. Carlisle had squeezed her shoulder before they left, quiet and steady and too kind. He hadn’t said a word, but it was there in his eyes: expectation, trust. He looked at her and saw the kid who used to ace every Caster exam. And she hated that it made something twist sharp and deep in her ribs.

They were going to find out she wasn’t failing because she didn’t understand the material, though some of it really did make no sense to her. She was failing because she couldn’t be bothered to pretend she cared.

And now there they were. About to walk into a normal school, through fluorescent-lit hallways and awkward chairs and too-clean bulletin boards. About to sit down with strangers and hear all the ways she was falling short. About to be told, in exact detail, how much of a disaster she was.

☽☽☽

The second they got home, Gwendolyn bolted. She didn’t even bother pretending and aimed straight for the stairs like her life depended on it. There was no way in hell she was going to sit through the concerned-parent monologue she could already hear in her head—the disappointed pause, the sympathetic sigh, the we-just-want-what’s-best-for-you expression.

Nope. Absolutely not.

She was halfway up the stairs, her bare feet hitting the steps too loud and too fast, when Esme’s voice—gentle but solid as stone—cut through the air. “Gwendolyn.”

She stopped like someone had yanked a leash. Her hand tightened on the railing. She stared at the hallway ahead like it might open a portal and let her vanish. Then she slowly turned, spine stiff, face already set in a scowl.

Down below, Boo had materialized from wherever he’d been lurking—silent as always, his dark shape easing into the hall like he’d been waiting just beyond the veil. He didn’t make a sound, didn’t move toward her. But he watched, his sharp golden eyes locked on hers like he could feel the storm clawing under her skin.

Carlisle and Esme stood by the door, coats still on. The air behind them carried the faint scent of wood smoke and pine. They hadn’t even taken their shoes off yet. Esme’s purse still dangled from her elbow. Carlisle’s keys were in one hand, but they weren’t moving. They were just... standing there. Calm.

It only made Gwendolyn feel worse.

Esme’s face was soft—too soft. Not disappointed. Not tired. Just... hopeful. Still hopeful. Like she didn’t see a problem. Like she saw Gwendolyn underneath the mess.

Carlisle had that quiet intensity he always carried. He didn’t even look upset. He looked thoughtful. Like he was already ten steps ahead but wasn’t going to make her catch up until she was ready.

Her chest tightened.

“…Look,” Gwendolyn muttered, her voice rougher than intended. “I get it, okay? I suck at school. You don’t have to spell it out.”

Carlisle raised a brow. “You don’t suck at school.”

She let out a breath that was too close to a laugh. “Pretty sure the grades say otherwise.”

“You’re failing a few subjects,” Esme stepped out of her heels and crossed the room with that maddening calm, like she didn’t even notice the tension. Like Gwen wasn’t already bracing for a hit that never came. “Not because you’re incapable. Because you’ve stopped trying.”

Gwendolyn’s jaw twitched. She crossed her arms tight over her chest. “What’s the point?” She caught herself before she could say the rest, before she said what she really meant.

Not like she’d make it to graduation anyway. Not with a cursed birthday crawling closer by the day. Not with her blood, her past, her everything stacked against her. What did grades matter when the future was a question mark smeared in ash and blood? None of this—grades, school, classes—could change what she was.

Carlisle’s voice cut through the silence like he’d read her mind. “You’re still here, Gwendolyn. That’s the point.”

Her throat felt tight. She looked away, biting the inside of her cheek. “I don’t care,” she said, low.

Esme didn’t flinch. “Then think about your summer.”

That caught her off guard. “…What?”

Carlisle’s voice was so steady it made her nervous. “If you don’t pass, you’ll have to take summer school.”

“Okay. Good joke.” She didn’t believe them for one second. But as she stared them down, neither of them laughed. They didn’t even smile.

Carlisle added, “You’ll need to stay in Forks.”

She stared. “You’re bluffing.”

“We’re not,” Esme said, folding her arms gently.

“You can’t make me—”

“We can,” Carlisle said simply.

And just like that, it hit her.

Ridley and Larkin would be off somewhere ridiculous and sun-drenched, getting into magical trouble, and she’d be stuck here. In Forks. In fluorescent-lit classrooms with kids who didn’t know what she was.

Ridley and Larkin, off in some ridiculous and sun-drenched part of the world, doing whatever wild, rule-breaking magic bullshit they always did in the summer. And she’d be stuck here. In Forks. In school. While her cousins threw enchanted parties on cliffsides and got matching hexes for fun.

She stepped down one stair, just enough to see them more clearly. “I have plans.”

“You had plans,” Carlisle said quietly.

Her mouth dropped open in protest, but nothing came out. Because they weren’t bluffing. She looked at Boo, still sitting at the base of the stairs. He didn’t move, but his head tilted just slightly, slow and unimpressed, like he was waiting to see if she’d actually be dumb enough to keep fighting a battle she’d already lost.

Her shoulders slumped a fraction. “This is emotional blackmail.”

“Parental guidance,” Esme corrected, entirely too pleased.

“Same thing,” Gwendolyn muttered, dragging a hand through her loose curls.

Carlisle stepped forward, placed a hand on her shoulder. “We know you can do better.”

That was the worst part. They actually believed she could. Like she wasn’t broken. Like she wasn’t running out of time.

That was the worst part. They meant it. They thought she wasn’t a lost cause, that she was still worth salvaging.

She looked away. Her throat felt raw. “Fine,” she muttered. “I’ll fix it. Just barely. But I’m not smiling about it.”

Carlisle smiled for her instead. “Glad we had this talk.”

She rolled her eyes and headed upstairs, stomping for effect, well as much as she could with her bare feet. But deep down—beneath the sarcasm, under the dread—a quiet part of her exhaled. She felt relieved.

Boo rose silently and followed, his paws barely making a sound on the old steps.

She dropped her bag the second she reached her room, kicked the door mostly shut, and collapsed onto her bed without bothering to pull the blanket down. Boo curled up near her—half sentinel, half shadow. He settled in like this was routine.

She didn’t say thank you. He wouldn’t have cared. She just laid there, sprawled across her bed, staring at the ceiling like it had personally offended her. Her jaw still clenched, her fingers tangled in the edge of the blanket she hadn’t bothered pulling over herself.

She wasn’t going to think about Carlisle’s hand on her shoulder. Or the way Esme had said “parental” like it meant something. Or how they’d looked at her like she wasn’t broken. Like she was just... a kid. Messy, moody and salvageable.

She rolled onto her side, facing the wall. One hand drifted to the ring on her middle finger, spinning it without thinking.

Nope. Not thinking about it.

Instead, she focused on Boo’s breathing. The steady rise and fall, like clockwork. Like the one constant thing that didn’t expect anything from her except maybe not dying.

Her stomach twisted.

Probably just the breakfast sandwich.

Definitely not guilt.

☽☽☽

Gwendolyn should’ve known. The second she stepped into school, she could feel it. That look teachers gave when they thought you were worth saving. The shift in tone. The too-cheerful greetings. The sense that they were waiting for her to prove them right.

Mrs. Kelly was first. She wasn’t smug, but she was persistent. “You owe me a real essay this time, not a paragraph and a dramatic metaphor.”

Gwendolyn gave her a mock salute.

“No sarcasm,” the teacher warned instantly.

She feigned innocence. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The next landmine came in the form of Mr. Harris. He caught her walking in early before the end of break and raised an eyebrow like he’d just spotted a unicorn. “Miss Ravenwood. You’re here before the bell. Planning to turn over a new leaf?”

She didn’t even try to smile. “Planning to avoid summer school.”

He nodded approvingly. “Motivation is motivation. I’ve got extra assignments waiting for you.”

“Of course you do,” she muttered, snatching the folder from his hand.

She dropped into her seat with the grace of a dying cat—bag thudding to the floor, hoodie half-askew, hair still damp from the mist outside. The classroom smelled like dry Expo markers and old paper, and the fluorescent lights buzzed.

Of course, sitting next to her, already grinning like he’d won something, was Stiles. “You,” he said, absolutely delighted, “are officially screwed.”

Gwendolyn let her head fall forward onto her desk with a dull thud. “Please let me die in peace.”

“Oh no,” he said cheerfully. “No death. Only tutoring.”

Behind them, Scott made a valiant effort to muffle a snort and failed miserably.

She turned her head just enough to glare at him, cheek still squished against the desk. “This is your fault. You keep encouraging him.”

Scott raised both hands. “He’s untrainable.”

Stiles rubbed his hands together like some villain. “Alright. Terms and conditions time.”

Gwendolyn squinted one eye open, still facedown. “What fresh hell is this.”

“You need help. I’m passing. Therefore, I am the hero of this story. And—” he held up a finger, “I’ve devised the perfect reward system. For every question you get right? I owe you something.”

She lifted her head just enough to arch an eyebrow. “Such as?”

“Silence,” he said proudly. “Complete. Blessed. Stilinski-free silence. One full class period.”

Scott snorted again. “Impossible.”

Gwendolyn propped herself on one elbow, narrowing her eyes. “You’re not capable of silence.”

“I am. And!” he added. “Shotgun privileges in the Jeep. Free snacks. You get to pick the music.”

That earned him an actual pause. She tapped her fingers on the edge of her desk, weighing the offer like it was a deal with the devil. “…Okay,” she said cautiously. “What’s the catch.”

Stiles leaned in. “Every question you get wrong… you owe me a favor.”

She recoiled instantly, pulling her sleeves up. “Absolutely not.”

“Reasonable favors.” He insisted.

“There’s no such thing with you.”

Scott nodded gravely, trying not to laugh. “He once made me sing ABBA in the cafeteria.”

“I got you out of detention,” Stiles said. “It was a fair trade.”

Gwendolyn let her head fall back against the seat, staring up at the water-stained ceiling tile. “Fine,” she muttered. “But I have conditions.”

Stiles sat up straighter, visibly thrilled. “Ooooh, okay. What are your terms?”

She sat forward now, mirroring his energy, but her smirk was pure menace. “First: No favors that require humiliation, blackmail, or anything creepy.”

Stiles choked. “Why would you even—”

She cut him off with a smile too sweet to be innocent. “I’m just covering my bases.”

Scott lost it behind them, laughing into his sleeve.

“Second,” she continued smoothly, “no sexual favors.”

Stiles froze, face going bright red. “What—”

Gwendolyn grinned, wicked. “What? You never specified.”

Stiles, completely red-faced, looked like he had short-circuited. “Why would you even—”

She tilted her head innocently. “Not confident you’d be able to resist me, Stiles?”

Scott wheezed. “Oh my god.”

Stiles slapped a hand over his own face. “Can we just—move on—”

“Third,” Gwendolyn said, not missing a beat, “if the favor involves breaking the law, it depends on the law.”

Stiles lowered his hand slowly. “...Depends? What, like—felonies are off-limits, but misdemeanors are fair game?”

She shrugged, deadpan. “Obviously. Some laws are dumb.”

Scott, between laughter, managed to choke out, “Please define dumb.”

Gwendolyn leaned back in her chair. “Jaywalking is dumb. Trespassing is dumb. If the crime is funny, I’ll consider it.”

Stiles just stared, then, finally, sighed. “…Okay. That’s fair.”

“Fourth,” she said, lifting four fingers. “Maximum of five favors total.”

Stiles winced. “Seven.”

She gave him a look.

“Okay, six.”

“Five.”

Stiles sighed dramatically. “Fine. Five.”

Gwendolyn leaned back in her chair, tapping her pencil against her lip like she was doing the final math. “Also… if I get a B or higher on my next test, I get to drive the Jeep.”

Stiles stared at her like she’d just declared war. “That’s sacred ground.”

“What, scared I’ll drive it better than you?”

Scott leaned forward. “Oh, say yes.”

Stiles pointed a finger at them both. “You crash her, I will haunt you in your sleep.”

Gwendolyn extended her hand across the desk. “Deal?”

He grumbled something about betrayal and Jeep loyalty, but he shook her hand anyway.

Her fingers closed around his, firm and unapologetic. “Great,” she said. “Can’t wait to regret this.”

☽☽☽

She never agreed to this. There was no intervention, no sit-down, no dramatic confrontation in the living room. But when she came home one afternoon, dropped her bag like always, and headed for the garage to work on her Mustang, the Cullens had already mobilized.

Operation: Make Gwendolyn Pass School.

Apparently, she was a community project now. Save the Moody Teen.

She should’ve seen it coming. They’d all been suspiciously quiet since the conference. The kind that meant danger. She should have trusted her instincts. The next day after school, when the garage door groaned open to reveal Emmett leaning against the hood of her car, flipping a wrench between his fingers like a coin. He looked far too pleased with himself. “All right, kid,” he called, voice echoing in the quiet space. “Let’s get to work.”

She didn’t question it. Just grabbed her toolbox like always and started toward him. But then he held up a hand, and stopped her dead.

“Ah-ah.”

She narrowed her eyes. “What now.”

Emmett grinned, wide and smug. “Did you do your homework?”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he said, nodding toward her bag. “School first. Then we fix the beast.”

She stared at him like he’d grown another head. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m very serious,” Emmett said cheerfully. “This is time management, Gremlin. Priorities.”

“This is blackmail,” she muttered.

He shrugged. “Same thing.”

She narrowed her eyes. “And if I don’t?”

Emmett leaned back, still smug. “Then I get to take her for a spin when she’s road-ready.”

Gwendolyn gasped like he’d kicked her familiar. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He shrugged, unapologetic. “Better crack open that textbook, kid.”

Gwendolyn grumbled something low and profane under her breath but turned on her heel and stalked back inside the house. Inside, Boo barely glanced up from his spot beneath the dining table as she dropped into a chair and flipped open her battered notebook. She muttered under her breath the entire time, but no one came to stop her. That was the thing about the Cullens—they were relentless, but not loud about it.

And that’s when she realized this was a full-on operation.

It wasn’t just Emmett. It was all of them.

Carlisle would glance up from his medical journal and ask, too-casual, “How’s school going?” in the exact tone one might use to discuss a slowly bleeding wound.
Esme would comment while chopping fruit, her voice warm and even. “Your teachers seem optimistic. That’s good.”

Even Jasper had started shooting her looks from across the room—tiny flickers of emotional surveillance like he was tracking every spike of guilt and frustration under her skin.

They didn’t scold. Didn’t push.

They just believed in her.

Which, frankly, was worse.

Because it was easy to rebel against yelling. Easy to throw up walls when people were angry or disappointed or ready to give up. But this gentle encouragement? It got under her skin like nothing else.

She hadn’t struggled with school at her Caster Academy. Back there, magic was the curriculum—sigils and elemental control and theory laced with power. She’d thrived in that environment, even when she was pretending not to care. There was purpose. Chaos. Consequences that made sense.

None of that translated to balancing chemical equations or diagramming mitosis. Here, it was all worksheets and standardized tests and weirdly excited science teachers. Forks High felt like a long, gray holding pattern—and she had stopped trying before she even started. But they hadn’t.

The worst of them all though? Bella fucking Swan. Straight-A student. Former AP class survivor. The kind of person who probably organized her notes by color.

Bella had started doing her homework at the Cullens like it was no big deal. Just casually pulling out her books at the dining table like a normal, overachieving human. And somehow—somehow—she always ended up right next to Gwendolyn.

“Let’s suffer together,” she’d said one night, sliding her history notes across the table with unnerving calm.

Gwendolyn had scowled, muttered something about educational colonization, and tried to ignore her. But Bella didn’t push. She didn’t offer help.

And then, just when Gwendolyn was about to give up on a question, Bella would casually say, “Balance the equation first,” or “You forgot to carry the exponent.”

And Gwendolyn, who absolutely would’ve rather swallowed nails than ask for assistance, found herself actually listening. Bella didn’t act like a tutor. She acted like someone who just wanted her to get it, who didn’t expect her to be perfect, just present.

Sometimes, when the numbers blurred or her attention drifted, Bella would quietly pass her a highlighter or slide her paper an inch closer—like a silent dare to keep going. And, somehow, Gwendolyn did.

She would rather die than admit it out loud—but she didn’t throw the highlighter. Didn’t snap. Didn’t leave the table. She just stayed. And maybe that was the point. They weren’t trying to fix her. They weren’t even asking her to be good. They were just making sure she didn’t give up.

☽☽☽

Chapter Text

Friday 1^st April 2005

Ceelia had gotten on her nerves again.

The visits were mandatory. Refusal wasn’t even on the table—Ceelia would show up regardless, all crisp lines and frostbitten smiles, clipboard in hand, eyes like ice over still water. Always watching. Always evaluating whether Gwendolyn Ravenwood was a threat to society—or just a girl with teeth too sharp for her age.

Maybe it was just her. Maybe it was just today. But everything felt wrong. Too loud. Too close to the surface. Her skin itched with magic she couldn’t shake. Her head buzzed like she was still trapped in the half-dream fog she hadn’t been able to outrun.

Ceelia’s questions had felt sharper, more pointed. "Have you experienced any sudden urges?"

"No," Gwendolyn had snapped, crossing her arms. "Unless you count the urge to slam this door in your face."

Ceelia hadn’t reacted. She never did. Just jotted something down in that sleek little leather notebook like Gwendolyn’s words were data, not defiance. "What about nightmares?"

Gwendolyn’s jaw locked. Because yes, but fuck her if she was going to admit it, especially not after the last one.

She’d been in the study again.

Everything had looked exactly the same—the desk still cluttered, the gramophone humming softly, Macon’s coat slung over the armchair like he’d just left the room. The firelight flickered across the bookshelves, casting tall, slow-moving shadows. For one heartbeat, she thought—hoped—he might be behind her.

But then the air changed. The fire turned too bright, too fast. Books curled into ash. Blood seeped from the cracks in the floorboards.

She turned and Alaric was there. Not how she remembered him. Smiling, but hollow. His eyes weren’t eyes—they were mirrors. Reflecting her back at herself.

Behind him, Macon sat in the chair, head tilted unnaturally, throat torn open. Already dead. Still bleeding.

She tried to run to him, but her feet wouldn’t move. Like the floor had swallowed her.
Alaric touched her shoulder, and his voice was low and final. “You could’ve joined us.”

When she looked down, her hands were covered in ash and she was holding his ring.

“I don’t dream.” Gwendolyn said flatly, snapping back to reality. She could still feel the smell of smoke in the air, the taste of it stuck in her throat.

Another note. Another flicker in those unreadable eyes. “Are you certain?” She leaned forward slightly, and Gwendolyn could feel the bait, carefully laid. She was always laying traps like that. Always digging.

Gwendolyn narrowed her eyes. “Are you certain you still have a personality in there somewhere?”

Ceelia exhaled slowly, like she’d been expecting that response.

Gwendolyn’s fingers curled. She wanted to lash out. Say something reckless. Just for the satisfaction. Just to burn.

Her breath hitched. Just once. The tension clawed up her ribs, dark and rising—

And then, unbidden, unwelcome, that voice slipped into her mind. 

Restraint is a choice, Gwendolyn. If you don’t master it, it will master you.

Macon’s voice. Cool, composed, and maddeningly calm.

Not her memory of him. Her training. His lessons. The ones he’d etched into her bones. He always said the mind was a battlefield. That magic was mood, and emotion was fuel. That if she lost her temper in the wrong moment, she might not walk away from it.

She hated that he was right. Hated that even now—dead and gone—his words still pulled her back from the edge. So she swallowed it. The heat. The hurt. The dream still clinging like smoke in her lungs. And she smiled—sharp, false, and gleaming. “Can we wrap this up? I’ve got plans that don’t involve being dissected like a bug.”

☽☽☽

Once Ceelia left, Gwendolyn lasted exactly five minutes before bolting. Some muttered excuse, some vague gesture toward the door. She didn’t even care if anyone was watching. Now she stood at the edge of the world, staring out at the endless gray-blue expanse of the Pacific. Wind clawed at her braid, tugging strands loose like it wanted to unravel her. Salt and pine filled her lungs, thick and grounding. But the silence—it rang in her ears too loud, like the echo of a scream that hadn’t made it out. Her dream clung to her like seaweed, tangled and cold. Macon’s coat. Alaric’s voice. Ash in her hands. She couldn’t scrub it off. Not even awake.

Was it a bad idea? Probably.

The Quileute land wasn’t technically off-limits to her. The treaty didn’t say a damn thing about girls like her— creatures like her. But Edward had been twitchy ever since he found out she’d actually spent time with Jacob Black before, thanks to Stiles and Scott.

"He doesn’t know what you are," he’d warned. "And if he did— " He hadn’t finished the sentence. He didn’t need to.

The Quileutes hunted creatures like the Cullens. And Gwendolyn? She wasn’t just a vampire-adjacent freak. She was some stitched-together blend of curse and craving, magic and hunger. Vampire-adjacent. Caster-tainted. A whole different kind of mess.

"Fuck that," she muttered under her breath.

The Quileutes didn’t own the ocean. Nobody did. And even if they did—she’d come anyway.

Her magic stirred under her skin, restless. It had been prickling ever since Ceelia left. Too tight, too loud. Like a storm bottled beneath her ribs with no sky to break it open.
The ocean helped—it always did. Something in her bones recognized it. Like blood. Like memory.

She wanted to breathe. Really breathe. Let the salt scrub her lungs raw. Let the cold peel away the layer of ash her dream left behind. Lie on the sand and let the earth soak her up. Maybe swim. Let the tide strip her clean. The water was cold—too cold—but that didn’t matter. She could change that. A little warmth. Just enough not to feel like drowning.

Gwendolyn kicked off her boots, peeled off her tights, and stepped barefoot into the sand. The cold bit at her feet, but she didn’t flinch. She breathed in—salt, wind, pine, the metallic edge of coming rain.

Better.

She waded into the shallows, rolling her shoulders, and let her magic reach outward—like a ripple, like an exhale. The chill receded, warmth blooming in a slow radius around her legs. The tide curved around her instead of pushing back. The ocean didn’t resist, it recognized her. It curled at her ankles like it had missed her.

Boo let out a small huff beside her, his giant wolfhound body standing sentinel, ears flicking toward the waves. His dark fur was ruffled by the wind, but he didn’t seem to mind.

“Yeah, yeah,” she muttered, running her hand over his head, fingers trailing along one velvet ear. “I know. Bad idea.”

Boo just blinked at her, eyes steady, unmoved. But she waded deeper, ignoring him. He whined—low, almost questioning—but didn’t follow. He never liked it when she touched the deep.

“You’re such a baby,” she called back, voice lighter than she felt. “It’s just water.”

Boo huffed again, flopping down dramatically like a cat pretending not to care, but his eyes never left her.

The water was calm, but she could feel it underneath—the tug, the shift, the wildness. Her magic liked the deep parts. The dark places. The storms. The undertow. The places where you couldn’t see the bottom. It didn’t want to float. It wanted to sink. That was where she belonged. Not at the surface. Not where things were easy.

She let herself go loose, let her body sway with the water. Her arms moved just beneath the surface, fingers grazing the current. Her magic pulsed faintly, like something living in her chest. The longer she stayed, the more her skin stopped feeling like skin. The more it felt like conduit.

She wasn’t thinking anymore. Not about the curse, nor Ceelia or the council, or the gnawing ache that never quite left her ribs. Not about the impossible ticking clock on her life.

She just was.

The tide shifted slightly, but not enough to notice, unless you were part of it. Something new pressed against the edges of her magic, like a stone dropped into still water. A quiet ripple beneath the surface. Foreign, but not dangerous. It tugged at her senses before her ears even caught sound. And then came the footsteps.

She didn’t need to turn around to know who it was.

Her fragile peace fractured, not in anger, but in that sharp, uncomfortable way that came with being seen when you hadn’t planned on it. Barefoot, soaked to the knees, wind tugging at loose strands of curls from her braid. She could feel how exposed she looked. Magic still humming under her skin. Her thoughts still shadowed by Ceelia’s questions. By Macon’s silence. By Edward’s warning.

He doesn’t know what you are.

And if he did—

The words hovered at the edge of her mind, sticky and sour.

Boo was already upright again, tail low, body tense. He didn’t growl—yet—but his eyes were fixed on the boy behind her. Gwendolyn exhaled sharply, resisting the urge to scowl. Instead, she rubbed a hand over her face, before digging her fingers into her damp sleeves for a second before smoothing her expression. Calm. She could do calm.

