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I'm nothing but a monster burning in a hell that only exists in my head. There's no hope left until one harmless glance chances logic and binds two eternal enemies together in a twist of fate. Can the escape from this hell be found in an infuriating dimpled grin? Or is this another dark, dirty trick of my own mind? A forbidden passion, heat, and intense anger—this is no fairytale.

[Disclaimer: Monster is an originally plotted fic. The ideas within this fic are not to be copied in any way, shape, or form—I have not given my consent to any manner of copying. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the intellectual property of their respective owners. All canon concepts and characters are the property of the Twilight Saga's author, Stephenie Meyer. No copyright infringement is intended. Similarities are for the sole use of fan fiction, and no profit has been or will be benefited from the posting of this fic.] Emerging Swan Award 2012, nominated into Fandom Choice Awards.

40. Beautiful, Bloody Angel

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"You really got me bad
Now I'm gonna get you back
I'm gonna get you back."
- Maroon 5.

Chapter Forty

Beautiful, Bloody Angel

*East Coast, USA*

Beer. The house stinks of beer. Beer, and a rotting stench that could only come from years of sloppy carelessness. It was a rundown place, with heavy summer breezes hissing through muddy, cracked windows, dirt matting the thick carpet, and a broken radio belching out sound in the background. It was the lowest place anybody could find themselves in.

Which is exactly why Rosalie Hale has found herself there.

She knows where she is: at the lowest of low, the deepest of deep, the worst of the worst. It is completely sickening for her—for someone so perfect to be placed somewhere so filthy. But anywhere is better than the empty forest, especially when Rosalie has a task to perform.

Rosalie glares into the broken mirror. She stands motionless in the cramped bathroom, holding her breath to avoid inhaling the gut-wrenching stench of human waste. Her eyes are set on the mirror as she focuses on the smooth, hard face staring back at her. Beautiful, she thinks. You are beautiful. With her long, golden hair loosely falling in waves down her back, her black eyes so dark, so piercing, she knows she must look like an angel. She has convinced herself she still is an angel, despite her sins.

"You . . . you still there, aren't ya, you . . . you sweetheart?"

The drunken voice of the man just outside the door makes Rosalie sick. Her lips peel back over her teeth in pure disgust. She believes that she is doing the world a favor with her actions. She knows that she still is doing right. Angels don't have faults.

Despite the churn of her frozen stomach, Rosalie manages to compose herself. She stands straight and tall, nodding to the spitting image of herself reflected in the mirror. Her hand closes gently around the door as she exits the bathroom with as much elegance as one can have in such a mess. It is a challenge for her to find a place to put her feet with all the junk cluttered on the floor, but she does, step by step.

A bed appears to have been shoved into the center of the room, turned at an angle in order to make room for the piles of junk. On it rests a man, one who can't be a day over twenty-five. He is on his back, resting lazily against a chipped, rotting headboard. His hair falls down to his chin in shaggy strands, and stubble lines his dirty face. He cracks a yellowed grin as Rosalie approaches, his shining eyes tracing the sway of her hips.

"Ah, yeah, that outta do it. You gonna be—"

"Enough of that," Rosalie snaps. Her jaw locks as she stops at the foot of the bed, her eyes trained on the man. "Do not speak to me."

"Oooh, yeah," the man taunts with an obnoxious laugh. "Gonna make it nice and . . . and good."

The last of Rosalie's breath rushes out of her nostrils in a whistle. She is filled with a desire to cause this man pain—to punish him for his disrespect. Still, Rosalie holds herself together as she watches the man. He snickers at her silence and leans forward, reaching out to grab her.

Rosalie allows this, even though it would be too easy to snap his bones and end him then and there. She is pushed down roughly, without the slightest bit of care. The scent of the man's arousal stings her nostrils, already so strong and heavy in the air. Rosalie lays motionless as the man presses hot kisses to her neck, his rough hands tugging at her clothing, stripping off the remains of the thin fabric. The man moves over her, taking complete control.

Or so he thinks.

For the briefest moment, Rosalie's eyes close. She allows herself to feel the man's presence, allowing him to become something meaningful to her. This man wants her. He wants Rosalie because she is desirable. She is, in her eyes, most likely one of the most desirable women a man could have, and any man is lucky to have her. She knows this. She knows that Emmett is missing out; that Emmett has made a rash decision. Emmett has made a mistake.

The mere thought of his name causes Rosalie to bare her teeth. Emmett. Emmett doesn't want her. Emmett no longer has interest in her—he isn't there to confirm that she really is the most beautiful woman. No, he has given her up for something much below her. Emmett has made it seem as if her beauty is meaningless—as if Rosalie is undesirable.

