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1. Chapter 1
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Rosalie was never fond of looking into the eyes of any person.
Her family all had the same gaze, topaz and worldly and aged. Like a yellowed book stored far too long within a dusty bookcase.
But there was something different about Leah’s eyes, about the lingering fury that lurked within their depths like a visceral monster waiting to snap on its prey. They were wide and oceanic, swirls of green-gray-amber against a backdrop of sapphire. They made her knees infuriatingly weak in that way Emmett could never quite achieve.
And that night, amongst snarls and degradations and therethatsitdontyoudarestop, she catches the moisture clinging to Leah’s thick lashes. It slides effortlessly along her thumb, trailing down smooth skin and she watches, fascinated, until she loses the droplet.
When it’s over, Leah is the one who won’t meet her gaze.
It’s less angry this time, more urgent and desperate. They’re both grasping at each other, falling through the cracks like sand held too tightly within a fist.
Rosalie tears Leah’s shirt, nails dragging purposefully along a toned abdomen and leaving angry red marks in their wake.
She hisses, not because it hurts, but because it’s the first thing she’s felt in so long and it feelssogood.
Leah ignores the way Rosalie’s porcelain skin shimmers beneath the moonlight.
Rosalie ignores the shine of Leah’s ebony locks as they fall over wild collarbones.
It’s sofuckingcliché and it should be reserved for a couple in love with (the idea) each other and hopeful (foolish) enough to spend forever (three years maximum) together.
Instead, the moment is thrust upon the remnants of broken souls and nonexistent hearts that will discard it before the night is over.
They’re done, lying next to each other on the emerald grass that has become their spot in spite of the unwillingness to admit it.
It was different this time.
Leah didn’t thrust as hard. Rosalie didn’t smirk as infuriatingly. It was changing. They were changing.
Perhaps the most telltale sign of all was Leah’s questioning gaze (Are you okay?) and Rosalie’s responsive quirk (You can’t hurt me).
“You have a…mate.”
“You’ll imprint one day.”
That’s the end of that.
It’s the first time Leah has thought of Rosalie’s lips as anything other than cold. It’s strange, how marble skin can feel so remarkably yielding beneath her.
Now, Rosalie is nipping-not biting-the underside of Leah’s jaw, and they both pause, acknowledging silently to themselves.
It’s never been quite as gentle as that night.
“You’re fucking a leech!”
Leah flinches. He thinks it’s because of his tone.
“It’s none of your business.”
“The hell it’s not! You’re breaking all of your commitments to the pack!”
Her eyes are defiant. His are a myriad.
“You’re one to give sermons about commitments, Sam.”
He’s quiet. She leaves.
Her chest is constricted when pale arms wrap tentatively around her.
Rosalie’s tone is strange; not sorrowful, not regretful. Matter-of-fact.
Leah isn’t sorry. Not for doing it. Maybe about its consequences.
And it is.
“My favorite color is red.”
Rosalie’s eyes flicker towards Leah. She understands.
She never knew Leah had dimples.
“Blue isn’t much better.”
Emmett hasn’t talked to her since that day. Alice sympathizes. Edward snipes. Bella looks away. Carlisle sighs. Esme frowns. Jasper knows the true extent.
Rosalie doesn’t care.
She’s still broken, still hateful of this life she has to lead, but she forgets sometimes, usually when she’s in the midst of full lips, sunset skin, tapered fingers.
Their intentions aren’t any clearer. They aren’t any less persecuted.
They aren’t sickeningly sweet. They don’t always think of each other. It’s not always careful and tactful.
But Leah kisses Rosalie and makes her feel like she’s the only one. Whether purposely or accidentally is never clear.
Rosalie holds onto Leah and makes her feel needed like she hasn’t in so long.