She felt Jacob hesitate for half a second—like he wasn’t sure if he should be here—but then, with that casual confidence that always made her want to roll her eyes, he just went for it. He stepped forward and dropped into the sand like it was his. Like they were supposed to be here. Together.

She heard him clear his throat. “You’re gonna catch a cold in this freezing water."

She rolled her eyes and turned around. And there he was. Jacob fucking Black. Standing a few feet away, hair windblown, cheeks ruddy from the breeze, hands stuffed in his pockets, watching her like she was an unsolvable riddle he’d decided was worth his time.

Her good mood hadn’t vanished—because she hadn’t had one. But some kind of tension snapped tighter. Not fear. Not suspicion. Just… the edge. The bracing shift between solitude and presence.

“You’re gonna get a headache from staring so hard,” she said, biting it off before it could soften.

Jacob blinked, caught off guard for a second, but then he grinned, boyish and easy, and it landed just wrong enough to disarm her tension by accident. “Fair enough.” But then he scratched the back of his neck, like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. Like he’d practiced that line and was still waiting to see how it landed.

She narrowed her eyes slightly, remembering Edward’s warning.

Jacob was too still. His body language was careful. His heartbeat had spiked the second he sat down. His shoulders were tight. And when he spoke, it was a little too casual, as if he was trying hard to sound normal. As if he wasn’t sure how normal was supposed to sound or how to act when sitting this close to a monster.

She knew the legends were part of his world, his family’s history. She didn’t know if he believed them. But if he did… if even part of him thought they were true… Then he’d know she wasn’t normal. Not really.

Her stomach tightened. She folded her arms a little closer to her body, trying to shield something he hadn’t even asked about.

He had to know. Or at least, maybe he thought he did.

And suddenly, for the first time since meeting him, Gwendolyn actually studied him. The way his fingers twitched like he didn’t know what to do with them. The pause before he spoke. The way his gaze lingered just a little too long on hers—like he was trying to memorize something—and then flicked away, like he’d caught himself staring.

You’re full of shit, she thought, watching him closely.

Jacob had always been laid-back, quick with a grin, easy in his skin. But now he was acting weird, maybe he always had been. If he really believed the legends were just stories, then why was he so careful? Why was he watching her like he was waiting for something?

He had to know.

Her gaze flicked over his expression again. No. That wasn’t it. He wasn’t a good liar. He wasn’t like Ceelia or her father. He didn’t have that cold detachment, that strategic control. He wasn’t good at hiding things. Whatever he was holding back, it wasn’t calculated. It felt clumsy and human.

If he really knew what she was, she’d be able to see it. The way people always reacted when they found out. The fear. The distrust. The too-calm voice. The eyes that tracked her hands like they might spark. The ready-to-run kind of tension. And yet, there was none of that.

He wasn’t scared of her and maybe that was worse. Because if he did know something, then this wasn’t fear—it was curiosity. And curiosity could turn dangerous fast. But there was no wariness. No polite distance or subtle shift away. If he knew anything, it wasn’t the real thing. Not yet. His eyes didn’t track her hands, they kept finding her face.

Whatever paranoia Edward had been spitting out about how dangerous the Quileutes could be, how Jacob would kill her if he knew what she was… It was bullshit. Jacob wasn’t a killer. And Gwendolyn felt herself relax just slightly. Maybe she’d been overthinking. Maybe Jacob Black was just a shit liar. And for some reason, that made her feel better. Not by much, but still.

She lowered herself slowly onto the sand, knees tucked up, arms resting loose over them. The cold soaked through her skin and into her bones, but she didn’t move. She just let it settle. Let herself settle. Boo shifted beside her, a quiet wall of muscle and warmth. He positioned himself squarely between them—massive, glaring, overprotective. He let out a low rumble, eyes locked on Jacob. Jacob stiffened for a beat, as if some part of his body recognized Boo as a threat before his brain caught up. He didn’t back away, though. Just adjusted his posture—hands out, palms relaxed, he knew not to provoke a dog that probably wasn’t a regular dog at all.

Gwendolyn sighed. “Really, Boo?” She nudged him lightly with her knee.

Jacob let out a slow breath. “Boo?” He blinked at her. “That’s his name?”

She shrugged, not looking away from the waves. “Inside joke.”

Jacob snorted. “What kind of joke is that? What—did you find him in a haunted house or something?”

Gwendolyn smirked, “Or something.” He didn’t need to know how bizarre the truth was.

"Does he ever stop glaring?" Jacob muttered.

"Nope," Gwendolyn said easily. "He’s a very judgmental boy." She reached over and flicked Boo’s ear, more affectionate than annoyed. He didn’t flinch, just continued his silent surveillance like Jacob might detonate at any moment.

Jacob huffed a laugh under his breath, but Gwendolyn didn’t add anything right away. Her hand lingered briefly against Boo’s side, fingers curling into the dense fur like it grounded her. She didn’t explain that he wasn’t just a dog. That he wasn’t even really a familiar—not in the way most Casters understood it. Boo had been bound to her. Not summoned. Not chosen. Bound. Tethered the way a storm was tied to the pressure that caused it—inevitable, quiet, dangerous if ignored.

There wasn’t a word strong enough for what they were. But it wasn’t ownership. It wasn’t even friendship. It was closer to gravity. Macon had made sure of it—one last protection before everything went to hell.

She could feel Boo’s pulse through her palm, steady and quiet. Not asking anything of her. Just there. Always there.

Jacob huffed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sounds like a certain someone I know."

Gwendolyn raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And who might that be?"

Jacob just grinned, tilting his head toward her. "You tell me."

Gwendolyn turned her head slightly, giving him a look that was just this side of amused.

“He’s... protective,” Jacob said, nodding toward Boo. “You’ve had him a long time?”

Gwendolyn’s fingers stilled where they were combing through Boo’s thick fur. She didn’t look at Jacob. “Feels like always.” It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth either.

A silence stretched between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. The wind shifted. The waves kept rolling in. Boo didn’t move and Gwendolyn didn’t ask Jacob to leave.

She hadn’t noticed that he had fallen quiet for a second, rubbing the back of his neck like he was debating something. Then, out of nowhere, he blurted, “I used to have a turtle.”

She blinked, caught mid-sip of the thermos she’d conjured from her bag. “What?”

“A turtle. His name was Jet.” Jacob looked up at the sky like it might help him explain. “He was tiny. Like, palm-sized. We kept him in one of those janky starter tanks with plastic plants and a fake log that looked suspiciously like a hot dog.”

Gwendolyn squinted at him. “You had a turtle named Jet.”

Jacob nodded solemnly. “Fastest reptile on the peninsula.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Turtles aren’t fast.”

He grinned. “Exactly. It was aspirational.”

She bit back a smirk. “Alright. Continue.”

He leaned back on his elbows, eyes distant. “I got him when I was eight. My dad brought him home one day, no explanation. Just handed me this plastic container with a rock, a leaf, and this tiny pissed-off turtle inside. Didn’t even smile. Just said, ‘He’s yours now.’ Like I’d been handed a divine responsibility.”

Gwendolyn studied him quietly, catching the faint flicker of something in his voice.

“I think it was his way of…” Jacob trailed off, shrugging. “Trying. After my mom died.”

Gwendolyn’s breath caught. Not visibly. Not in a way he’d notice. But something inside her tipped just a little. She knew what it was to lose someone and not know how to name the hole they left behind. To build tiny, absurd shrines out of whatever you had left.
She didn’t say any of that. She just watched him talk.

“I didn’t really know what to do with Jet. I built him a Lego castle. Played music for him—mostly old CDs I stole from the garage. Gave him dramatic narrations whenever he moved an inch like, ‘Sir Jet of the Plastic Bog crosses into the Land of Uneaten Lettuce’.”

That pulled a quiet laugh from her.

Jacob smiled faintly, staring at the waves. “I really thought he liked me. He’d swim to the glass whenever I came into the room. Probably just wanted food, but you couldn’t tell eight-year-old me that.”

“What happened to him?” she asked, softer now.

Jacob exhaled, the kind of breath that tried to sound casual and failed. “He disappeared. I mean, I think he died. But I was convinced—like, convinced—that he’d pulled a great escape. One morning I woke up and the tank lid was shifted. Jet was gone. No note. No trace.”

“A dramatic exit,” she murmured. She shifted, one hand drifting to her ring, spinning it once—slow and deliberate—like it helped her process the word gone.

“Oh, yeah.” Jacob snorted. “I spent a week drawing up wanted posters. Told the whole rez to be on the lookout for a badass turtle with a mild attitude problem and a taste for strawberry lettuce drops.”

“That’s tragic,” Gwendolyn said solemnly. She almost smiled. Almost. It was strange, hearing him tell a sad story like it was funny. But maybe she got it. Sometimes it was easier to laugh than admit the crack in your chest hadn’t healed right.

“It was,” Jacob agreed, smiling wryly. “The first real thing I ever lost after her. And it was just… gone.”

He didn’t say anything else for a moment. Gwendolyn didn’t push. She just let the silence sit, let the waves fill it.

After a moment, Jacob added, “I never told anyone that part. About my mom, I mean.”

She glanced sideways, surprised.

“I don’t know why I told you,” he added, like he hadn’t just handed her something delicate.

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. She just kept her gaze on him.

Jacob swallowed hard, then forced a grin back onto his face. “Anyway. If you ever see a turtle with attitude and abandonment issues, that’s probably Jet.”

Gwendolyn didn’t answer right away. Her hand was still resting on Boo’s side, half-buried in his fur. Some creatures stayed. Some vanished. She wasn’t sure which was harder to live with.

She tilted her head. “Maybe he found a motorcycle and rides up the coast now. Jet the Nomadic Legend.”

Jacob nodded solemnly. “I hope so.”

Gwendolyn didn’t smile right away. She just looked at him—really looked at him—for half a second longer than she meant to. Not with pity or surprise. Just… recognition. She'd seen that same kind of ache before, about losing something and still imagining it might come back.

And for a long time, neither of them said a word. They sat there—two people with ghosts and water in their bones, letting the sea do the talking.

Jacob let the silence stretch for another moment, then cleared his throat, tone shifting. "You always this difficult to impress?"

A gull cried overhead. The tide pulled back and rolled in again, slower now, like even the sea was listening. Gwendolyn shifted her weight, brushing sand from her palm, but didn’t stand. She didn’t want to break the moment just yet.

She raised an eyebrow. "Why? You trying to impress me?"

Jacob let out a low laugh, shaking his head. "Just curious if you’ve always been this impossible to figure out."

Gwendolyn smirked. "And you’re hoping for an easy answer?"

"Wouldn’t mind one," Jacob admitted.

She just hummed. "That’s boring."

Jacob groaned, dragging a hand down his face, but he was smiling. Then, because his brain was already betraying him, because he was so drawn to her, because she was making him nervous and he hated it, he blurted "Okay," and leaned back onto his elbows. "Serious question."

Gwendolyn tilted her head. "Oh, this should be good."

Jacob ignored her sarcasm. "Why blue?"

Gwendolyn blinked. "What?"

"Your hair," he clarified, gesturing lazily toward the messy dark blue braid that was cascading over her shoulder. "I mean, it looks cool. But why that color?"

Gwendolyn tilted her head, considering him for a second. She could’ve said the truth.

That it reminded her of storms and of sea glass.

That Macon always said water suited her best, that when she was little, when was scared, he used to tell her she had a soul like the ocean – vast, restless, impossible to control.

That she liked how it looked like ink in the light—something permanent when everything else kept leaving.

But instead she just smirked and said, “Lost a bet with a mermaid." It wasn’t even really a lie, she did dye it because she lost a bet to Ridley, and she had siren-like powers, so close enough.

Jacob just stared at her. "...Bullshit."

She just raised an eyebrow.

“Wait. Is that your real answer, or are you just messing with me?”

She turned back toward the water, eyes unreadable. “Who’s to say?”

Jacob let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head. "Alright, I see how it is."

"Do you, though?"

Jacob scoffed. "No. Not even a little."

Another stretch of silence. Softer this time. "Okay. Next question."

Gwendolyn sighed, but there was amusement in her expression. "You’re really committed to this, huh?"

"Obviously," Jacob said. "Gotta figure out how your brain works."

"Good luck with that."

Jacob grinned. "I love a challenge."

Gwendolyn just shook her head, looking exasperated, but she didn’t stop him. And maybe that was the strangest part. She wasn’t just letting him stay, she liked it. The quiet. The banter. The way he looked at her like she was something worth figuring out. She didn’t know how they’d ended up there—still sitting in the sand long after the sky had gone soft with overcast light, still talking like it was the easiest thing in the world.

And Jacob… just kept going.

Half because he wanted too, he was actually curious.

Half because every time he asked something, she smirked at him like he was dancing around the edges of a secret. And it was driving him a little crazy.

And maybe—just maybe—because he liked the way her voice sounded when she talked. Even if most of it was total bullshit.

At some point, she turned her gaze back to the sea. Her shoulder dipped slightly as she leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. Her fingers absently toyed with the rings on her hands, the ones she always wore. Her eyes were distant again—somewhere far away, somewhere he couldn’t follow. And Jacob found himself staring because now that she wasn’t looking at him, he could actually see her.

The faint freckles dusting across her nose and cheeks.

How pale her eyes actually were—like ice, or maybe sea glass, catching the overcast light just right.

The way the wind caught in her dark blue hair, some curls slipping loose from her lazy braid.

The soft jingling sound of her bracelets every time she shifted. The sheer number of rings on her fingers—each one different, worn, carried like it mattered.

Why does she wear so many?

Jacob exhaled sharply, shaking himself out of it, because what the hell was that?

This was bad.

☽☽☽

Thursday 14^th April 2005

Jacob had not been thinking about her.  He hadn’t.

He was just doing his after-school job—helping out at the shop, same as always. Another normal-ass day. His shifts at the shop weren’t glamorous, but he liked them. The smell of oil and metal, the quiet satisfaction of fixing something with his hands—it was grounding. He didn’t mind the work, and it beat sitting around doing nothing.

But today was different. Because the moment he stepped into the garage, wiping his hands on an old rag, he saw her. Jacob turned, heart already kicking into high gear before his brain could remind it to calm the hell down. And there she was.

Gwendolyn Ravenwood.

Standing at the counter, arms crossed, looking like she belonged in a damn car commercial—except the kind where the model could probably hotwire the car herself if she wanted to.

Jacob’s brain scrambled. Because, okay—she always looked good, but here? In the middle of a grease-stained mechanic shop? With the sunlight catching just right on her dark blue curls, her rings glinting as she drummed her fingers against the counter, looking annoyed but in a hot way—

Nope. Nope, focus.

This was ridiculous. He barely knew her. And yet, there was something about the way she just walked into his space like she belonged there, like she had already claimed it. It wasn’t fair. It was effortless. She wasn’t even trying and that made it worse.

He had never felt like this before. This weird, restless energy curling in his gut, like something pulling at him just beneath the surface. And then he overheard what she was asking for and promptly died a little.

"Yeah, I need a new distributor cap. Mine’s shot."

Jacob nearly tripped over his own feet. He was already struggling. Already dealing with the fact that she had somehow set up permanent residence in his brain. Distributor cap. She was fixing a car. And for some reason, his brain decided that it was wildly attractive. He wiped his palms on his jeans—nervous habit, not that it helped—and crossed the floor like the concrete had turned into hot coals. Just act normal. Just say something normal. "Didn’t peg you for a gearhead."

Gwendolyn turned, raising an unimpressed brow. "Didn’t peg you for a mechanic."

Jacob grinned, crossing his arms to keep his hands from doing something stupid, like rubbing the back of his neck. "Fair." He gestured toward the counter. "So, what are we working on?"

She was standing close enough that he could see the faint smudge of grease near her knuckle, the way one ring had caught a bit of sun. He swallowed. Focus. Engine. Car. Not her hands.

Something flickered in her expression—subtle, but there. He had seen her brush off questions before, had watched her dodge and deflect like it was a sport. But this wasn’t a guarded keep your distance look. This was excitement.

She hesitated only a second before answering, "Some rust bucket with a busted engine. She’s a disaster right now."

Jacob’s eyebrows shot up. He had to stop himself from blurting out something really ridiculous, like Will you marry me on this oil-stained floor? Instead, he cleared his throat, shoving his hands in his pockets, "Damn. That’s serious work."

"Yeah, well," she shrugged, "she deserves better than rotting in some junkyard."

And that hit him harder than he expected. He shifted his stance, suddenly not sure what to do with his hands. There was something in her tone—something raw and quiet, as if she hadn’t meant to say it out loud. She wasn’t just talking about the car. Jacob studied her for a second, heart still stuttering. She always kept people at arm’s length—dry, sharp, unreadable. But here? Talking about a broken-down machine like it meant something? He didn’t even know why that wreck of a car mattered to her. He just knew he suddenly wanted to be part of fixing it.

"So, what’s wrong with her?" he asked, hoping he didn’t sound as ridiculously flustered as he felt.

She let out a short laugh. "What isn’t wrong with her? Engine’s fried, wiring’s a mess, interior’s basically a graveyard. But she used to run fast and she will again."

Jacob nodded, grinning. "So, are you doing the work yourself, or…?"

"Mostly, but Emmett’s helping," Gwendolyn admitted with a shrug.

Jacob’s jaw clenched before he could stop it. Of course. Emmett. He had seen the guy before—tall, smug, built like a damn boulder. The kind of guy who probably bench-pressed tree trunks for fun. He remembered the way Emmett had shown up at Stiles’ house to pick her up, grinning like he owned the world, throwing a lazy arm around Gwendolyn like it was nothing. And worse? She’d let him.

Jacob knew better than to ask questions, but something in his chest curled tight anyway—something he didn’t have a name for, and didn’t like the taste of.

"So, distributor cap, huh?" he said, nodding at the part.

Gwendolyn nodded. "First step. Gotta get her running before I mess with anything else."

Jacob grinned. "You know, if you ever need a second opinion…"

"What, you offering to help?"

"Maybe," he said, casual. "Depends if you’re any good."

Gwendolyn rolled her eyes. "I’m a quick learner."

Jacob just laughed. Yeah, he bet she was.

The part was easy enough to find, and by the time he rang it up, he was still trying to wrap his head around this whole situation.

Gwendolyn rebuilding a car.

Gwendolyn talking engines like it was no big deal.                               

Gwendolyn not being sarcastic for a whole five minutes and actually talking to him like a normal person.

Gwendolyn smirking at him like she knew exactly what she was doing to his sanity.

It was like the universe was messing with him on purpose.

As they stepped outside, he walked her back to her ride which, to his complete surprise, was Edward Cullen’s Volvo. He knew that stupid car. Had seen it drive past a few times over the last few weeks. Had seen it parked at Bella’s more than once. And every time, his dad looked like he’d swallowed a ghost.

Jacob eyed it with immediate suspicion. "This yours?"

She scoffed. "This ugly thing? Hell no. It’s a hostage situation."

Jacob raised an eyebrow.

She leaned against the door, fiddling with the distributor cap in her hands. "I borrowed it. No functioning car, no license, no problem."

Jacob blinked. "Wait. You still don’t have a license?"

She shrugged. "Legally? No. Functionally? I drive just fine."

He stared at her, dumbfounded. "So… you just plan on driving illegally?"

"It’s Forks. Who’s gonna check?"

Jacob let out a breath of laughter, shaking his head. "Unbelievable," he muttered.

"Completely believable," she corrected, sliding into her seat.

Jacob stood there, watching the Volvo pull away, feeling like his brain was a scrambled mess of wires and static. What if she already had a boyfriend? What if that’s why the Cullens were always floating around her orbit? He knew Edward was dating Bella, so it couldn’t be him. But what if it was that Emmett guy?

His stomach twisted.

Wait. Why do I even care?

It wasn’t like he had any claim to her. Wasn’t like they were even friends yet. And yet, he was already spiraling.

Would she ever even go for a guy like me?

He tried to shove the thought down, but it stuck. She was... sharp edges and pretty and untouchable confidence. And him? He changed tires and scraped grease from under his fingernails. Guys like him didn’t usually get girls like her.

He rubbed a hand down his face, trying to will his head to start working again. He swallowed hard. This was bad. His brain was doing something dangerous. Fantasizing. Hoping. Believing, for some insane reason, that he had a shot.

Is she dating one of them? She didn’t say she was. But she also didn’t say she wasn’t. Would she even tell me? Do I even have the right to ask? Oh my god, I don’t have the right to ask, I am such an idiot.

Jacob clenched his jaw and forced himself to breathe.

What if she doesn’t like guys?! No, no—relax. She might. Or worse—what if she only likes guys like freaking Edward Cullen. Broody. Pale. Mysterious. The kind of guy who looked like he belonged in a funeral home catalog.

Jacob clenched his jaw.

Don’t be stupid.

He paced once, then twice, running a hand through his hair like that would help. But then he remembered the way she smiled—barely, like it cost her something. And how, when she did, it felt like light cracking through a storm.

He had never cared like this before. Never spiraled like this. Never stood in the middle of a mechanic shop panicking over a girl who hadn’t even texted him. Not that he had her number. Not that he could.

He groaned, dragging his hand down his face. The shop smelled like old oil and rubber and metal shavings—usually comforting. Now it just made his stomach churn.

This was so dumb. It wasn’t even about whether she’d like him back. It was the terrifying, undeniable fact that he wanted her to.

And that was a problem. Because Jacob Black didn’t get stuck on girls. He wasn’t that guy. He noticed them, sure, but he never felt like this. Like his brain had latched onto something it shouldn’t have and now wouldn’t let go.

Except… he was now.

He didn’t even know what this was. A crush? An obsession? Whatever it was, it was too loud in his chest and it wasn’t going away.

☽☽☽

Jacob had never been so annoyed by his own thoughts before.

Ever since that afternoon at the shop, Gwendolyn had been stuck in his head like some kind of looping song. He didn’t even really know her that well and yet, here he was, thinking about the way she talked about her car, the way she barely seemed to care about rules, the way she looked so at ease leaning against that godawful Volvo.

Every time his mind wandered, it went straight back to her.

How was it fair? He had literally met her four times. Four.

And yet she was everywhere in his head. And worse, he had this urge — this completely insane urge — to ask about her. It wasn’t like he needed to. He wasn’t some desperate idiot looking for a crush to obsess over. He had plenty of other things to focus on—school, work, fixing up his car. But no, his brain had decided this was the thing now.

So, three days later, he found himself hanging out with Stiles and Scott, trying very hard to be normal, failing miserably, and very much debating if he should ask casually, without looking weird, like a normal person.

Casual curiosity. That was a thing, right?

They were sitting at the Elk Creek park, lazily throwing rocks at nothing in particular. Scott was lying on his back, staring at the sky, while Stiles sat cross-legged, rambling about some “super important” mystery that definitely sounded like another one of his conspiracy theories.

Jacob wasn’t listening. He was thinking. Overthinking. How should he bring this up?

Hey, so, Gwendolyn— No. Too obvious.

You guys ever notice how weird Gwendolyn is? No, that made it sound like he hated her, like he wanted her banned from school property.

So, Gwendolyn. What’s her deal?

“Dude, are you gonna throw that or marry it?”

Jacob blinked and realized he’d been holding the same rock for ten minutes. Stiles was squinting at him. Scott was lying on the grass with his arms behind his head, probably wondering why he invited either of them out here.

“You good?” Scott asked, not even opening his eyes.

Jacob shrugged. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

“About?”

Jacob hesitated. His mouth opened. Closed. He tried again. “Gwendolyn.”

“Oh my god,” Stiles exploded, lurching upright so fast he nearly knocked over his soda. “I knew it. I knew it. There was a vibe.”

Jacob groaned. “That’s not what—”

“No no no,” Stiles said, waving his hands. “Let me have this. Let me just—Jacob Black. Having a full-on crisis over Miss I-Can-Fix-My-Car-and-Burn-You-Alive. I am thriving.”

Scott sat up now, blinking at Jacob like he’d just grown antlers. “Wait. Seriously?”