Anger swells inside of Rosalie, rushing through her silent veins. The man gives a grunt as her hands press too hard against his back, and there's a crack. The sound brings Rosalie back into the present. Her dark eyes snap open, seeing the face of the man above her. She can feel the warm body so close to her own, too close, and she can hear the steady thrum of a heart beating inside his body. The anger strengthens as Rosalie hears the sound of the heartbeat—as she hears a sound that she should feel and hear. A sound that means life and no pain in this damned immortal world.

Suddenly, Rosalie can't take it anymore. Her eyes zero in on the exposed throat above her, focusing on the small spot of flesh where the frantic, skipping pulse beats the loudest. The man groans again, and Rosalie removes her hands from the man's back, only to place them on his head. With a rough jerk, the man's mouth pops open and his body goes limp. Rosalie stares at the lifeless figure above her, hesitating for just a moment, before her razor-sharp teeth slice through the hot skin, straight down into a steady flow of blood. The taste is heaven on her tongue, like a sweet bit of sugar after a lifetime of consuming bread.

No longer can Rosalie say she has never tasted human blood. This isn't the first time, or even the second. As the weeks passed, Rosalie found pleasure in similar situations all across the states. She travels under the clouds, selecting the men who will be easily missed. Although she won't admit that it's just for a reassuring sense of feeling desirable, it is why she's doing this. She does the world a favor, cleansing it of those who deserve to be taken out. Whether it's a filthy disgrace such as the man she now holds, or a man whose presence remind her of Royce, Rosalie never fails with her catches. She always gets her way. Always.

Each mouthful of blood is down Rosalie's throat in a millisecond as she greedily empties the man's veins. Her hands clench tightly around his head as his heart slows. She doesn't hear the breaking of his skull. More. She wants—she needs—more. But, much too soon, the man's body is dry, and he lies dead in Rosalie's arms.

Rosalie deposits the body on the floor without a second glance. He is nothing more than trash to her, belonging in the mass of junk. Rosalie rubs her lips together, savoring the fine taste of the blood before she spins on her heel and heads for the door. Just as she's about to slip out, her eyes catch a glint of color. Black. Rosalie glances over at a pair of another women's sunglasses. They're in perfect condition, and probably could come in handy. Without a pause, Rosalie's fingers snatch up the sunglasses, and with that, she breezes out the door.

Once outside, Rosalie breathes in small, polite breaths of air, dragging them in through slightly parted lips. The salty scent of the ocean adds a sharp tang, but anything is better than the rotting of the house. Besides, Rosalie has to try to forget about the returning ache in her throat. She will be around humans soon, and she must collect herself. She must think.

Rosalie has learned a lot in her absence. As she fled, she found herself in Seattle. There, she came across a group of raging newborns, fighting over a kill. All it took was the sight of the newborns, and Rosalie pieced together the mystery her family has been trying to solve long before she left. They have failed to realize that she has found out the answers. The Cullens still have yet to even consider contacting Rosalie. If only they thought of her. Without her, they are in for a nasty surprise. But it's their own fault—if they wanted her help, they would have found her. If they don't want to find her, they don't deserve to be informed of what's coming.

Despite the looming threat, Rosalie knows what's coming won't be fatal. The newborns may be lethal predators, but they won't cause destruction to Rosalie's family. Even if they may nearly be deserving of death.

In Rosalie's opinion, her family only needs something to bring them back to their senses. Her family has failed to show that they disapprove of the mutt. They have failed to remember that the mutt is the enemy. Rosalie should be sensing that they are coming for her, that they are trying to take her back with open arms. Only, they aren't. Her family is shallow to truly believe that Emmett is happy.

The dog is selfish, not to mention clueless. The mutt doesn't know what pain is, and Rosalie is positive that she can't comprehend what it means to hurt, to struggle. The mutt is so blind, so brainless that she has chosen to take everything away from her—she has taken away the one thing that might make her immortal hell somewhat bearable. As if the mutt expects to make Emmett happy. No dog can ever be as beautiful as Rosalie Hale. Her God-awful scent surely will be enough to repulse Emmett once he does wake up to reality.

If he does.

Rosalie is certain that she could have killed the mutt when given the opportunity. But, why take out one of those filthy beasts, when Rosalie can eliminate them all? Rosalie is glad she hasn't taken care of the mutt herself, because now, she has a better plan. A much more effective plan.

Much more deadly.

Because Rosalie has a plan, she won't be stopping short for anything. The pack of mangy tribal saints will pay. They will finally learn the true meaning of pain, and Rosalie will get her revenge.

Diving into ocean would be a faster way to go, rather than the machines built by the likes of careless, sloppy human hands. But, to carry out her plan, Rosalie must remain proper and in tip-top shape. She mustn't show that she has fallen down from her throne and lost her crown.

So, with a final intake of air, Rosalie slides the sunglasses over her crimson eyes, tilts her chin up, and stalks toward the scents of human civilization without a backward glance. After all, she is Rosalie Hale. Not even the almighty rulers of her secret world will be able to resist her. Rosalie Hale will always get what she wants. It's not a question.