The moon rippled across the black surface of the inlet, casting silver light over Waylon Forge's small private dock. His boat bobbed lazily, tied off with a frayed rope. A cooler sat open beside him, half-full of empty bottles. He hummed tunelessly, throwing a line over the edge, not really expecting to catch anything.
"Peace and quiet," he muttered to no one. "Finally."
Something stirred in the woods behind him.
He straightened, the hairs on his arms rising. "That you, Jim? You better not be screwin' around"
The words died in his throat.
A figure stood at the edge of the dock, eyes gleaming yellow, face too still, too perfect.
James.
Before Waylon could scream, James closed the distance in a blink. He grabbed him by the collar and lifted him like a rag doll. Waylon's back hit the dock hard, knocking the breath out of him.
"W-what—what do you want? Take the boat! Take the—"
James sank his teeth into Waylon's throat.
It wasn't quick. It wasn't merciful.
Blood sprayed across the planks, soaking the wood and dripping into the water. The fishing pole rolled into the inlet with a splash.
Victoria emerged from the trees with a feline grace, licking her lips at the smell. "You started without us."
James barely glanced at her, fangs deep in flesh, savoring the taste.
Waylon spasmed under him, choking on his own breath.
Victoria crouched low, running her fingers over the slick pool of blood, then stood and whispered into Waylon's ear: "You're going to die just like they all do… screaming."
She didn't wait. Her hand plunged into his chest — cracking ribs like wet branches — and she pulled back with something red and still pulsing.
Waylon went still.
James rose slowly, licking blood from his lips.
Laurent stepped onto the dock at last, arms crossed, looking down at the carnage with mild disapproval. "He was loud. People might hear."
Victoria grinned, her mouth painted with death. "Let them. The Cullens already know we're close."
James turned toward the dark water, smiling faintly.
"They'll come. They always do."
The three of them vanished into the trees, shadows in the night.
Behind them, the dock was slick with blood. Waylon's boat drifted out into the inlet, empty and silent — as if it had never been touched.
The air was cold but still. Moonlight filtered through the branches as Rosalie walked beside Aiden, her movements too graceful, too fluid for someone merely out on a stroll. Aiden kept pace, hands in his jacket pockets, watching her from the corner of his eye — the way she carried herself, the way her lips pressed together like she was holding back too much.
He didn't push. Not yet. But her probing earlier hadn't gone unnoticed. He knew she was trying to test him — to see if he'd talk about what he saw. About Edward. About the crash. But he wasn't ready to give her that. Not when something deeper stirred between them… something neither of them had fully named.
Then, in a blur of soft wind and sudden tension, Alice appeared.
"Alice," Rosalie snapped, irritated by the intrusion.
The pixie-like girl didn't even flinch. Her eyes were wide — glowing faintly in the dark.
"They've made their first move," she said.
Rosalie stiffened. Aiden noticed the instant change in her posture. "What do you mean?"
"There was a man. On the docks. It was brutal." Alice's voice was barely a whisper. "They left nothing but blood."
Rosalie's lips parted slightly, her jaw tight. "Do you know who they are?"
Alice shook her head. "Not yet. I saw shadows. Red eyes. One of them has a hunger... I've never felt anything like it."
Rosalie's eyes flicked to Aiden for a split second — not fear, but calculation. Like a protective instinct trying to stir beneath her polished exterior.
"We need to tell Carlisle," she said.
Aiden stepped forward, quiet but firm. "Are you being hunted?"
Alice looked at him — really looked — and her face softened for a moment. Not pity, but curiosity. Like she was starting to see the shape of him in a different light.
"We don't know," she said honestly.
Rosalie's hand brushed against Aiden's — just a faint touch — but enough to ground her. Enough to confuse him.
"Go home," she told him quietly. "And… lock your doors tonight."
Aiden didn't argue.
But as he walked away, he glanced back once.
Rosalie stood there, watching him go, her expression unreadable. Whatever mask she usually wore had cracked just a little — and underneath was a flicker of worry. Not for herself.
For him.