“No,” Jacob said, but way too fast.

“So you’re just casually bringing her up for academic reasons?”

Jacob scowled. “Can you two not make this weirder than it already is?”

“Too late,” Stiles said, practically vibrating. “Do you need help writing a poem? Wait—no, never mind. Remember Valentine’s Day? She obliterated those guys. You’ll be ashes before you rhyme ‘Ravenwood’ with ‘good.’ But like a mix tape? Should I go get her birth chart?”

“Shut up,” Jacob muttered.

Scott, unlike Stiles, was actually watching him. “She’s kinda hard to figure out, huh?”

Jacob looked down at the rock in his hand again. “She’s…” He trailed off. Feral. Gorgeous. Completely unforgettable.

Stiles dropped back onto the grass with a dramatic groan. “Oh no. He’s got it bad.”

“You could just talk to her,” Scott offered, his tone genuinely helpful. “Or I could say something if you want? You know, test the waters.”

Jacob’s stomach twisted. “No. Don’t do that. Seriously.”

“Okay, okay,” Scott said, holding up a hand. “Just saying. She’s not scary once you get past the death glare.”

“You haven’t gotten past the death glare,” Stiles said.

“Yeah, well it doesn’t have the same effect anymore. Besides she lets me borrow her lighters sometimes. That’s progress.”

Jacob didn’t respond. He was still turning the information over in his head. The way she’d talked to him in the garage. The way she’d smiled—just a little—like she didn’t show that to just anyone.

“So what’s her deal?” he asked, as casually as he could manage.

“She’s been here since what—last fall?” Stiles said, frowning. “Didn’t start school ‘til January. Something about being sick or whatever.”

Scott shook his head. “Not sick. Her uncle died. My mom said she used to live with him.”

Jacob frowned, the words landing heavier than he expected. She’d lost her uncle? And before that, her parents? No wonder she looked like she had walls six feet thick. He’d never really thought about it before—how she never mentioned family. Never talked about home. Maybe there was no home left to talk about.

“After that, Dr Cullen took her in. I think he knew her uncle, or something? It’s kind of like foster care, I guess?"

Jacob stiffened. “Wait. The Cullens?”

“Yeah, man.” Stiles gave him a look. “How did you not know that?”

Jacob opened his mouth then shut it. How the hell had he not figured that out?! She had mentioned them before. Had seen her drive Edward Cullen’s stupid Volvo. But for some reason, his brain had never connected the dots. It had just never occurred to him that she actually lived with them.

The Cullens. His dad’s weird, freaky legends Cullens. The ones who never talked to anyone. The ones who supposedly looked wrong. The ones Billy had been muttering about for years—like they were some kind of danger no one else could see.

Jacob’s chest tightened. Suddenly, he couldn’t think straight.

“You’re making a face again,” Scott said quietly.

Jacob rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. Just didn’t realize.”

“Didn’t realize she lived with the town’s shadiest, pale-faced weirdos?” Stiles said brightly. “Yeah, most people forget until she gets picked up in that Volvo or Emmett’s monster Jeep. Or, you know, until she walks into a room like she owns it.”

Scott added, “I think Mrs. Cullen picks her up most days. She’s really nice, always packs us breakfast.”

The Cullens weren’t even the real problem. His dad was. Because if Billy Black ever found out Jacob was crushing on a girl who lived with them? He’d never hear the end of it.

☽☽☽

Jacob was having a crisis, a dumb one, but still. Because the second his friends confirmed that Gwendolyn lived with the Cullens, his brain went into immediate overload.

If Billy ever caught wind of this? Jacob could already hear it. "Son, you must listen. The Cullens are not what they seem. Our ancestors knew—"

He’d go full cryptic elder mode. He’d probably stage an intervention. Hell, he might even send someone to drag Jacob back to La Push and keep him there before he caught the supernatural cooties or whatever.

Jacob could already imagine it — his dad going full I told you so, giving him that look, like he was some kid who didn’t know any better, like he needed saving from something. He’d probably try to warn him, like Gwendolyn was some kind of dangerous omen instead of just a girl with a sharp mouth and a talent for making his brain short-circuit.

And that was a problem because Jacob did like her. And that sucked.

Not just because of Billy, but because what the hell was he supposed to do with this?

He’d never been like this before. Never had this weird, restless feeling in his chest, like he wanted to know everything about someone. Never wanted to just be around a girl this much. And Gwendolyn wasn’t even trying. Not batting her lashes, not flirting. Half the time, she barely noticed him.

But when she did? His brain fried. Literally. He could barely string two thoughts together whenever she looked at him too long and that was unacceptable.

It wasn’t even some stupid random crush. He had been thinking about her for weeks. Finding excuses to go into Forks, wondering if he’d run into her again. Replaying that conversation at the shop. How easily she talked about cars, how her eyes lit up when she explained things, how she actually smiled…

It did something to him. Something stupid. Because suddenly he was wondering—how would her skin feel?

His thoughts derailed. Would her hands be soft? Her hair looked soft. What would it feel like to—

His breath hitched. Nope. Nope. Nope.

He physically groaned, rubbing his face aggressively. He was not thinking about kissing her. He wasn’t. Except now he was. And now it was all he was thinking about. Stupid. So stupid. And the worst part? The second he had the thought, it stuck—clinging to the inside of his skull like it belonged there.

Jacob exhaled sharply, slumping back in his bed. His chest still felt weird. Tight. Something had gotten lodged there and didn’t want to leave.

So, yeah. He had no idea what he was supposed to do about any of this. But he knew one thing for sure— Billy Black could not find out. Because Billy would lose his goddamn mind.

Jacob let out another groan, tilting his head back toward the ceiling. This was the dumbest thing that had ever happened to him. And yet he still found himself wondering when he’d see her again.

☽☽☽

Chapter Text

The bleachers were buzzing with low chatter, and the field smelled like wet grass, damp metal, and concession stand popcorn that had probably been reheated five times. Forks High’s lacrosse team was gearing up—helmets clanking, sticks swinging a little too close to bystanders, and a lot of overconfident yelling for a team that had only won once this season. Someone had already spilled half a soda under the front row. A freshman was juggling nachos like a bomb about to detonate.

Gwendolyn stood near the players’ bench, one boot propped on the bottom rung of the fence, arms folded over the hem of her fitted coat. The sleeves were pushed up just enough to show stacked bracelets and the glint of her rings. Beneath it, she wore a red mini skirt and sheer tights that had definitely seen better days, artfully ripped along one thigh. Her shirt was long-sleeved and fitted, some inky, elemental pattern barely visible unless the light hit right. Her curls were mostly loose, wild from the weather, but two thick braids started from her crown and twisted back like a loose frame for her face. She looked unbothered by the cold—mostly because she’d discreetly charmed the outfit to keep her warm. She’d never compromise her aesthetic because of the weather.

She shouldn’t have been here. She hated this. The noise. The pointless excitement. The fact that half the girls in the bleachers were shrieking for Jackson like he was a local celebrity instead of a walking ego with cleats. But she’d bombed her math test—again—and Stiles had pulled the you-owe-me-one card so fast it should’ve been illegal. He had cornered her at lunch and weaponized guilt like a master manipulator. “Just one game, Gwen. One. Come mock the team from the sidelines. I’ll even buy you churros.” She’d narrowed her eyes and muttered something about emotional extortion, but… she came.

She was leaning against the metal railing with her arms crossed, watching Stiles struggling with his gear, complaining at full speed. “I swear, these shoulder pads are out to get me. They’re not even regulation—I think they’re cursed.”

“You’d be lucky if they were cursed,” Gwendolyn said. “At least then you could blame the supernatural instead of your lack of coordination.”

Scott snorted behind her.

“I am coordinated,” Stiles insisted. “I'm just... underutilized.”

“Underqualified,” Gwendolyn corrected.

Before he could defend himself, a sharp whistle split the air.

“Ravenwood! Off the bench!” Coach Finstock’s voice cracked through the chaos like a man on his third Red Bull. “Unless you grew a jersey and a death wish, that seat isn’t for you!”

Gwendolyn didn’t flinch. She tilted her head lazily toward him and offered a single, unimpressed, “Noted.” Then went right back to leaning where she was.

Stiles winced. “You’re gonna get banned.”

She shrugged. “He already hates me. Why stop now?”

Before another whistle could be lobbed her way, a warm large hand brushed her wrist, then gently tugged—steady, calloused, and unexpected.

Her bracelets jingled faintly at the contact—metal against metal, a soft warning bell. She hadn’t heard him approach, but she’d felt the shift—air pressure, footsteps in wet grass, something just on the edge of her senses.

“Coach is right,” Jacob said as he appeared beside her like he’d been waiting for the perfect moment. “You can’t sit here.”

She turned slightly to face him, one brow arched, expression unreadable except for the faint twitch of amusement at the corner of her mouth that didn’t quite hide her curiosity. “I’m not sitting.”

His hair was half-tied, the wind pulling strands loose around his face. He looked like he’d just come from the garage—hoodie rumpled, hands still faintly smudged. His fingers didn’t let go of her.

“He’s still gonna throw something at you.” His voice was low, casual. “C’mon. You’re with me now.” Jacob gave her wrist a gentle tug and then his hand shifted, sliding down to catch her hand. Just palm over palm. Calloused and warm. Steady in a way she wasn’t expecting.

“What is this, witness protection?” she muttered, but didn’t pull away. Not that she needed saving, obviously. But his touch wasn’t bad. It was... grounding. And warm. And she didn’t feel like arguing with that right now.

Behind her, Stiles yelled, “I need her for morale!”

“Yeah?” Coach Finstock shouted back. “Maybe if your morale could run, you’d get more field time!”

Gwendolyn didn’t even bother hiding her grin. Jacob glanced over, catching her expression like he’d been hoping to, and smiled.

He led her up a few steps to the middle of the bleachers, straight to where Quil and Embry were sprawled across a row of seats, each armed with a soda and elbow-deep in popcorn. The boys exchanged a silent look, then grinned like they’d won a bet.

“Make room,” Jacob said without ceremony.

Quil bumped Embry with his knee, both scooting over with exaggerated sighs and barely-contained smirks. Jacob dropped into the seat and pulled Gwendolyn down next to him, placing her squarely between him and Embry like she’d always belonged there. His knee brushed hers casually. Like it meant nothing. Like it wasn’t the most deliberate placement of the night.

“Really staking your claim, huh?” she said under her breath, low enough that only Jacob would hear. She hadn’t expected to be dropped into the middle of a boy popcorn pit, but it didn’t feel weird. Not really. Just… warm. Loud. Kind of nice, actually. She might need to commit a minor felony just to balance the mood.

“I’m generous,” Jacob replied amused, already popping open a root beer and handing it to her as if it was standard protocol. She took it without thinking, fingers brushing his again for a split second. “And this seat is definitely safer.”

“For who? Finstock or you?” she snorted.

Jacob just grinned.

Quil elbowed Embry with the grace of a middle schooler trying to whisper in church. “You seeing this?”

“I’m seeing it,” Embry said under his breath. “Our boy’s pulling moves.”

“I can hear you,” Gwendolyn said dryly.

“Good,” Embry replied, not even pretending to be sorry.

Gwendolyn rolled her eyes, but not because they were wrong—because of course they’d say something like that. Boys couldn’t help themselves. Sit next to one, laugh once, and suddenly it was a whole thing. She wasn’t stupid. She knew Jacob was warm and maybe a little too smooth sometimes, but she’d seen how he was with everyone. This wasn’t some secret flirtation—this was just... him. Easy. Friendly. Comfortable in a way she didn’t totally hate. Let them snicker. She wasn’t reading into it.

“You two always this annoying, or is this a special occasion?”

“Special,” Quil said cheerfully. “We had to witness this.”

“I will throw this soda at you,” Jacob muttered.

“Please do,” Embry said. “It’d be the most athletic thing you’ve done all week.”

Gwendolyn just shook her head, already sipping her drink. “If I get sticky, I’m setting someone on fire.”

“See?” Quil said, beaming. “She likes us.”

And just like that, she was in it. Surrounded by boys with no volume control, bad snack etiquette, and a complete lack of personal space. And somehow? She didn’t hate it.

☽☽☽

Jacob had settled into full “casual confidence” mode—legs spread, arm casually draped behind Gwendolyn on the bench like he might be stretching. His wrist brushed her shoulder whenever he moved. Not enough to be annoying. Just enough to be there. Quil and Embry were trading popcorn shots into each other’s mouths, missing more often than not. One bounced off Gwen’s boot.

She gave it a slow look. Then flicked it back with perfect aim right into Quil’s soda.

He gaped at her. “That was targeted!”

“Retribution,” she said sweetly.

Down on the field, the game was still a mess. Half the team was winded, and Stiles was pacing like a nervous ferret at the edge of the bench. Jackson was hogging the ball like it owed him money. Honestly, it was kind of fun watching him crash and burn. Like watching a rich guy try to do his own taxes—loud, arrogant, and doomed.  

Gwendolyn had watched maybe five actual seconds of play. The rest had been spent judging everyone’s form, strategy, and sense of self-preservation—none of which were impressive.

“This is painful,” Gwendolyn muttered, leaning forward with her chin in her hand.

Jacob, still grinning, nudged her knee with his. “You don’t appreciate raw, unfiltered talent.”

“I’d appreciate it more if Jackson stopped trying to solo the entire game like he’s auditioning for Gladiator.”

Embry snorted. “I mean, if he faceplants hard enough, maybe Stiles gets subbed in.”

Gwendolyn hummed, shifting her weight and leaning into Jacob’s shoulder just slightly—like she didn’t notice or didn’t care. Her thigh pressed against his for a moment before she adjusted, fingers curling loosely around her drink. “Tempting.”

Jacob angled toward her, his voice was lower now. “Tempting what?”

She didn’t look at him right away, just smirked into her bottle. “Think we can take him out by throwing popcorn at him?”

“You’d need a popcorn cannon for that ego,” Embry added.

Jacob snorted “Popcorn’s not aerodynamic enough. Maybe if we dip it in soda first.”

“I could always throw the whole soda,” she said casually, twisting her bottle cap.

Quil leaned in. “You say that like you haven’t done it before.”

“No comment,” Gwendolyn replied.

She dipped her finger in the condensation on her bottle, then, casually, dragged it along the bench beside her. A curve. A flick. A breath of a rune. Nothing major. Just a sliver of bad timing. A whisper of imbalance. Enough to tip the scales if the moment came.

No one would notice. Especially not the meathead charging headfirst into karma.

Down on the field, a player launched himself forward in a reckless sprint and tripped hard. His stick flew one way, his helmet the other. He hit the grass with a thud that made the crowd wince.

Coach Finstock squinted toward the bench. “Stilinski!”

There was a brief pause like everyone had misheard.

“Get in there before I change my mind!”

Stiles practically fell over himself scrambling onto the field. Scott yelled something encouraging, half-laughing.

Gwendolyn leaned forward slightly, chin propped on her fist. “Well, well, well.”

Jacob looked at her sideways, eyes narrowing just a little. “You didn’t do something, did you?”

Gwendolyn turned her head, meeting his gaze with wide-eyed innocence. “Jacob.” Her voice was syrupy, mock-scandalized. “Do I look like someone who would interfere with a high school sports game?”

His eyebrows lifted slightly. He didn’t answer right away—just looked at her, trying to decide if she was kidding, or if she was always this dangerous with a smile. The corner of his mouth twitched. “Yes,” he said finally, flat but amused.

She smirked.  “Fair.” And took a slow sip of her drink like it was wine and not store-brand root beer.

Down on the field, Stiles was flailing into position like someone had just launched him out of a t-shirt cannon. His helmet was slightly crooked. His stick was backwards. He didn’t seem to notice.

Embry leaned forward, popcorn in hand. “He’s gonna fall.”

“I give him a minute,” Quil added, eyes tracking Stiles’ every movement.

Gwendolyn narrowed her eyes. “Fifty seconds, tops. I’ve seen squirrels with better footing.”

Jacob watched with barely-contained laughter, the kind that curled behind his teeth. “Okay, but if he does something cool, I’m blaming you.”

“You mean crediting me.”

He laughed under his breath. “Right. My bad. If he scores, I’ll carve your name into the bleachers.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“And you’re not?” he shot back, elbow brushing hers as he leaned slightly closer.

Her smile went crooked, a little wicked, but softer around the edges. “Maybe just a little,” she said—and there was pride there, buried under the teasing. Not for the chaos she caused, but for Stiles. For the absurd miracle of him still standing.

☽☽☽

Stiles was somehow still upright—sweaty, breathless, definitely on the verge of cardiac arrest, but alive. He fumbled the ball once. Twice. Nearly collided with one of his own teammates. And then—

By some miracle (or Gwendolyn’s very minor, morally gray interference), it landed back in his stick. He froze, wide-eyed.

“Shoot it!” Scott yelled from somewhere in the field, practically vibrating.

“Do something!” Embry added, half-standing.

Stiles sprinted forward like he was being chased by the end of the world, his limbs barely cooperating, and launched the ball toward the net with the desperation of a man who had nothing left to lose.

It went in.

There was a stunned half-second of silence, then chaos. The bleachers erupted. Scott jumped up and screamed like someone had just proposed to him. Coach Finstock looked momentarily like he might drop dead from shock. The Forks bench went feral.

And across the field, Sheriff Stilinski stood with both hands in the air, grinning like a proud dad at Disney World. “That’s my boy!”

Stiles, wide-eyed and disbelieving, dropped to his knees like he’d just won the Super Bowl. His helmet slipped sideways, but he didn’t care. He just let out an unhinged laugh and pounded the turf.

Gwendolyn blinked. “Did he just—?”

“Score?” Jacob finished, eyes wide with genuine awe. “Yeah. I think he did.”

“Holy hell.”

Embry clutched Quil’s shoulder. “Did you see that?”

“I think I blacked out,” Quil said.

“Gotta say,” Jacob leaned forward, eyes still on the field, “you might be a good luck charm.”

Gwendolyn only shrugged, a lazy grin pulling at her mouth. “I’m morally flexible. Not unlucky.”

He let out a quiet laugh, then straightened suddenly like he’d made a decision. “You got a knife?”

Gwendolyn blinked at him. “What for?”

He grinned, sheepish but smug. “Gonna carve your name. I’m not doing it with my teeth.”

She stared at him. “You don’t carry one?”

Jacob held up his hands. “Do I look like someone who carries a knife?”

Quil snorted. “No, but you look like someone who’d carve hearts into desks if you had one.”

Embry added, “It’s giving middle school yearbook signature energy.”

Jacob flipped them both off, unbothered. “Jealousy’s loud today.”

With a theatrical sigh, Gwendolyn dug into her bag and pulled out a sleek black pocketknife, flipping it open with practiced ease. “You’re lucky I do.”

Jacob took it with a low whistle. “Damn. This is… actually nice. You would have a scary-sharp knife.” He ran a thumb along the blade with mock-awe. “This thing could end lives.”

She took a long sip of her drink. “That’s the point. Don’t get attached.”

Quil leaned in again. “Oh, he’s already attached. I bet he’s practicing your last name next.”

“Shut up,” Jacob muttered, kneeling down and getting to work.

Embry leaned against the bleachers, watching. “You writing just her name, or you gonna do the full Gwendolyn 4Ever in swirly letters?”

“I swear to god—” Jacob said without looking up.

“Throw in a little heart,” Quil added. “Or a raven. Make it thematic.”

Gwendolyn, perched above them with one knee hitched, just watched Jacob work, unimpressed but not unamused.

A few moments passed—enough for the noise of the crowd to quiet, the game to stumble back into motion, and for Stiles to start limping triumphantly on the field with both arms in the air like he was demanding worship.

Jacob stood up again, offering the knife back with a crooked grin. “There. Immortalized. G.R. Forever etched in Forks High bleacher history.”

She took it back and inspected the carving. “It’s a little crooked.”

“You’re welcome.” Jacob said, shaking his head, a permanent grin etched on his face. “It adds character.”

☽☽☽

The group was standing in the lot, chatting by Jacob’s truck and Stiles’s beat-up jeep. Quil and Embry were engaged in a conversation about whether or not the lacrosse game was just an excuse for Stiles to run in circles.

Gwendolyn leaned casually against the truck, crossing her arms, while Jacob was leaning against the side, his usual playful grin still lingering.

Stiles was reenacting his goal for the fourth time, using his lacrosse stick like a battle staff. “—and then I ducked, and the goalie was right there, but I totally faked him out, and BAM—”

“You tripped and got lucky,” Gwendolyn said, bored but amused.

“I tripped strategically,” Stiles corrected.

That’s when Gwendolyn’s phone buzzed. And kept buzzing. She dug it out with a groan. “Ridley,” she muttered under her breath.

Embry peeked over her shoulder. “Is that a guy?”

Gwendolyn arched a brow. “If it was, would that make it more interesting for you?”

Embry held up his hands. “Just asking.”

Jacob leaned against the tailgate beside her, sipping his drink. “You’ve got friends outside of Forks?”

“Cousins,” she said. “Unfortunately.”

Scott tilted his head. “Wait—you have cousins?”

Stiles blinked. “You have a family?”

Gwendolyn rolled her eyes. “Regretfully.”

She quickly read through the texts.

Ridley [7:33 PM]: Don’t ghost me, witch. Beltane is in 8 days and I’m not doing it alone with Cousin Judgement unless you want my soul to shrivel. Also HE’S coming. Yes, that HE.

Ridley [7:33 PM]: Come. I’ll even let you pick who we piss off first. Grandma, or my ex.

Larkin [7:34 PM]: Beltane is mandatory this year. I’m stealing Boo if you don’t show up.

Ridley [7:35 PM]: Besides, I already picked your outfit. And mine. And Larkin’s. We’re a cursed power trio. You have no choice.

Ridley [7:36 PM]: No seriously. I’m cashing in best cousin points. If you make me suffer through Grandmother’s speech again without backup, I will do something violent.

Larkin [7:37 PM]: You can’t keep skipping these. It’s family tradition to make Grandmother cry once a year.

Gwendolyn’s fingers hovered over the screen like she might reply.

“Family emergency?” Jacob asked, half-joking.

“More like a boring family reunion I’d rather skip,” she said, tucking her phone a little closer to her chest.

Embry leaned in again, not even pretending to be subtle. Gwendolyn casually shoved him back with her elbow. “Seriously?”

“I wasn’t reading—just investigating,” Embry said, grinning. “So, is it really tradition to make your grandma cry every year?”

She locked the phone and slid it into her coat pocket with a sharp motion, then crossed her arms tight across her chest. “We try, but she doesn’t have tear ducts.”

Quil blinked. “Wait, like... biologically?”

“No,” she deadpanned. “Just emotionally.”

Then, shifting her weight slightly, Gwendolyn tilted her head toward the field. “Anyway. Back to the real tragedy—Forks High’s idea of sports.” Her tone was airy, but the edge hadn’t quite left her voice.

“Right,” Embry said, letting it go. “Let’s talk about Stilinski’s Olympic stumble.”

“I still say it was choreography,” Stiles called out, offended.

Gwendolyn rolled her eyes, her arms still folded, but the tension had eased. Conversation veered off her and back into safer, dumber territory—and that was exactly how she liked it.

And then Jackson showed up. He strode across the parking lot like the pavement owed him rent. Still in uniform, helmet in hand, sweat-soaked and scowling, he made a beeline for the group. His ego entered the space before he did.

“What are you doing hanging around losers like these?” he sneered at Gwendolyn, not even pretending to be subtle. His eyes flicked over the group with distaste, lingering too long on Stiles. “Christ, Stilinski, did they really let you play, or were they just out of cones?”

“Nice,” Stiles muttered, shoulders stiffening.

Scott shifted forward, jaw tight, but Gwendolyn stuck out an arm, stopping him with a lazy sweep.

She didn’t even move otherwise. She just blinked at Jackson, slow and unimpressed. “You’re still talking?”

Jackson scoffed, stepping closer, posturing like a moron. “It’s funny. You think you’re scary, but you’re just mouthy. Try me again, Ravenwood. See what happens.”

There it was. The simmer. The flicker.

Gwendolyn tilted her head slightly, then exhaled once—slow and sharp.

He wasn’t Moira. He didn’t hit her raw nerves, didn’t unearth the things buried deeper than she could reach. He was loud, cocky, and weak. Still, the air crackled faintly as something settled in her spine.

She looked down at the drink in her hand, then—without a word—handed it to Jacob, who caught it on instinct, blinking.

“What—” he started.

But she’d already moved.

In one clean motion, Gwendolyn pivoted and swept Jackson’s legs out from under him. He hit the asphalt flat on his back with a breathless thud, helmet clattering from his hand. The whoosh of air leaving his lungs was practically musical.

The others didn’t even move. It was like time paused.

Before Jackson could react, Gwendolyn stepped forward and planted her boot on his chest, pinning him where he lay. She crouched, elbow resting lazily on her knee, expression calm.

“Don’t mistake lack of respect for fear,” she murmured, voice low and razor-edged. “It’s embarrassing.”

Jackson, red-faced and furious, coughed and tried to speak—spat something half-formed and stupid, all bark and no teeth. “Get your—”

Her eyes, sharp enough to cut glass, snapped to his as she exerted just a bit more pression on his chest with her boot, “Did I say you could talk?”

Jackson stilled.

Her voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. “You already embarrassed yourself. Let’s not make this worse.”

He stayed quiet this time. Breathing hard, chest rising under her boot.

“Now,” she said, tilting her head, “be a good boy—” she stepped off him like he was a stain, “—and get the fuck out of my space.”

Gwendolyn stared at Jackson for just a second longer. She could’ve done more. Could’ve made it hurt. Could’ve burned him into the concrete with one whispered word. But he wasn’t worth it.

Not like Moira had been.

She brushed imaginary dust off her skirt and walked back toward the group like nothing had happened. She wasn’t proud of it. But she wasn’t sorry, either.

Jackson scrambled to his feet, silent now, rage and ego bruised beyond repair. His gaze flicked to the boys—watching, unblinking, popcorn abandoned. He opened his mouth once like he might salvage his pride—but then caught Gwendolyn’s stare again.

He thought better of it.

He turned and stormed off with all the grace of a toddler who’d just face-planted in front of the cool kids.

Only then did the parking lot breathe again.

“Holy shit,” Embry said softly, voice almost reverent. “Did that just happen?”

“Bro,” Quil muttered eyes still wide. “That was terrifying...and hot.”

Jacob silently handed her back her drink.

Gwendolyn took it back without a word, sipped casually, then leaned against the truck like she hadn’t just planted a quarterback in the pavement.

Scott gave a low laugh, stunned. “You literally stepped on him.”

“I barely touched him,” she said.

Quil laughed, finally shaking off the shock. “Yo, you swept him like you were in a kung fu movie.”

Embry added, “Dude hit the ground like a cartoon anvil.”

Gwendolyn exhaled through her nose, bored again. “Relax. If I wanted to kill him, I’d have aimed higher.”

Stiles finally found his voice—and used all of it. “Okay, what the actual hell was that? You’ve been holding out on us! You swept him. That was like—Jason Bourne meets Regina George. With better hair.”

Gwendolyn didn’t answer. She just sipped her drink.

Stiles pointed his lacrosse stick at her like it was a microphone. “Seriously. That was tactical. It was surgical. You pivoted like you had a playbook. Have you been training for this? Did you study his weak points? Is it the knee? It’s always the knee, right? Also, can you teach me?”

Gwendolyn raised an eyebrow, unbothered. “Do I look like I run self-defense classes?”

Stiles didn’t hesitate. “Yes. And I’d sign up. Immediately. Scott, back me up.”

Scott was still wide-eyed. “I mean... she did take down a guy twice her size without blinking.”

Stiles looked between them and threw his hands in the air. “Unbelievable. You’re out here ending lives, and I’m just trying not to trip over my own stick.”

“Sounds like a personal problem,” she muttered, taking another long sip.

Jacob let out a low whistle, still shaking his head. “Okay. Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

Gwendolyn didn’t even look at him. “That was the good side.”

Then, as if on cue, a sleek, familiar Mercedes glided into the lot and rolled to a smooth stop, quiet as a held breath.

“That’s my ride,” she said.

The driver’s side door opened, and Esme Cullen stepped out—warm smile in place, perfect posture, soft cardigan, mom energy radiating like sunlight. She waved as she crossed the lot.

Esme arrived with a gentle laugh in her voice. “Hi, sweetheart,” she said softly. “Ready?”

She sighed like it was a personal betrayal that Esme used that voice in public—the soft, syrupy one she reserved for emotional blackmail and bedtime tea. “I guess.”

Esme smiled, then turned to the rest of the group, warm but composed. “Hello. I know Scott and Stiles—” she gave them a brief nod, “—but I don’t believe we’ve met?”

The boys exchanged quick looks, a little caught off guard by how polite she was.

“I’m Jacob,” Jacob said, stepping forward just slightly.

“Quil,” said the boy next to him, offering a half-wave.

“Embry,” added the last.

Esme nodded to each of them, warm but not too familiar. “Nice to meet you. Thanks for keeping her company.”

Gwendolyn didn’t miss the way Quil and Embry stood a little straighter when Esme spoke. Not tense, exactly—but alert. Like they were waiting to feel something. She watched Jacob too. Just for a second. He was calm—open, casual—but something about the way he shifted his weight made her pause.

Do they feel it? she wondered. That barely-there crackle in the air, the subtle wrongness that always followed the Cullens if you knew what to look for. Gwendolyn said nothing. Just filed it away. She wasn’t sure if they believed the stories. But they’d been raised on them and legends had long memories.

She rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “They were barely tolerable.”

Jacob grinned. “She means she had a great time.”

Stiles added, “She knocked a guy flat on his back, so yeah—classic bonding.”

Esme’s expression didn’t change, though her brow lifted slightly while staring at Gwendolyn. “Did she now?”

Embry leaned in. “She swept his legs out like it was muscle memory.”

Gwendolyn just shrugged, bored. “I barely touched him. He’s just fragile.”

Esme finally let a smile break through. “Oh, I know. I’ve seen you train with Emmett. You’re underselling it.””

The boys collectively blinked. As if Esme had just casually said she fought bears for breakfast.
Even Stiles looked rattled. “Wait—you’re still doing that? I thought you quit after he broke your ribs.”

“That only happened once,” Gwendolyn said, tone flat. “Besides broken bones are harder to break the second time around.” A lie, it wasn’t that hard, but it would shut people up.

Scott made a face. “That’s… not how healing works.”

“It is in Gwen-world,” Jacob muttered, shaking his head.

Stiles, still staring, asked, “Do you like pain?”

Gwendolyn shot him a flat look. “Do you like talking?”

Before anyone could add more, Esme stepped in smoothly. “Alright. Time to go before this becomes an emergency room case study.” She touched Gwen’s elbow lightly, like she always did when offering—but not forcing—an exit. “Come on. Let’s head home.”

Gwendolyn turned toward the car, tossing a casual “Later, losers” over her shoulder.

Esme paused for a moment, giving the group one last look. “It was lovely to meet you.”

Then she turned and followed Gwendolyn to the car, leaving behind a slightly shell-shocked crew of teenage boys who now knew, definitively, not to mess with her.

☽☽☽

The engine hummed quietly as Esme pulled out of the school parking lot, soft classical music playing faintly through the speakers—some string quartet Gwendolyn couldn’t name but had definitely heard before in the Cullen house.

Boo was already curled up in the back seat, dark eyes half-lidded, tail tucked neatly beside him. He hadn't made a sound when she got in, he’d just shifted slightly, as if he'd been waiting for her the whole time.

They were quiet for a few moments, the kind of quiet that wasn’t uncomfortable. Esme always gave her space to settle first. Then, without looking away from the road, Esme spoke in a casual, light tone. “So… you knocked a boy flat on his back in front of half the school?”

Gwendolyn sighed dramatically. “Please tell me you’re not about to give me the violence isn’t the answer speech.”

“No, no,” Esme said easily. “But, Gwendolyn. A leg sweep?”

“He deserved it,” Gwendolyn muttered, eyes on the window.

Esme glanced at her, one brow arched. “Did he really?”

Gwendolyn didn’t answer right away. Then sighed, “He was being a dick. To me. To Stiles. Just… everything about him is awful.”

Esme gave a thoughtful little nod, keeping her voice light. “So yes, he deserved it.”

Gwendolyn tried not to smile, but the edge of her mouth twitched. “You’re not going to yell at me?”

“Oh no, sweetheart. I’m far too proud.”

Gwendolyn rolled her eyes, but it wasn’t sharp. “You’re so weird.”

Esme reached over and gently patted her knee. “And that was you being soft, you know. Not hurting him worse.”

“I could have,” Gwendolyn muttered.

“I know,” Esme said, like it was both comforting and terrifying.

Gwendolyn was silent for a moment. “He didn’t deserve more.”

She could’ve done worse. She’d wanted to. Just for a second. But that old, dangerous part of her—the one that Moira had dragged to the surface—had stayed quiet tonight. Maybe that was something.

Esme reached out, gave her knee a light squeeze. “No, he didn’t.”

Gwendolyn looked down at Esme’s hand, then back out the window, but she didn’t pull away. They drove on, quiet again for a minute—just the soft hum of the tires and the warmth of Esme’s presence beside her. Then Esme said, in that gentle tone that never pushed, but always knew. “I liked seeing you with your friends tonight.”

Gwendolyn looked out the window. “I didn’t punch any of them,” she offered.

Esme smiled. “Progress.” Then, with a little smile, “You know… I’m proud of you.”

Gwendolyn groaned. “Please don’t.”

Esme gave a soft laugh. “You were out. Laughing. With people your age. Not pretending to hate everyone.”

“I do hate everyone,” Gwendolyn said flatly.

“Clearly. That’s why you let that boy share popcorn with you.”

Gwendolyn snorted. “That popcorn was emotional blackmail. Don’t read too much into it.”

Esme didn’t reply right away. Just kept her eyes on the road, the ghost of a smile playing at her lips. “Still let him stand beside you.”

Gwendolyn only scoffed in response.

Boo huffed softly behind her, a sound that might’ve been a canine sigh—if he were a normal dog. Gwendolyn didn’t look back. She just reached one hand over the seat without thinking, fingers brushing warm fur. He leaned into it. Just slightly.

Esme let the quiet sit for a moment longer, letting the hum of the road and the music settle into something soft and familiar.

Then: “By the way, I booked your flight.”

Gwendolyn blinked. “What?”

“To England,” Esme said gently. “For Beltane.”

Gwendolyn narrowed her eyes, suspicious. “You talked to them, didn’t you?”

Esme’s smile was serene. “Ridley called twice this week, and Larkin sent me a spell-sealed envelope and a very dramatic voicemail.”

“Of course they did,” Gwendolyn groaned, sinking lower in her seat. “They’re unhinged.”

“They’re worried about you,” Esme said, not unkindly. “And they miss you.”

“I’ve missed every caster holiday since October. What’s one more?”

Esme glanced at her. “They don’t want to spend another one without you. And from all the time you seem to spend on the phone with them, you miss them too.”

Gwendolyn didn’t answer. Her fingers tightened just slightly in Boo’s fur.

Esme continued, tone gentle but matter-of-fact. “It’s only a few days. You’ll even miss a few days of school if it helps.”

Gwendolyn sighed. “You really already bought the ticket?”

“Of course,” Esme said cheerfully. “You leave the afternoon of the twenty-eighth. Your cousins are picking you up from London.”

Gwendolyn let her head fall back against the seat. “You’re all conspiring against me.”

“We are,” Esme agreed. “Because we love you. And also because Ridley promised to keep you on your toes.”

Gwendolyn snorted. “Big words for someone who once illusioned the entire banquet into a gothic funeral. There was actual weeping and a string quarter playing My Immortal.”

Esme smiled wider. “Just don’t let her drag you into another rooftop duel.”

“No promises.”

They lapsed back into silence, but this time it was warmer, softer. Gwendolyn stared out the window, Boo’s fur under her hand, and tried not to think about how much she’d actually wanted to go.

“...Thanks,” she muttered, eyes still on the window.

Esme didn’t say anything. She just smiled, like she’d heard it louder than it was.

☽☽☽

When they pulled into the driveway, the forest around the Cullen house swallowed the last of the road noise. No streetlamps, no neighbors—just shadow and pine, the faint outline of mountains in the distance. The porch light flicked on automatically as Esme slowed the car. Gwendolyn mumbled something about going up early and slipped upstairs with Boo trailing behind.

Her room was dim, lit only by the glow of her bedside salt lamp—soft amber casting long shadows across the floor. She changed slowly, dragging her limbs out of her clothes like the day had weighed them down. She pulled on a deep burgundy satin pajama set—Macon’s old favorite shade on her—and thick socks that didn’t match but were warm enough to forgive the aesthetic offense.

She didn’t bother with the blanket. Just collapsed sideways onto the bed, one leg tucked, the other dangling off the edge, phone on her chest.

Ridley [8:02 PM]: I hate you

Ridley [8:02 PM]: I love you

Ridley [8:03 PM]: I told everyone you were coming so now you HAVE to.

Ridley [8:03 PM]: Also our ritual playlist is garbage. Bring a speaker.

Ridley [8:04 PM]: I’m calling. Pick up or die.

Gwendolyn blinked at the screen. Of course Ridley was awake at four in the goddamn morning. On a Saturday. Probably still in the same outfit from whatever chaotic party she'd left too early or too late.

She sighed, pressed answer, and didn’t say anything.

Ridley’s voice came through low, raspy, and already smug. “If I sound drunk, it’s because I am. Also tired. Also possibly hexed. Also, I miss your stupid face.”

Gwendolyn shifted onto her back, one arm slung over her eyes. “It’s four in the morning.”

“I know,” Ridley moaned. “Time is fake. Also I think I accidentally cursed a mirror. It cracked and now it whispers. Might be an improvement.”

Gwendolyn snorted softly. “Did you scream at it?”

“I did. Twice. Now it won’t stop staring. It’s like being judged by my own reflection.”

“Tragic,” Gwen murmured. “You always did hate accountability.”

Ridley hummed like that was a compliment. “Larkin’s already stolen the ceremonial wine. Grandmother’s frothing. I think she threatened to exile us into a bog.”

“Tempting.”

“Also? My last ex is showing up to the Beltane gathering. The one who said I was ‘too emotionally ungoverned to bond with responsibly.’”

Gwendolyn winced. “Which one was that?”

“The warlock with the fancy coat. You hexed his shoes.”

“Ah,” Gwen said. “Good times.”

They didn’t say much after that. The usual orbit of complaints and curses and plans for petty vengeance. Grandmother had already threatened them all with divine wrath. Someone may have already tampered with the Beltane altar. The usual.

Time blurred. One hour bled into the next. Gwendolyn stayed where she was, curled on her side, legs tangled in the sheets she never pulled up. The phone shifted from her cheek to the pillow beside her, Ridley’s voice still drifting through in bursts—half coherent, half nonsense. Something about blood oranges. Something about cursed lace. Something about murdering her ex with charisma alone.

And somehow, that was what did it.

Not the quiet. Not the salt lamp glow. Not the soft wind outside the windows.

But Ridley’s voice. Familiar. Sharp. Safe.

Gwendolyn’s eyes slipped closed. Her breath slowed. Boo shifted beside the bed, fur warm against her hand where it trailed over the edge, fingers curled in his scruff like she’d done it without thinking. He didn’t move. He just stayed.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t mean to fall asleep. But her last thought before slipping under was something like, This feels right.

And just before her mind dropped into stillness, the last thing she heard—half-dreamed, half-remembered—was Ridley mumbling, “Better show up, Gwen.”

Neither of them hung up.

Neither of them needed to.

When Gwendolyn woke the next morning, the phone was still on the pillow, the call long dead. Her body was warm. Her head didn’t hurt. Her cheek was pressed against Boo’s fur.

And for once, she didn’t feel haunted.

Just… held.

☽☽☽

Chapter Text

Thursday 28^th April

Gwendolyn didn’t say much on the way to the airport.

Esme didn’t expect her to.

The Cullens never hovered when it came to this side of her life. They didn’t ask exactly where the Duchannes estate was, or why she had to go now, what they would be doing, or why she looked like she was walking into a war zone instead of a family gathering. Esme simply handed her a paper bag—apple slices, shortbread cookies, ginger chews—and said, “In case the plane food is terrible.”

It always was.

Gwendolyn gave a one-shoulder shrug and a muttered, “Thanks.” That was the most she could offer.

Her bag was slung low over one shoulder, a small navy carry-on trailing behind her. No need for real luggage, she wasn’t staying long. Ridley had already texted three times about their planned looks, complete with emoticons Gwendolyn refused to acknowledge.

Ridley [11:32 AM]: We’re going jewel-tone chaos, babe. I got your shoes. Don’t fight me.

Ridley [1:21 PM]: If you flake I’ll set fire to your room. That is not an idle threat.

At the departure gate, Esme didn’t hug her. She never did when Gwendolyn was like this – guarded and brittle, almost feral under the skin. She just brushed a hand against Gwendolyn’s cheek and said quietly, “No one’s asking you to be nice. But be civil. And come back in one piece.”

She gave the barest nod. Her jaw ached from how tightly it was clenched. She wasn’t sure if she was in one piece anymore.

☽☽☽

Right before takeoff, her phone buzzed again multiple times.

Ridley [2:02 PM]: Larkin says if you ditch, he’s dragging your ass here himself.
Ridley [2:04 PM]: I’ve never seen him this dramatic. It’s kinda fun.
Ridley [2:05 PM]: Anyway. Don’t.

That last one—Don’t—sat on her screen like a dare.

She sat at the gate, slouched low in her seat, the paper bag still resting on her lap. The smell of shortbread and ginger made her nauseous.

A woman across from her smiled kindly.

Gwendolyn looked away.

She almost never flew alone. Macon had always gone with her for the high holidays—whether Emmaline invited him or not. He'd made a point of it. Said it was tradition. Said nothing should be left to chance where the Duchannes were involved.

And before that, she'd had a portal key for caster school. She used to skip the long flights altogether—just slip through the portal and land straight in Ravenwood manor’s back study, weekend bag slung over her shoulder.

But the key was revoked when she got expelled.

Now it was just her. A departure gate. A boarding pass. A whole lot of noise in her chest she refused to name.

The airport was loud in a muffled kind of way—overhead announcements blurred into the hiss of tired engines and the distant whine of a baby two gates over.

Gwendolyn locked the screen of her phone. She didn’t reply. Couldn’t. If she started talking, something might break open—and she’d spent too long stitching herself shut. But her phone buzzed again.

Stiles [2:13 PM]: hey uh why aren’t you at school??
did you die or like run away
because if this is your villain era I wanna be included

Gwendolyn [2:16 PM]: family crap. plane boarding now. explain later.

Stiles [2:16 PM]: YOU COULDN’T HAVE WARNED ME???
Rude. I mourn ur absence already.
also now I have to carry your sarcasm quota alone

She smirked, then turned her phone off before he could get even more dramatic.

The flight was long, uncomfortable, and full of children kicking the back of her seat like it was a cursed drum —some kind of karmic punishment, probably. The food was lukewarm and the lights never quite dimmed enough to sleep.

Jetlag was already clawing at her skull by the time she stepped into the terminal. Her spine ached. Her throat was dry. And the Heathrow terminal hit her like a wall—voices echoing off vaulted ceilings, the smell of burnt coffee, umbrella-dripping tourists, and too much cologne trying to mask long-haul fatigue.

She didn’t even get a chance to look for her cousins, because Ridley tackled her first. “Gwennie!”

She barely got her arms up in time, let alone throw out the standard death glare at the nickname she hated, before Ridley slammed into her with the full force of glitter, cherry lip gloss, and heartbreak energy. It was suffocating, but Gwendolyn didn’t fight it. Larkin appeared a second later, smirking behind aviators like he hadn’t just sprinted to get there first.

“Hello, cousin,” he said, pulling her into a second, more languid hug.

They hadn’t seen each other since March, after the little James fiasco, but they’d been talking more. Texts. Calls. Half-jokes that sometimes turned into confessions. Gwendolyn hadn’t realized how much she’d missed them until she could touch them again, until they were standing there, arms around her like she hadn’t turned into a stranger.

Boo appeared between them like mist—just there suddenly, brushing against her boots without a sound. She dropped one hand to his head in a motion that was both instinct and affection.

“You’re the only ones who could’ve made me do this,” she muttered as her cousins pulled back.

Ridley grinned, linking arms with her. “We’re irresistible.”

They didn’t go straight to Dovehill. They had one night left to breathe first.

London was gray-skied and loud, but strangely beautiful in the way Gwen remembered—smoky rooftops, red double-deckers flashing past puddles, streetlights glowing soft against the drizzle. They wandered through Covent Garden and ended up in a secondhand bookshop where Ridley found a romance novel titled Witch, Please and insisted Gwen buy it. She refused. Larkin bought it for her anyway.

They stopped for food at a tucked-away pub with deep booths and battered menus. They ordered chips, fried halloumi, and two types of pie.

Gwen slouched between them, shoulders finally loose, hair in a messy twist, legs tangled under the table. She didn’t speak much, but she didn’t have to. Larkin teased Ridley into laughing so hard she nearly spilled her drink. Ridley re-did Larkin’s collar twice and called him a fashion disgrace. Boo dozed under the table, invisible to every human around them.

It felt… okay. Not safe, not perfect. But real. Like oxygen.

“So, what’s the plan?” Larkin asked eventually, picking at the last chips. “We walk back in the rain like tragic Victorian orphans or are we summoning a cab like modern degenerates?”

“Speak for yourself,” Ridley said. “I’m a tragic Victorian heiress. There’s a difference.”

Outside, the rain had picked up. London glistened—wet sidewalks, traffic light halos on puddles, a mist curling around the lamp posts like it was staging a mood.

By the time they piled into the back of a cab, Gwendolyn was fading fast—head lolling slightly, cheek resting against the cool glass of the window as the city blurred past. Lights swam in the corners of her vision. Her body felt stretched thin, like her bones were hollowed out by exhaustion and quiet dread.

“You okay?” Ridley asked from the middle seat, voice lower than usual.

Gwendolyn didn’t answer right away. Her breath fogged the glass.

“Just tired,” she said. “And already regretting tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Larkin muttered, tipping his head back. “Me too.”

The hotel rose into view like something out of a dream—tall, too clean, too golden, looming behind wrought iron gates. The doorman didn’t blink twice at them, probably used to late arrivals with expensive coats.

Ridley tipped him extravagantly anyway and blew a kiss as they entered the lobby. “We’re home, darlings,” she sighed, pressing the elevator button like it owed her money. “Let the pre-trauma rituals begin.”

☽☽☽

The hotel suite was ridiculous, naturally.

Ridley had picked it out in advance, written the booking under someone else’s name, and insisted on nothing below a high floor with “dignified lighting and windows worthy of a dramatic exit.” The view stretched across slate rooftops and rain-damp glass, fog curling at the corners like stage smoke. The inside was all gold trim and navy velvet, too many throw pillows. Boo had already claimed the armchair near the window, perfectly still except for the occasional flick of his tail, watching the city like it might try to sneak up on them.

Gwendolyn showered last. She emerged in a long charcoal-gray pajama set — soft, loose, clearly expensive but worn-in. Ridley had gifted it to her last year with a wink and a, “You need better loungewear if you’re going to keep pretending you don’t cry in bathrooms.”

Her hair was damp and curling unevenly, a few strands twisting free down her collarbone. She padded barefoot across the carpet, tossing her towel over the back of a chair and dropping wordlessly into the space between her cousins. Larkin was lying on his back across the wide hotel bed, absently flipping a silver coin between his fingers — not magic, just habit. His jacket was on the floor, his shirt half unbuttoned like he couldn’t decide if he was going out or crashing. He didn’t speak, but shifted enough to let Gwendolyn lean into his side.

Larkin rolled halfway onto his side, digging through his jacket pocket. A second later, something clicked softly — a lighter. He lit the joint like it was muscle memory and took a long, slow drag before holding it out to Gwendolyn. She didn’t say anything. Just took it, exhaled, and passed it to Ridley, who accepted it with two fingers and a sigh like she’d been waiting all day.

“Honestly,” Ridley muttered, blowing smoke toward the ceiling, “if this suite catches fire, we blame the lighting.”

“Or Boo,” Larkin offered.

“Obviously.”

Gwendolyn didn’t laugh, but her shoulders dropped just a little.

Ridley was sitting cross-legged at the foot of the bed with a bottle of nail polish called Obsidian Storm, painting Gwendolyn’s nails with deep focus.

“Hold still,” she said, not looking up.

“I’m not moving,” Gwendolyn replied flatly.

“You’re breathing weird.”

“That’s because I’m alive.”

Ridley snorted, but didn’t argue.

They sat like that for a while. The room hummed with soft city noise outside — the occasional siren, the low hum of traffic, rain clicking against the windows in slow rhythms. Gwendolyn didn’t realize she was staring until Larkin bumped her with his knee. She blinked, but didn’t smile.

“Why the hell,” she said finally, voice dry and low, “did we ever think going back was a good idea?”

Ridley capped the polish. “Because it’s Beltane, darling. And we’re genetically obligated to show up looking hot.”

Larkin added without looking up, “And because Grandmother would’ve sent Reece to fetch us if we didn’t show. And she’s the worst.”

“Truly,” Ridley murmured. “Like a sentient spreadsheet.”

Gwendolyn didn’t answer. She leaned back against the headboard, folding her knees up slightly, arms curled around herself without meaning to. She wasn’t cold. Not physically. But something in her chest wouldn’t unclench.

Larkin spoke first, voice low. “Do you ever think maybe it skips a generation? The whole… curse thing.”

Ridley didn’t look up from the nail polish she was re-capping. “You mean, do we think we’ll get out of this one without anyone breaking?”

He shrugged. “I mean, statistically, it’s overdue.”

Ridley laughed once — short, sharp. “That’s not how magic works. Not ours, anyway. It doesn’t skip.”

Gwendolyn leaned her head back against the wall, the city lights flickering across the ceiling. Everything spun slightly. She didn’t care. “We’re the only generation left with all four of us still standing,” she said quietly.

“Exactly,” Larkin replied. “Feels like a countdown.”

“Or a sick bet,” Ridley muttered, her thumb brushing the edge of Gwen’s silver ring without thinking.

Gwendolyn didn’t look at her, but she caught the shift — the stiffness in Ridley’s posture, the tension that hadn’t left since they got back. Like something inside her was bracing. Like she hadn’t slept right in weeks. But Ridley hadn’t said anything, not since her birthday. And Gwendolyn wasn’t going to make her.

She exhaled through her nose. “I’m the one they’re watching.”

“Because they’re scared of you,” Ridley said, finally meeting her eyes.

“Because I’m the mix,” Gwendolyn corrected. “The halfblood. The unpredictable variable.”

“You’re just sharp-edged,” Larkin said, too sure.

He meant it as reassurance, but Gwendolyn felt the sting underneath. Larkin could mean it because he wasn’t part of the math. The curse never touched the boys. Reece, their eldest sister, had passed the threshold untouched. Larkin was safe by design. He could care — and he did — but he didn’t carry the weight.

Ridley leaned in, resting her chin on her knee. “They don’t get to decide who you are.”

Gwendolyn hesitated. Her voice came out thinner than she meant. “They do if I lose control. They do if I fall first.”

The silence afterward felt heavy, pulled from the bones.

Ridley’s voice dropped. “Then don’t.”

“We watch each other’s backs,” Larkin added, nudging her knee with his. “Same as always.”

Ridley looked at her again — properly, her expression steady for once. “They think one of us is going to lose it.” Her voice wavered. “So let’s make sure they regret betting against the wrong one.”

Gwendolyn stared at her hands — the ones marked by bloodlines older than truth, stained by choices she hadn’t made. The silver rings felt heavier now. Like reminders.

“They always regret it,” she said quietly. “But never before it’s too late.”

Because history always repeats, and nobody ever stops it in time, she thought.

Larkin exhaled, finally sinking deeper into the mattress. “Then why don’t we fight it? The curse. The system. All of it.”

Gwendolyn’s laugh was soft and hollow. “Because we’ve seen what happens to the ones who try.”

Ridley’s mouth twisted into something bitter. “Yeah. The ‘claimed’ don’t go out swinging. They go out screaming.”

“And the ones who try?” Gwendolyn added. “They rot from the inside out, or worse.”

She didn’t say the names.

She didn’t have to.

They sat heavy behind her teeth. Her throat burned with them.

Her mother and father had tried. Had clawed at every dark edge of the magical world to fix what couldn’t be fixed. To undo the bloodline spiral. They’d lost themselves, her father had even burned for it — and she had watched it happen.

“We’re not the first to be angry,” she said. “We’re just next. Part of the cycle.”

Larkin sat up, quiet now.

Ridley reached for the bottle and took a slow sip, her eyes unreadable.

“I used to think I’d be the one to break the rules,” she said. “Burn the scripts. Rewrite the whole curse.”

The silence that followed wasn’t hollow — it was full. Pressed tight with all the names they’d grown up hearing. All the ancestors who hadn’t made it. The daughters lost too young. The ones who turned strange. The ones who vanished before they turned eighteen. The ones who thought they could beat it.

Gwendolyn’s throat tightened. She thought of Macon. Of her parents. Of every warning carved into family records like gravestones. She looked up at her cousins — one already fraying at the edges, the other untouched but tethered.

“We can’t fight it,” she said finally, “because fighting it is how it wins.”

Ridley blinked. “Then what do we do?”

Gwendolyn didn’t answer right away.

She looked past the window, to the city lights bleeding into fog. The stories didn’t end with victories. They ended with vanishings. With madness. With names no one said anymore.

“We wait,” she said finally. Her voice was low. Barely hers.

“For what?” Larkin asked.

“To see if it’s coming for us,” Gwendolyn replied. “Or if we get to be the ones it skips.”

Ridley leaned her head against Gwendolyn’s shoulder. Larkin lay back again, staring at the ceiling like maybe it had answers. Boo didn’t move from his spot by the door — watchful, as always.

And Gwendolyn sat there between them, nails still drying, hair still damp, the ache under her ribs pulsing like a clock.

No promises.

No plans.

Just a quiet dread curling under her skin.

Because she didn’t know if she’d survive it.

She just knew she was still here.

For now.

☽☽☽

Saturday 30th April

When she woke up the next morning, the hotel suite was too quiet.

For a moment she forgot where she was.

The sheets were soft, the windows still misted over, and the air smelled like rain and expensive shampoo. Then the memories rolled in: Heathrow. Ridley’s voice. Larkin’s lazy grin. The weight in her stomach like a stone that had been waiting to sink.

Dovehill.
Today.

She lay there for a while, staring at the ornate ceiling hoping it might offer her a way out. Boo was already awake, seated perfectly still at the foot of the bed akin to some underworld statue waiting for her signal. His eyes flicked to her, then away again, as if to say you know what day it is.

Gwendolyn groaned and rolled out of bed, joints stiff, magic already pressing close under her skin, not wanting to behave. In the kitchen, Larkin was eating something suspiciously buttery out of a paper bag, shirtless and barefoot. Nothing could indicate they were about to enter a gothic hellmouth of family trauma.

“Morning, angel of doom,” he said without looking up. “Want some croissant or are you too emotionally unhinged to digest gluten today?”

“Both,” she muttered, grabbing a cup of tea Ridley had clearly charmed to stay hot on the counter. The label read something obnoxious ‘calming focus blend’. She drank it anyway.

Ridley appeared ten minutes later, already in the middle of organizing their wardrobe essentials — a floating charm had their outfits spinning slowly through the air like a fashion carousel. Everything shimmered — jewel tones, burnished metals, deep greens and blood reds.

“You’re not wearing black,” Ridley said, pointing dramatically. “Absolutely not. This isn’t a funeral.”

“It’s charcoal,” Gwendolyn replied, lifting the mug to her lips.

“It’s emotional resignation with sleeves. We’re going jewel-coated with a flair for restrained blood magic. Honestly, do you even try.”

Gwendolyn just sipped her tea and watched a pair of earrings nearly smack Larkin in the face.

They packed fast. Ridley triple-checked accessories. Larkin warded their luggage. Boo stayed parked by the window, ears twitching. Gwendolyn ignored her pulse climbing steadily into her throat— not panic, not fear exactly. Just the deep, bone-heavy feeling of stepping back into a place that always wanted to eat her alive.

“You good?” Larkin asked, fingers already glowing.

“Define good,” she muttered.

He nodded and slashed the air with two fingers, carving a sigil of motion and anchor. The portal bloomed open — swirling pinkish magic threaded with silver and gold. It shimmered like oil on water, anchored to a point just outside the Dovehill gates.

“No portaling past the wards,” he said. “Unless you want to get flayed.”

“We know, stop showing off,” Ridley said, linking arms with Gwendolyn. “You ready?”

Gwendolyn stared into the portal, breath stuck somewhere between her ribs. The lands would feel it the second she stepped foot on its soil. It would remember she had missed the last High Holidays. That she was months overdue for facing the legacy she carried in her blood. It would remember and it would judge.

“I’m ready,” she lied and stepped through the portal with them.

It spat them out beneath a canopy of black-barked trees, their limbs curled like claws, dripping with pale spring moss and ghost-white blossoms that looked half-dead, half-frozen in time. The air smelled like wet stone, burnt rosemary, and old magic—power that had soaked into the earth so long ago it had gone bitter.

The wrought-iron gates of Dovehill stood tall in front of them, shaped like spindled thorns and lined with runes that shimmered faintly gold. The wardline pulsed like a heartbeat — ancient,  aware and more than a little resentful.

Gwendolyn took one step forward and the wards pressed against her skin. Not enough to hurt. Not yet. Just... testing, brushing her collarbone to make sure she still belonged.

She hadn’t been here since last September. She’d missed Samhain, Yule, Imbolc, and Ostara. And the land clearly knew.

Larkin stepped forward and tapped a sigil charm on the side gate post. The iron creaked and slowly opened, vines slithering aside like they knew better than to try and hold her back.

They stepped through.

The estate sprawled like a forgotten cathedral at the end of a winding stone path, hemmed in by crumbling walls and ironwork. Statues lined the way—weather-worn, cracked, and eyeless. Some were women in flowing robes, others beasts with too many teeth. One was an angel missing its head, wings blackened to cinders.

The manor itself was sprawling, proud, and decaying in all the wrong places. The bones of it were Gothic—pointed arches, narrow towers, leaded windows, and stone so dark it almost looked wet. But layered on top of that was old, defensive magic. Runes etched into every visible surface. Wards hung like curtains in the air—clear if you didn’t know what to look for, stifling if you did.

The windows glittered faintly even in the gray daylight—mirror-warded to keep the dead from peering in. The door had no visible handle, just an emblem carved with the Duchannes crest: a single eye, encircled by thorns and fire.

Gwendolyn's stomach turned just looking at it.

The gardens were too neat—everything trimmed back, everything symmetrical. As if the land was being punished into order. It was beautiful. In that way a knife could be beautiful right before it opened your skin.

Ridley didn’t speak. Even she went quiet here.

Larkin cracked his neck. “It always smells worse than I remember.”

Every step up the front walk was like sinking deeper into a memory she’d tried to forget. The stone path vibrated faintly under her boots—every tile a layered sigil, every groove a ward etched in blood. Some of it hers, from childhood. Some of it older than the house itself.

The door opened on its own before any of them could knock.

The inside was dim. The lighting came from candles, flickering in patterns that made no physical sense, casting long shadows on deep red wallpaper textured like dried petals. The scent of wax and myrrh hung thick. High ceilings disappeared into velvet-dark rafters. Floorboards creaked under ancient rugs woven with warding patterns. The kind that rearranged if you looked at them too long.

Gwendolyn stepped over the threshold—and the wards settled, like a hand closing around her throat, then letting go just enough to say welcome home, traitor.

She took a slow breath. The house felt like a pulse she couldn’t ignore. A mouth waiting to swallow her if she gave it reason.

No one came to greet them.

Of course not.

“Well this isn’t ominous at all,” Ridley muttered behind her, voice barely above a whisper. “Think they left us a guest mint?”

Gwendolyn didn’t answer. Her shoulders were stiff, jaw locked. The longer she stood still, the more she felt it—that pressure in the air, like the house was listening. She could hear footsteps in the west corridor. The faint clink of porcelain. Laughter—brief, brittle, strained. Someone shifted in the parlor.

The family was home, waiting, pretending they hadn’t heard the front doors open. No one was going to give her the satisfaction of being welcomed.

Boo’s claws tapped softly on the tile beside her. She exhaled and stepped further in, boots muffled by the thick carpets. Larkin trailed behind, glancing up toward the portraits with mild suspicion. Ridley’s heels clicked twice, then stopped when she realized how loud it sounded.

Gwendolyn turned to them. “I’m going up first.”

Larkin raised an eyebrow. “To…?”

“Put my stuff down.” Her tone didn’t invite company.

Ridley tilted her head. “You sure?”

“I’m always in the same room.” She paused, then added, just a little quieter, almost without meaning to, “I just need a minute.”

Ridley gave a single nod. “We’ll wait.”

She climbed the stairs alone to the third floor of the left wing. The wooden banister was smooth from generations of hands, and the steps creaked with an oddly familiar rhythm—as if the house remembered her weight, her pace.

The door to her room was already ajar. It smelled faintly of rosewater and ink.
Not because anyone maintained it that way—just because that’s how the walls remembered.

She pushed the door open fully. The curtains were drawn halfway, letting in a muted light that hit the mirror across from the bed,  which was perfectly made. High-backed, carved dark wood with old rune-burned spindles across the frame. The comforter was heavy and deep crimson. No personal touches. No softness. No warmth.

It wasn’t her room, not really. She only used it when she came for the High Holidays a few times a year. But it had been Freya’s, her mother. Gwendolyn had always been placed here as if she was supposed to absorb whatever was left behind.

She let her bag fall by the foot of the bed with a dull thump, then stood still. Her shoulders curled slightly inward, arms loose but tense—caught somewhere between bracing and giving up.

The air in this room didn’t breathe. It loomed. The floorboards didn’t creak the way they did in the rest of the house. They echoed. A book lay on the nightstand—one of Freya’s. No title. Just an embossed sigil in the corner. She didn’t touch that either.

She paced once and paused by the window. Her fingers brushed the thin and cold glass. It looked out toward the eastern garden, where the fire circles would be carved tomorrow. But Gwendolyn didn’t look down the garden. She didn’t want to see the grounds or feel the weight of the rituals waiting for her tomorrow.

Boo entered the room a second later without a sound. He settled near the doorway like a sentinel. Gwendolyn didn’t acknowledge him, she just kept standing there, breathing carefully. Trying to feel like her own body wasn’t slipping away from her.

☽☽☽

She didn’t go downstairs right away.

The idea of seeing her grandmother Emmaline, seated like a priestess in a throne she never earned, or Reece— Ridley and Larkin’s eldest sister—so poised and polished she practically bled condescension, made Gwendolyn’s skin crawl.

And Aunt Delphine? Her presence had always been more fog than woman—there and not. A palimpsest, half-lived, too stuck on the past and its ghosts. Her voice always sounded like a dream slipping apart, words not quite matching the moment. Gwendolyn couldn’t remember the last time she’d spoken to her without feeling like she was intruding on someone else’s memory.

So instead, she turned away from the main staircase and slipped down the west corridor. Boo followed silently, paws hushed on the thick carpet, a shadow stitched to her heels. She let her feet take her, past the shuttered drawing room, past the old library with its glass-paned doors and dust-sealed wards. Down a narrower hall she remembered from childhood—one she used to sneak through during solstice rituals when no one was watching.

The door was still there.

Tall. Arched. Carved with curling sigils that pulsed faintly when her fingers brushed the handle. It opened with a soft creak, and the air inside was cooler. Thicker somehow, like sound itself was afraid to echo too loud.

The gallery stretched long and low-lit, candelabras flickering along the walls, accompanied by casterlights that hovered silently above, casting a steady, cool glow. The ceiling was painted in dark constellations that moved in slow orbits—an eternal night with no dawn.

Portraits lined the walls on both sides, each one set in carved mahogany and framed in gilded iron and lacquered red. They wore the same colors—blood-crimson robes, ceremonial silk layered like flame. Every face was striking. Beautiful in that Duchannes way: High cheekbones. Icy blue eyes. Backs too straight. Hands folded like weapons. Beneath each portrait, a name, a birth year, and—if applicable—a sigil scorched into the plaque. The cursed ones. The ones who turned.

Some plaques were split clean through. Some charred black around the edges. Others shimmered faintly, covered in glamours meant to conceal what had happened. But Gwendolyn saw through them. She always had.

She walked slowly. One step, then another, Past Eliane, who went mad with visions of Duchannes’ girls fate, and her own, and drowned herself in the reflecting pool. Past Sabina, who tried a purification ritual alone in the forest and whose body turned to ash. Past Sylvie, who attempted a binding spell the eve of her eighteenth birthday and bled out under the moon.

This is what they inherit.

And then, at the far end of the hall, she saw her. The original.

Genevieve Duchannes.

The portrait was larger than the others. Framed in red lacquer and polished iron, lined with protective sigils so old they barely held shape anymore. She was seated in the painting, back straight, one hand resting on the arm of a chair carved from something that didn’t look like wood. Her dress was layers of crimson silk, draped like fire around her ankles. Her bronze hair was twisted in elegant coils. But her eyes—

Gwendolyn stopped breathing.

Pale blue. Too sharp. Too familiar. Watching

There was no crown, no softness. Just power radiating from the canvas like a warning.

“All this—because you couldn’t let go, huh?” Gwendolyn said quietly. “Hundreds of years of madness and death. Good job, ancestor.”

She meant it as sarcasm, but something in the air shifted. Her chest buzzed with a hum that felt older than her body. Like something inside her recognized the weight of what she was standing in front of.

She stumbled back, boots scuffing loudly against the black-marble floor. Her hand shot to her chest, fingers brushing the skin over her sternum. Not enough to soothe. Just to remind herself it was still hers. Beside her, Boo growled softly, as she stood there, frozen, staring up into the eyes she’d inherited. She straightened slowly, lips pressed into a hard line.

“I’m not you,” she muttered. “I won’t be.”

But she knew the story. Everyone in the family did.

Macon had told her years ago — not as a warning, but as a fact. A scar all Duchannes carried. He never softened it, never lied. “This isn’t a fairy tale,” he’d said. “It’s a debt your mother’s bloodline is still paying.”

The Duchannes bloodline went back to the 1300s—powerful even then. They never danced with elements or called storms from the sea. Their magic was subtler. More dangerous. They twisted perception, carved roads between places, saw futures in mirrors, and nightmares in sleep. Mirari. Viax. Videntia. Mind, space, and sight.

By the time Genevieve lived—early 1600s—the family was already infamous. Space-benders. Trusted with secrets too dangerous to write down. But the Duchannes weren’t cursed because they were cruel, or arrogant, or reckless with magic. Plenty of families were worse.

No — they were cursed because Geneviève loved someone too much. Because she tried to rewrite death. Because she used magic that didn’t belong to her — Sanguis rites their bloodline wasn’t aligned with, necromancy without sacrifice, resurrection without balance. She brought her mortal lover back from the dead… wrong. Twisted. Not human anymore.

And when she had to kill him again, everything shattered.

Gwendolyn didn’t know if it was rage or guilt or fear. Maybe all three.

The curse was born that day. Not in hate, but in imbalance. She took a life without offering one. She cheated fate and left the rest of them to carry the cost. It was consequences. A fracture in magic that rippled forward like a fault line, a price paid over centuries in daughters’ blood.

A life taken, a life owed.

Every generation, one of them — sometimes more — was Claimed.

Burned alive. Driven mad. Imploded from the inside. Vanished into thin air.

That was the legacy, and that was the stories she’d been raised on.

Gwendolyn knew the names by heart. The stories too. Some went quiet first. Others lashed out. A few tried to fight it. None survived.

No one talked about what came after madness — because there wasn’t supposed to be an “after.” You died. Or you disappeared. Or you lost yourself so thoroughly that death was a mercy.

That was the shape of the curse.

They called it being Claimed. Something ancient and inevitable — a cost the bloodline had to pay, over and over again. No matter how powerful. No matter how careful.

They didn’t get to choose life. They were considered lucky if they made it past eighteen.

She ran her fingers lightly across the cold plaque beneath the portrait. The name etched there might as well have been her own. Because if the curse didn’t get her, her blood might.

The Ravenwoods were no better. She had Incubus blood in her veins. Hunger she kept leashed. A monster’s strength wrapped in a mortal shell. She had seen what happened when one of them slipped. She had buried what was left after.

There was no happy ending for her kind.

She didn’t know if she’d be Claimed, but she already felt like a crack in the bloodline. A fracture made flesh. And she could feel it in her bones, in her blood, in the way the magic in this house hummed just a little louder when she walked past. Like it was listening, watching, waiting.

Gwendolyn turned without another word. But her skin still burned with the weight of her ancestor’s gaze, even as she stepped into the hall again, Boo padding silently at her side. And she didn’t stop trembling until the next staircase swallowed the gallery behind her and the pressure of Genevieve’s eyes finally slipped from her skin.

She took the long way down—past the shuttered windows and cold alcoves, through the narrow halls lined with silent portraits that never blinked but somehow always watched. Not because she was lost, she wasn’t. She’d known this house for too long. She remembered every echo, every cold corner, every shortcut behind the staircases. She just needed the time. Time to make her face blank again. To shove Geneviève’s eyes back into the depths of her skull. To quiet the buzzing under her skin like a storm waiting to crack.

The stairwell that led to the parlor was narrow, curved in dark stone and lined with black-iron sconces. Flames flickered low inside them—enchanted light that made everything look colder, paler. Like the kind of illumination used in catacombs and crypts.

She could hear voices before she reached the bottom.

Reece—smooth, deliberate, each word honed to a fine edge wrapped in charm. Delphine—soft and fading, a voice that wandered like candle smoke, barely tethered to the room. And Emmaline—sharp enough to cut through both of them with a single word, her tone like velvet hiding a knife.

And behind it, Larkin’s voice, sardonic and low. Ridley’s laugh. Not her real one. The brittle version she used when she was pretending not to feel too much.

Gwendolyn paused one step above the landing, let herself listen for another breath and exhaled through her nose.

Here we go.

She stepped into the light and three pairs of eyes turned to her — one bored, one blank, and one that saw far too much.

“So the prodigal child arrives,” Reece said, not bothering to hide the sneer. “How was exile? Or is it just placement when they ship you across the ocean to keep you from combusting in public?”

“Disappointed I’m here?” Gwendolyn asked, brushing imaginary lint off her sleeve. “Don’t worry, you’ll live. Unfortunately.”

Her cousin didn’t bother with an answer, but stared for another second before deciding Gwendolyn wasn’t worth her time anymore.

Aunt Delphine didn’t acknowledge her, but that was usual, it was always hard for her to tell if what she saw was the present or the past.

Emmaline, seated at the head of the parlor like she’d been carved into the chair itself, didn’t rise.  Her gown was pale gray silk, collar high, sleeves long, not a single wrinkle or fray in sight.

“Sit,” she said. Her voice was honey over iron — sweet enough to sting, soft enough to trap.

Gwendolyn dropped into the far armchair with the grace of a cat prepared to lunge.
Boo curled under her chair.

“Dinner will be in one hour,” Emmaline said, smoothing the front of her robes. “You will attend properly dressed.”

She didn’t match the room. Not even close. Mesh sleeves peeked from beneath her cropped top, silver jewelry layered over exposed skin. Her skirt was layered on top of tights that had seen better days, same as her scuffed black boots. Next to her, Larkin looked almost civilized in a loose-collared shirt and dark slacks. Ridley wore soft burgundy silk and a choker like a leash she’d chosen herself.

Gwendolyn raised an eyebrow, slow and sharp. “Should I wear a funeral dress, or is that too on-the-nose?”

Emmaline didn’t flinch. She just turned her gaze toward the fire like she’d already dismissed the comment, and Gwendolyn along with it. Delphine hummed something under her breath — either a song or a warning. No one else said a word.

☽☽☽

The dining room had always felt more like a throne room than a place to eat.

The table, long enough to seat twenty, was set for only six. White porcelain with gold rims, silver cutlery etched with protective runes, wine dark as blood. The candelabras down the center flickered softly, casting sharp shadows like teeth across the tablecloth. Even the air felt still, the room itself was holding its breath.

Gwendolyn wore what Ridley had chosen: deep forest green velvet, heavy but elegant, with sheer sleeves. Open-backed. Fitted bodice. Her hair was half-up in braids pinned with silver. Her rings gleamed. She looked like a Duchannes, which, unfortunately, was the point.

Emmaline sat at the head of the table in full Matriarch regalia — all structured silk and restraint, her expression carved from stone. Reece was at her right, posture perfect, gaze faintly disdainful. Delphine was on her left, present in body but half-lost in her thoughts, eyes following something just out of reach. Ridley and Larkin flanked Gwendolyn on both sides.

No one spoke as they took their seats. No greeting. No warmth. Just the soft clink of cutlery as the first course was served—something seasonal and cold and exquisitely pointless.

Gwendolyn kept her gaze ahead, face carefully blank.

Emmaline was the one to break the silence. “Tomorrow’s schedule will be observed exactly,” she said, slicing her bread with surgical precision. “The warding ceremony begins at noon. Guests arrive at ten. You will all be present.”

Gwendolyn picked up her wine glass. “Thanks for the invitation.”

Emmaline didn’t look up. “Ceelia will be attending.”

Reece finally spoke, almost smug. “She’s been asking after you. Wants a private word.”

Gwendolyn’s smile was slow, sharp. “Does she want a vial of blood too? Or just a look into my soul?”

Reece’s voice didn’t change. “You’ll give her the respect she’s owed.”

“I wasn’t aware she’d earned it.”

Emmaline’s voice, when it came, was cold silk. “Your reluctance last year was tolerated as grief. This year, you will do as expected.”

Gwendolyn set her wine glass down a little too hard. The rune-etched rim cracked, a thin fissure crawling across its surface. “Then maybe don’t expect me to kneel.”

Reece watched the fracture crawl through the glass with vague disdain. “Still so dramatic.”

Ridley coughed once into her hand to hide a snort. Larkin didn’t bother hiding his grin.

Emmaline ignored them all. She folded her napkin with precise fingers. “You forget,” she said softly, “Macon is no longer here to temper your defiance.”

Gwendolyn went still. Something in her locked — like a door slamming shut behind her ribs. Her grip on the wine glass tightened. She hated that Emmaline said his name, hated the casual coldness in it. Like Macon was just another piece off the board. Another failed experiment instead of the man who raised her. Another incubus gone.

Two, actually. Her father died that day too.

She hadn’t said his name in months. Hadn’t said either of their names and she didn’t plan to start now.

The air cooled. Her jaw clenched, but she didn’t speak. Ridley shifted beside Gwendolyn, the edge of her heel tapping once against the stone floor. Larkin twirled a ring on his finger like he was itching to throw it. But Gwendolyn just lifted her cracked glass and said nothing. Her silence was sharper than any spell.

Emmaline continued as if nothing had happened. “Your dress will be laid out tonight. Ridley, make sure it fits. You remember the color scheme?”

“Like it’s etched into my spine,” Ridley said dryly.

But Gwendolyn glanced sideways.

Ridley’s fingers were still curled around her spoon, but her gaze wasn’t on the table. It was fixed somewhere over Emmaline’s shoulder — just for a second — as if something had moved there. Nothing did. The wall was just stone and shadow. Still, Ridley’s eyes narrowed faintly, her head tilting the way someone does when they’re listening to a noise no one else hears.

Then, just as quickly, she blinked and looked down at her plate.

Gwendolyn didn’t say anything, but she filed it away.

“Good,” Emmaline said, either not noticing or choosing not to. “We’ll keep the usual order. Eldest to youngest.”

That meant Reece, Larkin, Ridley... then her.

Gwendolyn picked at her bread. The silence between them dragged on, thick and bitter. The meal ended in the same way, without a toast, without a blessing. Just cold plates, colder wine, and the heavy, suffocating sense that no one at this table was actually breathing anymore.

Gwendolyn stood first, not abruptly, but with intention. Ridley followed a beat later, pushing her chair back with a lazy flick of her wrist. Larkin rose last, slow and deliberate, the picture of practiced disinterest.

None of them said goodnight.

They ended up in Gwendolyn’s room. Same velvet drapes. Same carved bed. Same walls that still smelled faintly of rose and ink. But now Ridley lay sprawled on the covers, heels kicked off, arm draped dramatically across her face. Larkin stood at the window, back turned, still flicking that same ring like he could ward off tomorrow with motion alone.

Gwendolyn didn’t speak. She stripped off the velvet gown, piece by piece, stacking rings beside the mirror. Her skin felt too tight, like her bones didn’t quite fit inside it.

“So,” Ridley said, chin in her hand. “How long before you burn the place down tomorrow?”

Gwendolyn tugged the pin from her hair. “What makes you think I haven’t already started?”

Larkin snorted. “At least wait until after the ritual. I wanna see the Matriarch flinch one more time.”

A silence settled between them, heavier this time, until Ridley asked softly, “You okay?”

Gwendolyn stared at herself in the mirror. She looked pale, tired, regal. Wrong.

She looked exactly like they wanted her to —like a Duchannes. But she didn’t feel like herself. She felt like a weapon being re-sheathed for a performance she never agreed to.

“I’m not,” she said, voice low. “But I will be.”

Larkin leaned back against the window frame, arms crossed. “You think Grandmother’s hoping for a repeat of last Beltane? Some scandal to reinvigorate the family?”

“She’d be disappointed if something didn’t explode,” Gwendolyn muttered.

“Yeah, well,” he stretched and cracked his knuckles, “try not to set anything on fire in your sleep.” He paused by the door before he left. His smile wasn’t sarcastic for once. “See you in the morning, brat.”

Ridley lingered behind. She didn’t lounge like she usually did, all drama and flair—just perched on the edge of the bed, spine bowed, hands clasped between her knees. The candlelight caught on the silver at her throat and made the shadows under her eyes seem deeper.

“You don’t have to prove anything to them, you know,” she said quietly.

Gwendolyn scoffed, but not meanly. “They already think I’m the next to fall.”

Ridley didn’t deny it. Just looked at her a beat longer than normal. “Then make sure they regret betting against you.”

She leaned in and pressed a kiss on Gwendolyn’s forehead, something startlingly gentle. Then she stood, smoothed her dress, and hesitated at the door—not as if she’d forgotten something, but like she was listening to something Gwendolyn couldn’t hear.

“Ridley?” Gwendolyn asked.

Ridley blinked and turned like nothing was wrong. “Get some sleep, babe.”

Then she left.

Gwendolyn changed into her dark sleep set. She brushed her hair out slowly, motions mechanical. Boo was already curled near the window, ears flicking occasionally like he could hear every whisper in the walls.

She lay down but didn’t close her eyes. The ceiling above was etched with old wardings, barely visible until night — thin silver lines glowing faintly like veins beneath skin. Meant to keep things in, not out. The house creaked in rhythm with her breathing.

She rolled to one side and grabbed her phone from the nightstand.

Stiles [8:38 PM ]: Update: school is still stupid. Mr bannerman made us watch a 90s documentary about frogs.
Also I think scott misses you.
are you dead? blink once for yes.

Stiles [9:02 PM]: Actually, if you are dead i’m claiming your coats. the nice ones.
and your sketchbook
Actually just leave me everything in a dramatically worded will

Stiles [9:55 PM]: Gwen.
Gwen it’s been HOURS
Did your evil grandmother eat you

Scott [10:13 PM]: hey. just checking in. i know you said “family stuff,” but if you need anything when you’re back, just let me know.
hope it’s not too awful.

Gwendolyn stared at the screen for a long time, thumbs hovering. She typed “i’m fine.”
Deleted it. Typed “alive.” Deleted that too.

Gwen [11:22 PM]: Still alive. I will respond properly when not surrounded by portraits of dead people watching me sleep.

Her phone buzzed again a few minutes later.

Stiles [11:26 PM]: Seriously though don’t disappear. The sarcasm ecosystem is unstable without you.

She didn’t reply, but she smiled.

☽☽☽

Chapter Text

Beltane had always felt like a test she hadn’t studied for. Except now, the examiners wanted her blood on the paper. And worse, they expected her to thank them for the privilege.

The estate was already buzzing before the sun finished rising, with the quiet, pointed choreography of people who’d been doing this for centuries and still hadn’t figured out how to make it mean something. The air carried smoke and magic — the kind that hummed against skin and made Gwendolyn’s fingers twitch. The grounds had been completely transformed overnight. Ivy snaked in perfect patterns across the manor’s outer walls, threaded with silver sigils that pulsed faintly in the dawn light. Fire pits spiraled in runic rings through the courtyard, each one flickering with flame that never consumed anything — the magic self-sustaining, color-shifting from orange to blue to ghostly white.

Four elemental altars framed the main ritual field. To the north: water, still and perfect in a wide obsidian bowl. To the east: air, sealed in a twisted glass helix that vibrated faintly. South: fire, suspended in an enchanted crystal globe that hovered above a scorched pedestal.
West: earth, packed tight into a shallow golden dish, etched with symbols older than language. The elemental altars were borrowed power dressed up as birthright. None of the Duchannes, save Gwendolyn, were born with a strong affinity for the elements, but that had never stopped Emmaline from repurposing old symbols to make the family look untouchable.

At the center of it all stood the Binding Circle — wide, carved directly into the courtyard stone. A ring of runes wrapped it, glowing a soft violet-blue that throbbed with low, living power. It didn’t just shimmer. It waited. The kind of old magic that watched you back. They’d rehearsed, of course. Emmaline had demanded it. Every movement choreographed: where to step, when to cast, how long to hold the magic without showing strain. Gwendolyn had played along to a point. She learned the spacing. The angles. The expected levels of control. She didn’t promise not to break the script.

From her window on the third floor, Gwendolyn watched the preparations unfold. Distant cousins passed through the outer garden, draped in velvet and ceremonial silks, their expressions cool. Voices murmured through the crisp air, threaded with the tension of too many expectations. She hated it already.

She hadn’t slept well. Not that she ever did here. The bed in Freya’s old room was too soft, too still. The silence always felt like it was waiting for something — an echo that never came. It was the only room she ever used when she stayed. She only came for a few nights a year, if that, but somehow the shadows always remembered her.

And this time, the ghosts felt closer. Maybe because she’d missed the last few family rites. Maybe because the room still smelled faintly of whatever perfume her mother used to wear — sharp and too sweet — like a lie that clung to the curtains.

“Your dress is in the closet,” came Ridley’s voice behind her, not quite a question. “Unless you want to be publicly skinned by Grandmother before the second course is even served.”

Gwendolyn turned slightly. “Tempting.”

Ridley’s ceremony robes were deep wine-red, slit high at the thigh, trimmed in black lace. Her soft pink hair was swept up, the pins holding it in place looking more like weapons than accessories. She held a glass of something gold in one hand and a compact mirror in the other.

“You good?” she asked after a beat.

Gwendolyn didn’t answer. She put on the dress and walked to the tall mirror in the corner and stared at her reflection. The dress Ridley had chosen for her was navy blue this time. Silver threaded the cutout sleeves, catching the light in soft flashes. A high lace collar hid the base of her throat, but the back was open, showing the arc of her shoulder blades. The heels were charmed for silence, enchanted soles that wouldn’t echo against the stone. Her hair was half-pulled back, braided then knotted with silver. The rest of it curled down her back, slightly wild, like she hadn’t fully decided who she wanted to be today.

“You look like you might boil someone alive,” Ridley said, now standing beside her.

Gwendolyn muttered, “Don’t give me ideas.”

She watched Ridley’s reflection out of the corner of her eye. Her cousin was adjusting a pin near her temple — one of the silver ones shaped like thorns. Her hand slipped. The pin jabbed too deep, and Ridley hissed through her teeth. She didn’t swear, didn’t snap. She just blinked once, fast, and kept going like nothing happened. But Gwendolyn saw the way her fingers trembled as she reached for the next pin. Then it was gone, buried beneath practiced ease and that sharp, teasing smile.

They descended the stairs together. Boo followed at Gwendolyn’s heels like a shadow. The lower levels of the manor buzzed with preparation: trays of wine and hors d’oeuvres being levitated into place; whispers of guests arriving early, glamours flickering under the strain of too many eyes on them.

Outside, the sky had gone from gold-tinged to slate gray. As if the weather itself remembered what day it was. They stepped onto the path leading toward the ritual grounds, and Gwendolyn’s senses flared the second her heels hit open air. The magic in the atmosphere was thick. It clung to her skin, tangled in her lungs. The whole estate was holding its breath.

And that’s when she saw her, Ceelia. Standing beside the fire altar in her usual combat-ready attire — she hadn’t even bothered with the formal gray and silver council robes. Her hands were folded, her chin lifted. Every line of her posture was razor-straight. Her gaze flicked across the ritual field like she was scanning for vulnerabilities. She didn’t smile, as usual. And somehow, she looked more official than everyone else put together.

Gwendolyn stopped short. “Fantastic,” she muttered. “My parole officer came to watch.”

Ridley’s smirk faltered. “Yeah.”

A group of attendees passed near them — a pair of Barclay twins in emerald cloaks, followed by two older Mireilles cousins and a heavyset man Gwendolyn vaguely remembered from a funeral years ago. They didn’t stop. They didn’t acknowledge her, but their eyes lingered.

“Can I hex someone yet?” Gwendolyn asked.

“Not until after lunch,” Ridley said cheerfully.

The courtyard was filling quickly. At least sixty people had gathered already — some in muted colors, others resplendent in crimson and sapphire and gold. Gwendolyn could spot the glamours shimmered across shoulders and cheekbones to hide imperfections. Hair coiled in impossible braids. Jewelry glittered like wards. They weren’t just guests or participants. They were witnesses. Observers of the next generation’s great performance. Here to assess, to gossip, to report.

Gwendolyn saw Reece standing near the eastern altar, her posture too perfect, robes uncreased, and her expression carefully blank. Aunt Delphine drifted behind her, murmuring to the air, eyes distant. She looked barely tethered to the present.

And then her eyes landed on Arden, Ridley’s ex. Of course he was here. He stood near the fire altar — too close to Ceelia, too smug for his own good. His robes were obsidian trimmed with flame-colored silk, his hair slicked back, his hands clasped in a pose of effortless arrogance. He was already talking to someone — a Seer, judging by the silver ink traced up her throat — and gesturing toward the circle like it was his stage.

Gwendolyn didn’t have to try to listen. The words came to her whether she wanted them or not.

“She always did like being the center of a circle,” Arden was saying, voice smooth and amused. “Even if it wasn’t hers.”

The Seer made a polite noise. Arden leaned in. “You’ll see. If she makes it to her eighteenth without unraveling, I’ll eat my robes. You can see it, can’t you? That look in her eyes. Like she’s already circling the drain.”

Gwendolyn’s stomach went cold. He was talking about Ridley. And now she knew why she hated him. Not just because he stood like the world owed him applause. Not just because he looked at every woman like she was a performance to critique. But because he didn’t care that Ridley might shatter — he was just waiting for it. Rooting for it.

Gwendolyn’s eyes narrowed, her tongue pressed sharp against the back of her teeth. She didn’t clench her fists. She didn’t lash out. She couldn’t, not with Ceelia there watching her like a hawk. She simply stood still — a coil of glass-edged silence, watching, listening, storing it away like a weapon she hadn’t decided how to use yet.

☽☽☽

The names were called in order from the eldest to the youngest of each family.

Reece moved first, with the confidence of someone who already knew how this would end —with applause. The runes beneath her feet flared a soft gold, slower than with the others, as if deciding whether to acknowledge her at all. But it didn’t matter. Reece didn’t need the circle’s blessing. She came armed with something stronger: narrative.

Her fingers lifted, elegant and deliberate. No incantation passed her lips — just silence, and the slightest tilt of her head. Then it began. From the golden dish at the western altar, vines rose — or seemed to. They curled upward in slow, spiraling arcs, etched with gleaming symbols, their movements too smooth, too perfect. The crowd leaned in. Even the air changed—subtle, scented with rose and something sharper, like powdered bone.

It was beautiful. It was precise. It was a lie.

Because it wasn’t earth answering her. It was everyone else — their eyes, their minds, their breath catching in their throats as her illusions took hold. Gwendolyn saw it instantly. Not with her eyes, but her instincts. The ground hadn’t moved. Not really. The magic wasn’t in the altar — it was in them. An illusion cast wide, woven not just for spectacle, but control.

Reece bowed low, robe fanning around her in a perfect half-moon. Her smile didn’t flicker. She had played the part flawlessly. And the crowd, of course, applauded.

Then Larkin stepped into the Binding Circle like it was a joke he’d already won. He didn’t bow. He didn’t smile. He just rolled his shoulders, cracked his knuckles, and let the runes flare under his boots like they recognized a fellow mischief-maker.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then he vanished. Not with a pop or a shimmer — but with a folding, like the world simply blinked and he was gone. Gasps rippled through the crowd, casters who could bend space and summon portals to travel weren’t very common.

Shadows coiled at the edge of the circle, pooling like ink. A heartbeat later, Larkin stepped out from the shadows behind the air altar, completely intact, looking faintly amused. He disappeared again — this time surfacing on the far edge of the stone circle, upside down on the underside of the outer arch like gravity had taken a personal vacation. Another blink — and he was standing inside the circle again, arms raised slightly like a stage magician after a flourish.

But he wasn’t done. The runes at his feet flared white-hot as he pressed a palm to the air, and a doorway opened — not a simple portal, but a shifting vertical rift of shadow and shimmer. The audience leaned forward as wind rushed out from the rift, carrying scents not of this estate, but of rain-soaked stone and distant thunder. A place elsewhere.

He stepped forward — one foot through the doorway — then stopped. The doorway slammed shut with a snap, sealing into nothingness. And with a final flick of his wrist, Larkin snapped a tether rune into the stone beneath him — a glowing spiral of silver script that flared bright, then sank into the floor. Anchored. Present. Untouchable.

The audience broke into low murmurs, some impressed, some wary.

Larkin gave a mock bow. Then stepped out of the circle like none of it had cost him anything, but Gwendolyn knew that it must have been physically taxing. His jaw was tight, his breath just a little too shallow.

It was then Ridley’s turn. She sauntered into the Binding Circle like she’d been born there. Her ceremonial robes shimmered like blood in water. Her hair gleamed under the veil of glamour, swept up with silver pins. Her heels clicked once against the stone, then went silent. She didn’t bow. She just raised both hands. The air pulsed. For a breathless second, the world bent. Wind coiled around her wrists like silk threads, pulling upward in a slow spiral. Petals followed — thousands of them, deep red, velvety, not quite real. They spun into a cyclone around her, each one trailing silver light. A scent followed — rose and something sweet that curled into the minds of the audience like memory. The petals shifted shape as they rose — some becoming butterflies, others eyes, others mouths that whispered her name.

It was dizzying. Hypnotic. A full sensory illusion — not just light, not just sound. Emotion. For a moment, everyone watching felt what Ridley wanted them to feel: awe, longing, beauty sharp enough to ache. Even the ground beneath her shimmered with a false reflection — a mirror of the sky, as if she stood on the edge of the heavens.

Then it vanished. All of it snapped out of existence, like a thread pulled too tight.

There was a pause — so slight most probably missed it — where Ridley’s hands trembled. Her eyes flicked sideways, then down. She masked it quickly, smoothing her expression with a practiced tilt of her chin. Only Gwendolyn caught the shimmer behind her eyes. The kind of brightness that came not from power, but pressure.

Ridley bowed low, graceful and theatrical, the picture of elegance. The audience clapped lightly, as Gwendolyn watched her cousin step out of the circle like the floor might fall out from under her.

When it was finally her turn, Gwendolyn walked to the center with a deliberate pace, each stride a refusal. Her heels landed on the ancient stone with silent finality. The runes beneath her feet flared on contact. Her senses flared with every movement — the scent of lavender oil and burnt myrrh, the hum of warded sigils brushing the edges of her skin, the cold metal of her rings against her pulse points. Ceelia’s gaze bore down from the fire altar, hovering.

Gwendolyn didn’t break eye contact. She lifted her chin and raised one hand — palm up, fingers loose. The air dropped. The pressure shifted. The wind stirred, then howled. A cyclone burst to life around her, fast and furious — not wide enough to endanger the guests, but enough to yank robes, twist braids, scatter petals, make the weaker casters stumble back.

Only Gwendolyn stood untouched at its center — her hair lifting, her sleeves fluttering, but the space around her was dry, calm, impossibly still. The eye of her own storm. Then the water rose — not just from the altar, but from the air itself. Condensation collected and bent to her will, forming sharp arcs like blades suspended mid-air. Spinning slowly, circling her like sentinels. Rain hissed into being but stopped just short of her shoulders — one step closer and she could’ve drowned the whole front row.

The ground trembled faintly beneath her feet. The flames at the circle’s edge flickered, then surged upward — blue, white, violent. And through it all — she held, unwavering. She stood alone, in control, at the heart of a ritual designed to tame her.

Her eyes swept the crowd slowly, a blade tracing throats. Gwendolyn, with all the cold fury she had left, lowered her hand. The storm died. The flames receded. The runes dimmed. The silence afterward was deafening.

Then, softly a few murmurs rose. Some impressed. Some alarmed. Some not sure what they’d just witnessed.

Gwendolyn couldn’t care less about what they thought of her performance. She turned and walked out of the circle like nothing had happened.  She didn’t look at Reece, who was still holding a perfectly pleasant expression like a mask. She didn’t check for Emmaline’s reaction. She already knew there wouldn’t be one.

She needed a drink.

The refreshment table stood near the eastern walkway — all gilded legs and crystal decanters, the kind of curated opulence that was supposed to distract from the fact that everything about this day was a test. Gwendolyn poured herself something amber and cruel, her hand trembling slightly as she gripped the glass, and let the alcohol burn a little on the way down.

Behind her, the circle shifted again as Arden’s name was called up. The temperature around her jumped several degrees — not from magic, but from Arden’s ego lighting itself on fire. He strutted into the circle like it was his birthright — flames already licking at his boots before he even raised a hand. With an unnecessary flick of his fingers, the fire rose into a perfect crown above his head, a halo of gold and crimson dripping with theatrical arrogance.

Gwendolyn could practically smell the smugness. It clung to him like cheap cologne. She was just about to roll her eyes when an unpleasant voice called out to her.

“Ravenwood.”

Ceelia’s voice, sharp and clear, landed behind her like a pin dropped in a silent room. Gwendolyn turned slowly, drink still in hand, eyeing the Welsh woman who stood a few paces away. Her expression was unreadable, as always.

“It’s time for your evaluation,” she said, tone clipped.

Gwendolyn downed the rest of her drink in a single swallow, letting it sear all the way down. She set the glass on the edge of the table — didn’t smash it, though she wanted to — and gave Ceelia a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Of course it is.”

She followed without a word, without looking back. Because if she did, she might have set Arden’s hair on fire just out of spite.

The room she led her to was small and circular — a side chamber just off the main hall. Old stone. No windows. The only light came from a single enchanted candle hovering above the round table at the center. It didn’t flicker. It just burned steadily. The air smelled faintly of ash and lavender, like fire doused too late.

Gwendolyn stepped inside without hesitation. She’d been in rooms like this before. Rooms meant for containment, not comfort. Ceelia took a seat immediately, her fists were crossed on the table, her bare wrists revealing permanent sigils inked into her skin. Gwendolyn didn’t know what half of them did. She didn’t want to.

She sat across from Ceelia, spine straight. Hands folded neatly on the rune-carved tabletop. She could feel them humming under her fingers — magic meant to dampen, to suppress, to bind if needed.

Ceelia flipped open a slim, silver-trimmed ledger and finally looked up. “Have you been experiencing any urges?”

Gwendolyn tilted her head. “I’m sixteen. Of course I have.”

Ceelia didn’t smile. “Incubus urges. Hunger. Instability. Emotional spikes.”

Gwendolyn blinked slowly. “You’ll have to narrow that down. My entire bloodline is one long emotional spike.”

Ceelia flipped a page in her thin, silver-trimmed ledger. “Have you had any unusual dreams?”

Gwendolyn shrugged. “Define unusual.”

“Nightmares. Prophecy-like dreams. Fire. Teeth. Blood. Creatures. Sigils that burn when you wake.”

She didn’t answer immediately. Her pulse didn’t spike, but her jaw tensed. “Nothing worse than reality,” she said at last.

Ceelia wrote something down again. The pen made no sound. “Have you noticed changes in temperament? Increased irritability?”

Gwendolyn raised an eyebrow. “I’m always irritable.”

“Have you had contact with dark casters or beings of questionable allegiance?”

Gwendolyn’s smile this time was full of teeth. “That’s half my family.”

Ceelia looked up again, expression unreadable. “Do you ever think about hurting other casters?”

She only smiled wilder. “Only the ones who ask me questions like that.”

Her hands didn’t move. Her shoulders didn’t shift. But the candle above the table flickered — just once. The runes beneath her fingers pulsed like a heartbeat. Ceelia didn’t flinch. She just closed her ledger, then she reached into her coat and pulled out a small blade.

“Your wrist.”

Gwendolyn’s throat didn’t tighten, but her hand clenched slightly, before she held out her arm without a word, palm-up across the table. Ceelia didn’t hesitate. She drew the blade across the inside of Gwendolyn’s wrist with surgical precision — a clean, shallow cut. It stung, but Gwendolyn didn’t react. They both watched as the blood welled deep red. Ceelia studied it for exactly five beats, and then cleaned her blade and tucked it away.

Gwendolyn rolled her eyes. Of course, she had to clean up her own wound. No healing spell, no bandage to expect from Ceelia. There would be a faint line left behind, a wound that would fade in its own time.

“Good,” Ceelia said simply, like she was checking off a box.

“Disappointed?” Gwendolyn asked, voice low and sharp.

“I don’t get disappointed,” Ceelia replied. “I get results.” After a moment of silence, she added. “You’ve missed more than one high holiday since last fall.”

“Missed a few dinners too,” Gwendolyn said. “Guess we’re all doomed.”

Ceelia stood. Her voice dropped — not louder, but sharper. “Power without structure is a threat. And you’re running out of excuses.”

And then she turned, the candle extinguishing behind her in a gustless hush, and left Gwendolyn alone with the blood cooling on her wrist and a silence full of everything unspoken.

Gwendolyn sat in the dark still for five seconds longer, fingers twitching, breath hitched. Long enough to feel the runes stop humming. She didn’t slam the door. She didn’t break anything. Didn’t scream. Didn’t set the room on fire. But the fury curled behind her teeth the entire walk back — silent, sharp, and steady as a blade.

☽☽☽

Gwenodlyn found her cousins near the east terrace, just out of earshot from the main path. Ridley was perched on a stone bench, heels off, sipping something gold and expensive straight from the bottle. Larkin was lying on the grass, shirt untucked, sunglasses still on despite the cloudy sky.

“There she is,” Ridley said, lifting the bottle in salute. “Council chew you up and spit you back out?”

Gwendolyn dropped beside her on the bench with a sigh.

“You know,” Larkin added lazily, “we were taking bets on whether you'd throw the candle at her or set the room on fire.”

Gwendolyn rubbed a hand over her face. “She asked if I’ve had urges.”

Larkin raised a brow. “Urges?”

“Bloodlust, instability, apocalyptic dreams.”

Ridley choked on her drink. “Did she ask if you’ve considered murder?”

“She asked if I think about hurting other casters.”

Larkin scoffed. “You should’ve said ‘Only the ones who do evaluations.’”

Gwendolyn smirked. “I did.”

Ridley lowered the bottle slowly, peering at her over the rim. “Wait. Hold on. Back up. That’s what she asks you? Every month?”

Gwendolyn shrugged. “More or less.”

Larkin sat up properly now, sunglasses sliding down his nose. “Define ‘more.’”

Gwendolyn let her head fall back against the bench, voice flat. “She has a little silver ledger. Asks me about cravings. Temperament. Nightmares. Whether I want to feed on anyone.”

Ridley blinked. “So like… a magical psych eval crossed with a horror movie questionnaire?”

“She also cuts my wrist to see if it’s going to heal too fast,” Gwendolyn added, too casually.

“She what,” Ridley said, voice flat.

Larkin looked visibly horrified for once. “Every time?”

“Yeah.”

“Let me get this straight,” Ridley said slowly, “You go into some candlelit death-room every month, answer questions like ‘have you committed violence lately,’ and then let her bleed you?”

Gwendolyn took the bottle from her and drank. “I don’t really have a choice, do I?”

Larkin stared. “How is this the first we’re hearing about this?”

Gwendolyn shrugged. “Does it matter?”

Ridley’s voice dropped. “Of course it matters.”

There was a quiet fury in it — the kind she rarely let show.

Gwendolyn didn’t meet her eyes. “It’s not like it scars,” she muttered. “Not permanently.”

Larkin leaned back again, but he looked unsettled now. “And here I thought my family was a nightmare.”

“We are your family,” Ridley snapped.

He pointed a lazy finger at her. “Exactly.”

Gwendolyn smirked, but only barely. “It could have been worse. Besides, I only have to see Ceelia’s stupid face once a month.”

“Right” Ridley agreed. “Okay, but now we have to do something,” she added, wicked glint in her eyes.

Gwendolyn sighed dramatically. “Fine. But nothing dramatic. I’m on thin ice.”

Ridley tapped her nails against the bottle. “You know what this day needs?”

Larkin didn’t look up from where he was lazily levitating a pebble. “Margaritas and a plague?”

“I was going to say a little divine retribution,” Ridley replied sweetly. “But yes. That too.”

Gwendolyn raised an eyebrow. “What exactly are we retributing?”

“Reece for existing,” Ridley said immediately. “And Emmaline for—” she gestured vaguely at the entire estate. “All of this.”

Larkin sat up, the way a wolf might when it hears a rabbit rustling nearby. “You thinking glamour? Or something stickier?”

“Why not both?” Gwendolyn offered, too calmly. She was still pissed from the evaluation. Still wired from the storm spell. Still bleeding, faintly, beneath her sleeve. And if Emmaline wanted a demonstration of control… well. This was it. A controlled act of rebellion.

Ridley snapped her fingers once and stood, already weaving magic with lazy elegance. “We’ll be subtle,” she lied.

They scattered like guilty kids after stealing wine, but infinitely more dangerous.

☽☽☽

Reece was speaking again — surprise — probably correcting a younger distant cousin on how to perform a basic warding seal. The moment her voice rose, a dozen spectral crows burst into formation above her head, spiraling in elegant chaos, cawing like harbingers of doom. Their wings shimmered like oil slicks in the morning light, circling so tightly it looked choreographed.

Then one dove.

It didn’t hit her — not quite. Just skimmed past her cheek close enough for the wind to slap her hair sideways. Another followed, clipping the edge of her shoulder. She froze, breath stuttering, hands twitching at her sides. A third swooped in low and pecked — a light, deliberate jab at the fabric of her ceremonial collar.

People turned. Heads tilted.

Reece faltered. She lifted her hands to dispel them, but the spell broke unevenly — the crows shattered too slowly, dissolving like shadows dragged underwater. One let out a final, piercing cry before it vanished.

From behind a nearby column, Gwendolyn whispered, “You made them peck her?”

Ridley, barely holding in laughter, said, “Symmetry and symbolism. It’s called vision.”

And then came Emmaline. She strode up the central path with her usual glacier-cold composure — until her heel caught ever so slightly. Not enough to fall. Just enough to falter. Her face didn’t move, but Gwendolyn saw it — the faintest muscle twitch near her jaw , the tightening around her eyes.

As she stepped onto the speaking dais, her voice rang out — smooth, clipped, commanding.

“…is a reflection of our legacy—”

But a second voice followed, identical to hers but laced with mockery, echoing from the stone arch behind her:

“Is this truly your legacy?”

She paused. Briefly. Just a hitch in the rhythm.

“…our strength is not in spectacle but—”

“But in illusion?” the echo returned, colder this time. “In silence? In secrets?”

A hush fell over the closest rows. People looked around — subtly, warily — but saw nothing. Heard nothing more. Only Emmaline, standing still on the dais, spine straight, eyes forward. Her fingers curled slightly around the edge of the podium.

Ridley clamped a hand over her mouth to stop from laughing. Gwendolyn and her two cousins ducked behind one of the side altars — breathless, victorious, watching from a sliver between carved stone pillars.

“She’s going to hex the walls,” Larkin whispered. “She thinks they’re mocking her.”

“She’s not wrong,” Gwendolyn said, deadpan.

Ridley was still catching her breath, cheeks flushed, eyes bright. She looked almost normal, but not quite. Gwendolyn saw it — in the moment when Ridley thought no one was looking. Her hand shook faintly, as if her magic wasn’t fully anchored, her pulse too loud in her own ears.

Gwendolyn’s smile faded. “Ridley,” she said softly.

Ridley blinked. “Hmm?”

“Are you okay?”

Ridley waved it off with a flick of her wrist. “I’m just drunk on vengeance. And three inches of lace digging into my ribs.”

But Gwendolyn didn’t look away. “Earlier. In the mirror. Your hand slipped. You stabbed a pin in wrong. And just now—”

Ridley exhaled. Her smile cracked slightly, turned brittle. “It hasn’t stopped,” she said finally. Her voice was quiet, almost too calm. “I’m still hearing things. I have been since my birthday.”

Gwendolyn took her cousin’s hand in hers. Larkin, lying beside them, sat up a little straighter. The sunglasses slid down his nose. “What kind of things?”

Ridley hesitated. “At first it was faint. Like whispers behind a door. Then it got louder and I started hearing names. Laughing. My own voice, echoing back as if it didn’t belong to me.”

“At the Binding Circle?” Gwendolyn asked.

Ridley nodded once. “Screams. No one else heard it.”

“What did it say?” Larkin asked. His voice had lost its usual humor.

Ridley hesitated. “Come home.”

Silence settled between them. The kind that fills the lungs like smoke, heavy and dense.

Larkin looked away. “Shit.”

Gwendolyn reached over and took the bottle from Ridley’s hand, raised it once in quiet salute, and drank. She didn’t offer a fix because there was no fix. Hope was dangerous and lies were worse. She just sat there, shoulder pressed to Ridley’s, the sky pressing in from above, and thought about how they were already fraying, and that there was nothing holding them together but each other.

☽☽☽

Chapter Text

Friday 6^th May 2005

Over the next week, school didn’t suck quite as much, which was alarming.

Time kept moving and despite everything—the unpleasant memory of having been at Dovehill, the fact that she couldn’t walk past a mirror without expecting it to whisper, or Ridley’s brittle smile and trembling hands— Gwendolyn found herself settling back into routine: school, studying, avoiding Stiles’ weirdly strategic flashcard torture, and trying not to hurl Bella’s insufferably good grades into the nearest recycling bin.

It was pathetic, really, but also comforting. There was something soothing in the repetition. Wake up. Pretend to care. Ignore the memories clawing at the edge of your ribs. Repeat.

She didn’t have to think about Dovehill here. About rooms that watched her breathe. About Ceelia’s voice, which lived in her head like an echo that didn’t know when to shut up. Or the way Ridley’s hands had trembled when she thought no one was looking.

Routine meant forward motion. And forward motion meant she didn’t have to look back. So, by May, she wasn’t thriving at school, but she wasn’t failing either.

She still hated it.

She still grumbled about studying.

She still bitched and moaned when Bella gently corrected her work.

But she wasn’t drowning anymore.

And when Mr. Harris handed her a C+ instead of an F on her chemistry test, she almost smiled. She still had work to do. Still had ghosts curled up in her spine. But for the first time? She didn’t feel like she was losing.

☽☽☽

C+

And to her absolute horror? She was proud of it. It was barely passing, but it was passing. She had actually worked for it. And somehow, despite her grumbling and resistance, it felt good. Just enough that when she looked at the paper, she didn’t immediately feel like setting it on fire. But pride was dangerous. If she cared about one grade, what stopped her from caring about the rest? That was a slippery slope to something worse: expectations. If she started caring too much, the Cullens would notice. They’d expect more and she'd start expecting more from herself, and that was worse than any F.

Gwendolyn tensed when she stepped into the house. Esme was setting the table. Carlisle was reading in the living room, next to Alice who was already smirking from her seat on the couch.

The kitchen smelled like fresh garlic and something sweet Esme was definitely sneaking into dinner. It felt… too normal.

And before she could escape upstairs, Alice asked "How’d your test go?"

Gwendolyn froze. She had two choices. Lie or accept her fate. She exhaled before slowly turning around to face her. “C+.”

Their reactions were not what she expected. The kind of warm, proud smile that made something in Gwendolyn’s chest tighten. Carlisle smiled and Alice fucking clapped.

Macon would’ve just raised an eyebrow and said something like, “Barely tolerable.” That was his version of a gold star.

“See?” Alice grinned. “I told you, not failing is fun.”

Gwendolyn groaned. “Congratulations. You’ve ruined my streak of academic failure. Hope you’re happy.”

Esme, softly amused, entered the living room as well. “We are. We’re proud of you, sweetheart.”

Esme’s hand brushed her shoulder—gentle, reassuring, a small, unconscious motherly gesture. All of this was worse than the grades. She was used to approval, Macon’s kind. The kind that was dry, sarcastic, and quiet. The kind that came in the form of a well-placed ‘Hmph’ instead of a lecture or a subtle nod instead of a smile. But this open, warm, soft affection? That was different. And some small, awful part of her liked it.

Carlisle smiled at her. “Good work, Gwendolyn.”

She rolled her eyes then tried to escape to the garage, thinking that she’d find respite working on her car, in vain. Emmett was already waiting and the second she stepped in, he grinned like a proud big brother. "Yo! You passed!"

Fuck supernatural hearing. Maybe she’d have to charm the whole house instead of just her bedroom and the bathrooms.

Gwendolyn scoffed. “Barely.”

“Yeah, but you did.” Emmett slung an arm around her shoulders. “So, here’s what we’re gonna do.”

Gwendolyn narrowed her eyes. “Gee, I’m scared.”

Emmett ignored her and went on with a smirk. "You get a B+ or higher on your next test? I’ll let you drive my Jeep."

Gwendolyn’s jaw dropped. “What?”

Emmett grinned. “You heard me.”

“You never let me drive your Jeep.”

“Exactly.”

“You said—and I quote—‘You drive like a bat out of hell and I actually like my tires.’”

Emmett shrugged, unbothered. “I stand by it. But you’ve got reflexes, I’ll give you that.”

Gwendolyn stared at him. The Jeep. His Jeep. The absolute beast of a vehicle that she had wanted to drive since the moment she saw it. It was a trap. It was the worst possible form of motivation. Because now she actually wanted to study. Gwendolyn groaned, shoving her face into her hands. “Why do you have to be like this?”

Emmett ruffled her hair. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s get back to work.”

And somehow, despite everything, Gwendolyn didn’t hate school as much.

☽☽☽

Unfortunately, not everything was so peaceful.

She usually didn’t let anyone into her room. It was a sacred space. Esme was the only one who could enter uninvited and leave unscathed. The others mostly respected that boundary—until Alice talked her into letting her and Rosalie in just for five minutes the day before.

Gwendolyn should have known that it was a terrible idea. Her space had been neutral up until now—white walls, a few bookshelves, her desk, her bed. Nothing excessive. Nothing obnoxious. Nothing pink or pastel. Which was why she almost had a stroke when she walked in the following day after school and saw soft pink throw pillows sitting on her bed. Gwendolyn froze in the doorway.

Alice, standing proudly in the center of the room, beamed. “Ta-da!”

Gwendolyn blinked slowly. “Alice.”

“Yes?”

“What the fuck are you doing in my room? Also what the fuck is that?” She said, pointing to the pillows.

Alice gasped. “Language, Gwendolyn.”

“Don’t Gwendolyn me,” Gwendolyn said, pointing at the crime scene. “You put pink in my room.”

Rosalie, perched on Gwendolyn’s desk, arched an eyebrow. “It’s just a pillow.”

“It’s four pillows,” Gwendolyn snapped. “And a throw blanket. And—” Her eyes narrowed further. “Are those fairy lights?”

Alice grinned. “Maybe.”

Gwendolyn exhaled sharply, dragging her hands down her face. She was going to lose her mind.

Alice sighed dramatically, plopping onto Gwendolyn’s bed. “Come on, Gwen. You’ve been here almost a year, and your room still looks like a mental institution.”

Gwendolyn flipped her off.

“No, seriously,” Alice continued, undeterred. “Look at this. White walls. No personality. Depressing.”

“It’s called minimalism,” Gwendolyn deadpanned.

Alice gasped, scandalized. “It’s called a cry for help.”

Rosalie smirked. “She has a point.”

Gwendolyn turned to her next, betrayed. “Et tu, Rosalie?”

Rosalie shrugged, completely unbothered. “I just don’t get why you won’t make it yours. I mean, it’s not like you’re leaving anytime soon.”

She didn’t have a response for that, because they were right. She had spent almost a year here and she had kept her room the way she always did: temporary. Not because she wanted to, but because, deep down, she never let herself believe she’d be staying. And that was the problem, wasn’t it? Even if they were right—even if she wasn’t going anywhere yet— she couldn’t stay. Not really. Not past eighteen. Not if the curse caught up with her like it always did in their bloodline. If she made this room hers, if she let herself believe this was home… it would make leaving worse.

Her eyes flickered to the bookshelf, lined with books she actually enjoyed.
To the desk, where her notebooks were stacked haphazardly, filled with notes on spells and car schematics. To the window, where Boo had torn up the corner of the curtain from perching there too often. To the large canvas on the wall, a painting of Boo—his dark fur shadowed in deep blues and grays, his golden eyes piercing against the background. She had put it up months ago, hoping it would shut everyone up. It hadn’t.

Alice saw the shift immediately. Before Gwendolyn could react, Alice practically vibrated in excitement. “So, what color do you want the walls?”

Gwendolyn groaned. “You’re actually possessed.”

Rosalie smirked, inspecting her nails. “I think dark green. Maybe navy.”

Alice gasped in betrayal. “Rosalie, you’re supposed to be on my side!”

“Pink is disgusting,” Rosalie said, completely unbothered.

Gwendolyn pointed at her aggressively. “See? Someone here has taste.”

Alice pouted dramatically, but Gwendolyn knew this was far from over.

☽☽☽

Between school, sparring, magic, fixing the Mustang, being dragged into study sessions with Bella, Scott and Stiles, and Alice’s never-ending attempts to make her decorate…Gwendolyn was settling.

She wasn’t sure when it happened. She woke up one morning, stepped into the kitchen, and realized it was routine. Esme had already set out her tea. Emmett had already stolen half her breakfast. Alice was already waiting to drag her into some ridiculous plan. And… she didn’t hate it.

She didn’t love it. She wasn’t going to say that, but still, when she looked around the room— the people she had once felt like an intruder around—who had felt too perfect, too polished, too not-hers—were now just part of the rhythm. Familiar. Loud. Annoying. Safe.

She didn’t feel like she was passing through anymore. That was new. And it didn’t feel so bad.

☽☽☽

Gwendolyn should have seen it coming.

Because while she had crawled her way out of the abyss in chemistry, she had absolutely bombed another physics test. And math? Oh, math was a fucking nightmare—an eldritch horror she had no intention of ever understanding. Numbers were just sad little symbols pretending to mean something.

She’d already bombed three math tests and one physics. Which meant Stiles had already cashed in four out of his five earned favors—one to make her attend a lacrosse game, another to bake cupcakes for a bake sale he forgot he volunteered for, one to help him tape sardine cans behind the vents of two senior asshats’ lockers, and one to distribute a fake school newsletter announcing a zombie safety drill that got the principal involved. Which meant there was only one favor left. And the way Stiles kept muttering “I’m saving it for something big” was genuinely unsettling.

So now, she was stuck at Stiles’ house, arms crossed, glaring at him from across the couch while he paced, thinking way too hard.

Boo lay stretched out on the rug in front of the coffee table, head on his paws, eyes half-lidded but tracking every move in the room like a bored security system. He hadn’t growled once, but the silent judgment radiating from him was enough to make Scott glance over more than once and give a nervous “We’re good, right?” look.

Stiles, at some point, had almost reached out like he was going to scratch behind Boo’s ears only to stop halfway when Boo shifted just slightly and fixed him with a slow, dead-eyed stare. He backed off immediately, muttering, “Okay, not friendly. Got it.”

Scott hadn’t even tried. Jacob had looked curious, but one glance from Boo had kept him in his seat.

Scott, lounging in the armchair with his feet propped up, looked entirely too resigned as Stiles continued his pacing. He had seen this unfold one too many times and had already accepted his fate.

Jacob, who had just arrived, was sitting beside Gwendolyn on the couch. He was watching all of this with his usual mix of mild confusion and amusement. He had his arms crossed, one ankle resting over his knee, body loose and relaxed, but Gwendolyn didn’t miss the way his brows furrowed slightly, like he was trying to figure out if this was an actual emergency or just regular Stiles behavior.

She groaned, letting her head thump against the couch. “Stop being a little bitch, Stiles. Just pick something already.”

"No, no, no," Stiles waved her off dramatically, his grin turning downright maniacal. “I have to make this count.”

Jacob, leaning forward with a tilt of his head, eyed Stiles curiously. “What the hell is happening?”

Scott, not even looking up from his phone, answered flatly. “Gwen bombed a test. Stiles gets to cash in a favor.”

Jacob blinked in surprise. "Favor? What kind of favor?"

Gwendolyn sighed dramatically, dragging a hand down her face. “Stiles is tormenting me under the guise of academic support.”

Jacob raised a brow. “You mean tutoring?”

She groaned. “Don’t say it like that. Makes it sound like I signed up for this willingly.”

Jacob’s eyes narrowed slightly as he looked between them. “But you did actually agree to that, right?”

"She didn’t think I’d be able to teach her anything," Stiles grinned triumphant.

"I was tricked," Gwendolyn muttered, pouting. “Bamboozled. Lied to. Betrayed.”

"You underestimated me," Stiles corrected.

Gwendolyn rolled her eyes. "Same thing."

Jacob let out a low chuckle, leaning back slightly. “So, what kind of favors?”

Gwendolyn leaned back, genuinely curious to see what this would turn into. But she wasn’t about to let Stiles off easy. She loved watching him sweat.

Stiles perked up immediately. "Oh, the best part? She had to agree to my terms. No backing out!”

Gwendolyn smirked, stretching lazily. "Oh, yeah. I had terms too."

Stiles froze. "Don't—"

But it was too late. Gwendolyn turned to Jacob, completely deadpan. "No public humiliation or blackmail. No major crimes or boring ones. And—" She paused for dramatic effect, and smirked just slightly. "No sexual favors."

Jacob, who had just taken a sip of his soda, choked. "What—"

Stiles threw his hands up. "Dude, stop bringing that up."

Gwendolyn grinned as Jacob coughed violently beside her, shaking his head. She could feel the amusement bubbling up inside her. “What?” she asked, feigning innocence. "I just think it's important for everyone to know my boundaries."

"Why do you keep saying it in front of people?!"

Gwendolyn tilted her head, smiling sweetly. “Transparency, Stiles. Very important in any contractual agreement.”

Stiles, looking betrayed, gestured aggressively at Jacob who was still recovering from his coughing fit. "You’re killing Jacob over here."

Gwendolyn only shrugged, grinning. “I just want to be clear. I wasn’t about to go roleplaying any of your nerdy fantasies, Stiles.”

Stiles squinted at her. "What does that even mean—"

Gwendolyn threw him a wicked smile. “ I’ve seen your Han Solo shrine, Stiles. Like, what? You weren’t gonna make me dress up in some tragic space-princess outfit for your personal amusement?”

Scott closed his eyes like he was praying for patience. “Please don’t get me involved in this.”

Jacob, finally recovering, wheezed. “Jesus.”

Stiles, completely red-faced now, was spluttering. "That is so out of context."

Gwendolyn, fully enjoying herself, flicked her braid over her shoulder dramatically. “Actually, you know what? Maybe I should start wearing it in those iconic Princess Leia buns. Really complete the look. What do you think, Stiles?”

"Oh my god, stop." Stiles threw a couch pillow at her, but she ducked before it could hit her.

Jacob, watching this chaos unfold, muttered, "This is the dumbest conversation I’ve ever been part of."

Scott sighed like this was normal. "She does it every time."

"And it’s ruining my reputation!" Stiles wailed, looking at Gwendolyn as if she were the one who had personally annihilated his social standing.

"What reputation?" Gwendolyn deadpanned.

"I have a reputation."

Boo, curled up by the coffee table, let out a low, unimpressed huff, like even he wasn’t buying it.

Gwendolyn tilted her head, all mock concern. “Stiles, this is Forks. Population: ‘everyone’s grandma in 100 miles radius probably knows you pissed yourself on stage during the Christmas play.’ What reputation are you trying to salvage exactly?”

Stiles turned bright red. “That was kindergarten!”

Jacob, nearly choking on his soda, wheezed, “Wait—that was you?!”

Stiles groaned, burying his face in a couch cushion. “I hate this town.”

Scott just shook his head with a fond, long-suffering sigh. “And yet, you somehow manage to be the loudest thing in it.”

Gwendolyn smirked, propping her boots up on the coffee table. “Don’t worry, Stilinski. Your legacy is secure. Local legend. Infamous kindergarten pisslord.”

“I’m gonna sue for defamation,” Stiles muttered into the cushion.

“Go ahead,” Gwendolyn said sweetly. “We’ll all testify.”

Jacob grinned, nudging her knee with his. “Remind me never to piss you off.”

“Smart man,” Gwendolyn said, with a wink.

Stiles, offended, threw another pillow at Jacob. "You’re supposed to be on my side."

Jacob just laughed, shaking his head.

Gwendolyn, leaning back into the couch, entirely too pleased with herself, just grinned and stretched her legs out onto the coffee table.

Stiles huffed. "Fine. Whatever. Forget that. Back to the favor." He tapped his chin, eyes lighting up. “Okay, okay. What about…”

Gwendolyn watched him expectantly, which only made Stiles hesitate even more.

Jacob leaned forward, his voice laced with both amusement and a hint of impatience. "Dude. Just say it."

"No, because now I feel like whatever I ask for isn’t creative enough," Stiles muttered, looking genuinely upset. “Like, I have the ultimate tool of chaos at my disposal, and I’m wasting it.”

Gwendolyn sighed dramatically. "This is just sad."

Stiles groaned, dragging his hands down his face. "I mean, I could ask you to sneak me into an R-rated movie. But that’s weak. Or I could make you steal something, but like—" He gestured vaguely. "You're already morally flexible, so where’s the fun in that?"

Jacob shook his head, almost dazed by the way Stiles was taking this way too seriously. “You let him have this much power over you?” he asked Gwendolyn.

Gwendolyn groaned, slumping into the couch. "Regret is a powerful teacher, Jacob."

"Okay, okay, I got it—" Stiles snapped his fingers. “You have to break into Mr Harris’ car—”

Gwendolyn held up a hand, cutting him off. “Nope. Too predictable, and also sounds stupid.”

Stiles grumbled. "You're right, damn it."

Jacob laughed. "This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen."

"Oh, shut up," Stiles muttered. "You’re just mad you weren’t smart enough to trick her into doing your bidding first."

Jacob snorted. "I don’t need tricks. I could just ask."

That was his first mistake because Gwendolyn turned toward him with a look that should’ve been illegal—slow, deliberate, all teeth and mischief. She smirked like a cat spotting a mouse that didn’t know it had wandered too close.

"That so?" she murmured, tilting her head just slightly, watching him like she had already won something. Just for fun.

Boo, from his spot by the coffee table, lifted his head and watched Jacob like he was assessing his survival odds. Jacob did not feel reassured.

She hadn’t meant to go for the kill shot. Not really. But Jacob had walked right into it, and now he was just sitting there, all stupid and flustered and trying to play it cool. She couldn’t resist. He looked like he didn’t know if he was supposed to run or stay perfectly still. So she leaned in closer to him.

Jacob could feel it. The heat radiating off her, the faint scent of something warm and rich. She wasn’t playing fair.  He tried to school his face, tried to ignore the way his pulse just kicked up like a damn idiot, but it was impossible, because she was looking at him like she was bored, amused, and two seconds away from completely ruining him.

Stiles pointed at him. "Ha! You walked right into that one, man."

Jacob clenched his jaw, forcing himself to play it cool, but he could feel the pressure mounting. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears, feel the heat creeping up the back of his neck. "I mean,” Jacob exhaled, voice steady somehow, “if I ever needed a favor, I’d just ask like a normal person."

This was his second mistake.

Because Gwendolyn leaned in even closer. Not touching at first—then her fingers brushed the edge of his sleeve, featherlight, as if she were smoothing a wrinkle that didn’t exist. A gesture that meant nothing, but lingered just long enough to feel like it might.

Her voice dropped, all honey and fake sweetness. "Oh, Jacob. You think I’d say yes just because you asked?"

Jacob blinked, completely caught off guard by her unspoken challenge. His brain was completely fried, his focus gone, his ability to think straight was nonexistent. Because all he could see now was her. The curve of her smirk. The way her pale blue eyes held his, unrelenting. The way her scent wrapped around him, getting under his skin and in his lungs. The way her voice was low, smooth, and so goddamn smug.

She was enjoying this. She knew exactly what she was doing.

Jacob swallowed, his throat dry. He should say something. He should move. He should do anything except just sit there like a dumbass.

"I—" he started, his own voice betraying him.

Scott sighed deeply. "Here we go."

Stiles cackled. "Oh, you’re so screwed, man."

Jacob tried—he really fucking tried— but Gwendolyn was still standing there, smirking, completely unbothered by the absolute crisis she had just thrown him into. She had no problem with putting the entire room on edge.

Boo let out another long, tired sigh. He’d seen it all before.

Stiles, clearly delighted, clapped his hands together. "Okay! Back to me! My favor is still TBD, but it will be glorious."

Gwendolyn finally leaned away from Jacob’s space, giving him the barest inch of breathing room, but not moving from her spot beside him. She didn’t need to. The damage was already done. She could feel how flustered he was, still a little too tense. This had been fun and it had made her curious. Jacob was always so warm, so sure of himself—and yet here he was, caught off-guard, completely outmatched, and she hadn’t even tried that hard.

Her smirk curled lazily as she draped one arm over the back of the couch and let herself stretch out like a cat in the sun—completely, deliberately unbothered. Then, just before turning her attention back to Stiles, she flicked her gaze toward Jacob and winked. Casual. Effortless. A silent you’re not off the hook yet.

She watched the subtle way his posture stiffened again, the flicker of something unreadable in his eyes—and that was enough. She didn’t need him to say anything. She already knew. It was written all over his face.

She leaned back into the couch like nothing had happened, now totally focused on Stiles again—calm, amused, smug as hell. Like she hadn’t just thrown a live grenade into the room and walked away. "Just make it quick, Stiles. You have like one month to cash it in before I’m gone."

Stiles squinted. "You’re leaving?"

“Yeah? I have summer plans.” Gwendolyn said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

But it wasn’t really about the plans.

It was about the fact that this would be the first summer she wasn’t going back to Ravenwood. No Macon waiting in the garden. No late nights in the study. No half-silent breakfasts. No familiar southern heat humming against the windows.

And she couldn’t be there, nor here either. Not while the air got warmer and everything reminded her of where she should have been.

So yeah, she had made plans with her cousins. Why not?

Stiles gasped. "You’re leaving us?"

Jacob, who had been half-listening, sat up straighter. His interest piqued, he turned his full attention to her.  Scott, who had been casually glued to his phone, probably texting Allison, finally looked up as well.

"For how long?" Stiles demanded, his voice rising.

Gwendolyn shrugged. " Probably the whole summer."

The boys collectively froze. "Wait, wait, wait," Scott finally cut in. "You’re leaving for the entire summer?"

Gwendolyn rolled her eyes. "Bloody hell, find a life."

"That’s not an answer," Jacob said, narrowing his eyes.

"Where?" Stiles pressed. "Where are you going? And with who?"

Gwendolyn stretched, completely unbothered. "England."

“I thought you hated your grandmother?” Stiles sputtered.

“She doesn’t own the whole country,” Gwendolyn muttered, though privately, she was sure Emmaline wished she did.

Jacob, frowning slightly. "Wait, why then?"

Gwendolyn, smirked. "Why do people usually travel? Fun. Adventure. A deep, desperate need to escape Forks before it swallows my soul."

Stiles, still spiraling, whined. "But we had plans!"

Gwendolyn raised an eyebrow. "Did we?"

Stiles was now offended, "Uh, yeah? You think I wasn’t already prepping for the greatest summer of all time?"

Scott, deadpan as always, chimed in. "We didn’t agree to anything."

Stiles, ignored him, listing dramatically on his fingers, "Movie marathons. Camping trip—Scott, we were gonna go camping. Road trip plans—Gwen, we had to get you out of Forks for at least one weekend. Breaking into—" he paused "—never mind. Bowling. Laser tag. Ice cream tour. Dude, I made a whole list."

Gwendolyn watched him with a mix of amusement and the faintest prickle of guilt. He actually planned all this? She should’ve seen it coming. Of course, Stiles would’ve started mentally drafting the greatest summer break of all time. And he looked genuinely crushed. Like a kid who just found out Santa wasn’t real.

She felt a little bad. Only a little.

So instead of teasing him for it—tempting as it was—she just shrugged. “That’s nice, Stilinski. You enjoy that.”

Stiles, looked at her like she personally just murdered his dreams, "You’re so mean.”

Scott let out a long sigh, “There’s always next summer, Stiles.”

Gwendolyn froze for a split second. Her mind wandered just for a brief moment, and for a fraction of a second, she was somewhere else, thinking about how next summer was her last one. Last one before things got real. Before everything changed. Before she turned eighteen.

Maybe she wouldn’t even have next summer. Maybe she’d also be slowly unraveling and hearing voices and on her way to cuckoo land.

But then the moment passed, and she let herself be present again. She didn’t have to think about the weight of time passing. Not yet. Instead, she just smirked, shifting back into her usual calm, collected mask. “Exactly” she said easily. “You can all cry about it next year.”

Stiles groaned, flopping back into the couch next to her dramatically. “Ugh. Betrayal.”

Jacob, still watching her, narrowed his eyes slightly, like he had caught that momentary slip. Gwendolyn met his gaze for half a second—just long enough to register the quiet question in it.

She didn’t answer, didn’t let him see the thought that had crept in.

One more summer. Maybe.

Nope. Not now. Not yet.

She blinked it away and smirked, brushing it off like dust. Then she turned to Stiles, grinning, “So, about that favor?”

Boo, with perfect timing, pushed himself up from his spot by the coffee table and padded over, dropping next to her with a soft huff. Without missing a beat, Gwendolyn reached down and scratched behind his ears. Boo leaned into it with a grunt, but eyes still watchful.

Stiles blinked. “Wait. He lets you do that?”

Scott looked personally offended. “I tried to pet him once and he growled at me.”

Jacob raised a brow. “I thought he didn’t like people?”

Gwendolyn smirked. “He doesn’t. He just has standards.”

Boo gave a soft, content exhale like he agreed.

Stiles flopped back dramatically again. “Cool. So I’m not even good enough for the demon dog.”

Gwendolyn grinned. “You said it, not me.”

☽☽☽

Sunday 8^th May 2005

The diner was warm, filled with the low hum of conversation and the clatter of plates. A half-empty basket of fries sat between them, the ice in Bella’s tea melting, condensation pooling onto the table. They’d been doing this more lately. Not talking about vampires or monsters or curses. Just eating. Hanging out. Trying to be normal in the brief windows where they could be.

Their friendship was still new, really. Born out of mutual weirdness and Bella’s quiet determination to help Gwendolyn pass school. But they’d settled into something casual—book swaps, library runs, unspoken understanding.

Gwendolyn, fully committed to her milkshake, sucked lazily through her straw, making obnoxiously loud slurping sounds just to see if Bella would react.

Boo sat curled at her side in the booth, head resting on his paws, one pale eye fixed on Bella with slow, unblinking scrutiny. He hadn’t moved once since they sat down. Didn’t need to. His silent judgment said it all.

Bella sighed, deadpan. “Seriously?”

Gwendolyn smirked, lifting the cup in mock cheers. “Just adding to the ambiance.”

Bella rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched. She speared a fry absentmindedly, her gaze drifting toward the window. “It’s weird being able to just… sit here.”

Gwendolyn quirked a brow. “You do this all the time with Edward?”

Bella huffed a laugh. “No. He doesn’t eat, remember?”

Gwendolyn sighed dramatically. “Right. Forgot. The suffering. The burden. The agony of the immortal digestive system.”

Bella threw a fry at her. Gwendolyn caught it midair and ate it just to be an ass.

Bella shook her head, but she looked relaxed. It wasn’t often she got to sit and just be. No Cullen dramatics, no Edward overthinking everything, no one watching her like glass. Just food, warmth, and Gwendolyn’s endless sarcasm.

Bella tapped her straw against the rim of her glass. “Can I ask you something?”

Gwendolyn gave her a sideways look. “You can. Whether I answer is another story.”

Bella ignored that. “You’re really smart.”

Gwendolyn blinked. “Okay, where is this going?”

“I mean it,” Bella said. “You know stuff most people don’t even pretend to care about. You’re… weirdly knowledgeable. But you act like school’s the worst thing to ever happen to you.”

Gwendolyn snorted. “Because it is.”

Bella frowned, resting her elbow on the table. “Then why even bother trying?”

Gwendolyn shrugged, a little too casual. “Esme. Carlisle. Emotional blackmail. And summer school sounds like actual hell.”

Bella hummed, still watching her. “So you’re just gonna pass and coast?”

“That’s the plan,” Gwendolyn said breezily, but something about the way she said it felt hollow.

Bella didn’t say anything for a moment, just watching her.

Gwendolyn sighed, tilting her head against the booth. “Why do you care?”

Bella didn’t know much about Gwendolyn’s life. Not really. The Cullens didn’t talk about it much, and Gwendolyn never offered.

“Because I had to make a decision about my future,” Bella said simply. “And it wasn’t easy. But you—you’re acting like you don’t even have one.”

Gwendolyn’s fingers twitched against the table. She didn’t like the word future. Too vague. Too heavy. Too full of things she couldn’t control.

Bella leaned forward slightly. “Do you even want to graduate?”

Gwendolyn stilled, just for a second. She didn’t know if she’d still be there to graduate in two years. Then she shrugged, brushing it off. “Not like I have better things to do.”

Bella narrowed her eyes. “That’s not an answer.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not my therapist.” Gwendolyn lifted a fry, flicking it toward Bella’s plate. “You always ask this many questions, Bella?”

Bella ignored that. “I just don’t get it. You’re here. You’re going through all the motions, but it’s like… you don’t actually think you’ll need any of it.”

Gwendolyn smirked, sharp and easy. “Maybe I’m just nihilistic.”

Bella narrowed her eyes. “Maybe. Or maybe you just don’t want to think about the future.”

That was a little too on the nose. Gwendolyn exhaled sharply, tilting her head back against the booth. “Look, if you’re trying to make me have a big, emotional realization, it’s not happening.”

Bella sighed but didn’t push. She sighed, leaning back in her seat. She didn’t push further, but Gwendolyn could feel her thinking about it.

After a beat of silence, Bella changed the subject. “Edward and I were talking about—”

Gwendolyn’s fingers tensed slightly around her straw. That name always came with baggage. “Oh, great,” Gwendolyn muttered, “a sentence I love to hear.”

Bella ignored her. “—about my future. Our future.”

Gwendolyn stopped picking at her sandwich.

Bella hesitated, then continued, “I think—no, I know—I want him to turn me.”

Gwendolyn blinked once. Then twice. “Oh, so you’re just doubling down on the insanity, huh?”

Because it wasn’t about the vampire part. That didn’t make someone a monster—not automatically. She knew that. She lived with that.

But choosing it? Walking willingly into a world where bloodlust could unmake you, where control wasn’t a guarantee, where one slip could ruin everything? That wasn’t brave. That was reckless.

And worse—it was a choice Bella didn’t even seem scared of.

Bella scowled. “It’s not insane.”

“It is insane,” Gwendolyn countered. “You’re seriously telling me you’re ready to just… drop everything? Walk away from your entire life? Become a walking corpse?”

Bella tensed slightly. “I don’t really fit in here, Gwen.”

Gwendolyn exhaled through her nose, shaking her head. “Okay, let’s say you do it. You become a vampire. What about your dad? Your mom?”

Bella’s face flickered just for a second. “They’ll be fine.”

Boo’s head lifted from his paws. He didn’t growl. Didn’t move. But his ears perked slightly, like even he had opinions. Gwen didn’t say anything for a moment, but her eyes narrowed. “Will they?”

Bella swallowed. Her hands curled into her lap, her shoulders just a little tighter now.

Gwendolyn wasn’t trying to be cruel, but she also didn’t believe for a second that Bella had fully thought this through. She wasn’t against her being turned, per se—hell, if Bella was actually dead set on spending eternity with Edward, then fine. But pretending like it was an easy decision? Like it wouldn’t wreck her parents? Like it wouldn’t hurt?

Gwendolyn leaned forward slightly. “You’re okay with never seeing them again?”

Bella’s lips pressed into a thin line. “It’s not like that.”

Gwendolyn wasn’t mad that Bella wanted to be with Edward forever. She got it. The whole mortality problem. The slow, creeping unfairness of one person aging while the other didn’t.

But the fact that Bella was willing to gamble her soul—her control, her blood, her family—for it? That was the part Gwendolyn couldn’t wrap her head around.

“No?” Gwendolyn tilted her head. “Because that’s exactly what it sounds like.”

Bella exhaled sharply, looking away. She didn’t argue. Not really. Because she knew Gwendolyn had a point.

Gwendolyn let it drop. She had said what she needed to say. But deep down, she knew this conversation wasn’t over. Not really.

For a moment, they lapsed into silence, picking at their food. The diner buzzed around them, warm and normal. Bella was quiet now, chewing slowly, her gaze distant but thoughtful.
Gwendolyn let the silence stretch. She liked it better this way—when things felt simple, even if they weren’t.

It should have been relaxing. It was relaxing.

And then— “You don’t get sick, do you?”

Gwendolyn blinked. “What?”

Bella tilted her head. “Like—ever? I’ve never even seen you cough.”

Gwendolyn frowned. “...Why do you care?”

Bella hesitated. “I don’t know. Just curious.”

“Uh-huh.” Gwendolyn wiped her hands on a napkin, feeling the familiar itch of discomfort creeping up her spine. “You been keeping track? Got a little notebook somewhere? Gwendolyn Sightings: No Illness to Report?”

Bella scowled. “Obviously not.”

Gwendolyn rolled her eyes, but Bella wasn’t done. “So, what happens if you do get hurt?”

Gwendolyn tensed. “Seriously, Bella. What’s with the twenty questions?”

Bella shrugged, watching her carefully. “I’ve just never seen you injured, like bleeding…. Your ribs. I saw the bruises, remember? That looked bad. But you were walking around like nothing happened.”

Gwendolyn frowned. “...Why do you care?”

Bella leaned in a little. “You don’t act like someone who gets hurt. Or like it matters when you do.”

Gwendolyn huffed. “I’ve had worse.”

Bella blinked. “Worse than broken ribs?”

“Yeah. Haven’t you?”

Bella ignored that. “So do you heal fast or something?”

Gwendolyn didn’t answer.

Boo, still curled beside her, lifted his head and stared at Bella like he was deciding whether or not to growl.

Bella ignored him and kept studying her. “Do you?”

Gwendolyn picked up another fry, biting into it like she wasn’t suddenly itching to vanish. “I dunno. Wanna stab me and find out?”

Bella scowled. “I’m being serious.”

“So am I,” Gwendolyn said breezily.

Bella’s brows furrowed. “You never answer anything about yourself.”

Gwendolyn exhaled sharply. “Maybe that’s because I don’t want to.”

Bella frowned.

“Look,” Gwendolyn said, tilting her head. “Imagine if every conversation you had turned into a Q&A session about how your boyfriend’s a vampire. All the time. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

Bella faltered.

Gwendolyn tapped her fingers against the table. “Yeah. Exactly.”

Bella was quiet for a moment. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Gwendolyn sighed, scrubbing a hand through her hair. She wasn’t mad at Bella, not really. It was just… tiring. She hated explaining herself. Hated feeling like a walking case study. Ceelia already made her feel like that every goddamn month. She didn’t need Bella adding to it.

“I get that you’re curious,” Gwendolyn said finally. “And I know it’s not coming from a bad place. But I hate answering this stuff, Bella. It makes me feel like a fucking science experiment. I already get treated like an anomaly by people who are supposed to know better. Casters, other creatures—half the time, they’re either afraid of what I might become or waiting for me to crack. Like I’m some kind of cautionary tale.”

Bella’s expression flickered with something like guilt. “I didn’t think about it like that.”

Gwendolyn huffed. “Yeah, well. Now you know.”

Bella played with her straw, looking down at her drink. “Sorry.”

Gwendolyn waved a hand dismissively. “It’s fine, don’t sweat it. You’re still buying next time though.”

Bella, still clearly deep in thought, poked at a fry before glancing up again. “Can I ask you one last question though?”

Gwendolyn groaned, rubbing her temples. “Bloody hell, Bella.”

Bella hesitated. “Do you… only eat normal food?”

Gwendolyn blinked.

Bella bit her lip, hesitating now that she’d actually said it. “I mean—you do eat. I’ve seen you eat. But I also saw you fight Emmett, and you don’t—” She hesitated again. “—need to, do you?”

Gwendolyn exhaled slowly. “I prefer normal human food.”

Bella caught the wording. “But?”

Gwendolyn’s fingers curled slightly against the tabletop, her voice flat. “But I could drink blood.”

Bella sat up straighter, eyes widening slightly. “Could?”

Gwendolyn didn’t answer right away. She could feel it—the phantom pull at the back of her throat, the ache that lived beneath her skin. She remembered what it had smelled like. She remembered the look in her father’s eyes right before he lost himself.

Gwendolyn swallowed. Her jaw tightened. “Would never.”

Bella didn’t miss the hard way she said it. The way her whole body tensed. The way the air around her shifted, just for a second. Bella didn’t know much about incubi. But she knew that look. That tone. That reaction.

She had seen it before. It was the same way Edward spoke about losing control. About how dangerous blood was. About what it could do to him.

Bella’s throat felt dry. “So… you don’t.”

Gwendolyn shook her head once, stiffly. “No.” Her voice was like glass—thin, sharp, final.
“Because if I ever did, I might not stop.”

Bella opened her mouth, wanting to ask why, but then she saw the way Gwendolyn’s fingers twitched against the table. The slight flinch. A reaction. A warning.

But Bella, for the first time, felt it. That thing. That weight Gwendolyn carried. She hadn’t just shut her down because she was tired of supernatural questions. She shut it down because it was dangerous. Because it was something she couldn’t afford to think about. And that scared Bella more than any answer she could’ve gotten.

Bella swallowed. “Right. Moving on.”

Gwendolyn exhaled, tension slowly bleeding out of her posture. She pointed a fry at Bella. “Now you’re getting it.”

Bella huffed a small, uneasy laugh. “You know, I’m really glad we’re friends—even if you suck at being emotionally available.”

Gwendolyn snorted. “That’s rude.”

“It’s also accurate.”

“It’s kind of funny,” Bella murmured. “You and I… we’re both surrounded by immortals. But you’re the one clinging to normal.”

Gwendolyn stilled, just for a second. “Maybe,” she said. “Or maybe I just like milkshakes more than immortality.”

The conversation drifted back to lighter things. Back to normal.

☽☽☽