(Edythe POV)
Thomas ate with the kind of focus only humans possessed, every motion warm and alive.
I enjoyed watching him—but tonight, I needed a moment alone.
There were things he couldn't be part of.
Not yet.
"I'm going to step into the living room for a moment," I told him lightly.
He looked up mid-bite, brow lifting. "Everything okay?"
"Perfectly."
I brushed my fingers over his shoulder as I passed. "Eat. I'll be right back."
He nodded and returned to his plate, unaware of the storm gathering at the edges of our future.
I crossed into the living room, switched on the side lamp, and sat where I could still hear his heartbeat but not the precise rhythm of his breathing. His presence steadied me—but this part needed clarity.
On the small table by the sofa sat a relic of human habit:
a Forks phone book.
I lifted it with a soft huff of amusement.
Thomas had panicked trying to reach Leah last week, ending up going through Sam out of desperation—and never once thought to look in here.
A century of practice had taught me the usefulness of the mundane.
I flipped to the Cs.
Clearwater, Harry & Sue
The number and address sat cleanly beneath the name.
I dialed.
Confident Thomas wouldn't try to listen in, even if he could have heard from the kitchen.
The phone rang twice.
"Clearwater residence," a young male voice answered, cheerful and suspicious all at once.
"Hello," I said gently. "This is Edythe Cullen. May I speak with Leah, please?"
There was a sharp inhale. "Uh—yeah. Hang on."
He did not cover the receiver.
"LEAH! PHONE! IT'S—UH—A CULLEN!"
I winced. Of course.
Leah's voice came next, distant but unmistakable.
"Which one?"
"A girl one," Seth whispered loudly.
Footsteps followed. Irritated ones.
Then—
"What do you want?" Leah asked, clipped and defensive.
"Hello, Leah. This is Edythe," I said evenly. "I'd like to speak with you. In person. Tomorrow. Neutral ground."
Silence buzzed through the line.
I continued, calmly, "Thomas's Rock. Seven a.m."
More silence. Longer this time.
Then—
"…Fine," she said.
And she hung up.
I lowered the phone gently back into its cradle.
A conversation set.
A storm coming.
A thread inside me tugging in ways I wasn't ready to define.
Break
Thomas woke at his usual time.
I loved watching him sleep, loved the trust in it. The way he allowed himself to exist in such a helpless state beside me without fear. Humans were so fragile when they slept, and yet he never once hesitated to rest within reach of my hands.
His breathing shifted first, the subtle change that told me he was surfacing. Then his eyes opened, and he sat up, stretching his arms wide as he yawned.
"Good morning, my love," I said, smiling.
He turned toward me with a sleepy grin and leaned in automatically... then stopped himself short. I couldn't help the soft smile that followed. He was remembering our agreement: no kisses before brushing his teeth.
Morning breath, to my senses, was more than a little abhorrent. I had tolerated it in the beginning, but after some gentle advice from Esme, I had finally confessed the issue to him. He'd taken it in stride, like everything else I asked of him.
He stood and stretched again, working the stiffness from sleeping in one position all night.
"Give me a few moments, love."
He disappeared into the bathroom, beginning his morning routine. When he returned, he came straight to me and pressed the kiss I'd been waiting for to my lips.
It had become a habit, a necessary one for me. The day felt off if I didn't get that kiss.
The day's intent was already written into him. Training. Movement. Impact. Emmett and Jasper would be waiting, and Thomas's body knew it. I watched him dress, struck again by how deeply these small, ordinary moments mattered to me now.
I moved into the kitchen and prepared eggs for him, another morning ritual I savored. Once he'd finished eating and turned for the door, I called after him.
"Go easy on the clearing," I said lightly. "Last time I was there, it looked like a hurricane had gone through. Trees everywhere with Emmett size chunks missing from them."
He smiled over his shoulder. "No promises."
Then he was gone.
Now it was my turn.
And I suspected my morning would be no less demanding.
Thomas's Rock lay waiting, patient as stone always was. I dressed with care, neutral, unassuming, nothing that suggested spectacle or dominance. If Leah Clearwater arrived already braced for confrontation, I would not give her further reason.
As I moved through the forest, I let my thoughts sharpen.
I wasn't there to apologize.
Nor to explain.
Nor to defend my choices.
I was there because Thomas cared.
And because, unexpectedly… so did I.
Leah's face returned to me unbidden, not as she presented herself to the world, all edges and fury, but as she had been in that unguarded moment I had touched by accident. The thought that had cracked through her mind, raw and aching.
Please. Just once. Let something be mine.
The want in it had startled me.
Not because I understood it completely.
But because I understood it enough.
I stepped into the clearing early, resting my hand against the familiar stone. The forest hummed quietly around me, aware but uninterested.
I waited.
I sensed her before I saw her.
The forest shifted, not in sound, but in attention. Birds stilled. Small animals fled without panic, simply choosing distance. The ground itself seemed to brace.
Leah Clearwater did not arrive quietly.
Gray fur slipped between the trees like smoke given muscle, paws placing themselves with deliberate care on the moss and stone. She stayed just inside the tree line, broad shoulders squared, head low, eyes fixed on me with the unblinking intensity of a predator that did not trust what it was facing. She had already made a circle around me to ensure I was alone, and this wasn't some ambush. But she still tested the air with her nose.
She was beautiful like this, not in the fragile way humans admired, but in something older. Purpose-built. Dangerous.
And wary.
I did not move.
I kept my hands visible. Empty. Resting lightly against the stone at my back. I did not sit. I did not advance. Neutral ground meant neutral posture.
"You don't have to stay shifted," I said calmly into the quiet.
Her lips peeled back, just enough to show teeth.
The thought hit me a heartbeat later, sharp and defensive.
{"I'm not giving you my throat."}
There it was.
I inclined my head slightly. "I'm not asking for it."
Her ears twitched. The wolf's body stilled, not relaxing, but recalibrating.
I continued, keeping my voice even. "You came because you wanted control of the situation. Staying in this form gives you that. I understand."
Her eyes narrowed.
{"You don't understand anything about me.'}
"I understand more than you think," I replied gently.
The forest seemed to hold its breath.
Her thoughts spiked then, instinctive, reflexive.
{"Don't—"}
"I can hear you," I said softly. "Your thoughts. As clearly as if you were speaking."
That did it.
She recoiled half a step, muscles coiling tight beneath her fur, a low sound rumbling in her chest. Rage. Fear. Violation, all tangled together.
{"You shouldn't be able to..."}
"I know," I said quickly, before that fury could tip into action. "And I'm not here to exploit it. I didn't ask for this ability. But it exists. Which means you don't need to force yourself into a human body to speak with me."
Her mind lashed out, sharp and jagged.
{"Then stop listening."}
I met her gaze steadily. "I will, if you want me to. But right now, you're broadcasting because you're angry. And because you're afraid."
That struck something.
Her breathing slowed. Just a fraction.
I took that opening, not pushing, not retreating.
"I asked to meet you here because this place matters to Thomas," I said. "And because it is neutral. No pack. No coven. No audience."
Her thoughts churned, suspicion layered over resentment.
{"You're here because of him."}
"Yes," I said. "But not only because of him."
That earned me a sharp, incredulous flash of thought.
{"Don't lie to me."}
"I'm not," I answered. "If I were, you'd already know."
She went still again. Completely this time.
The wolf's head tilted slightly, not submission, but reassessment.
I let the silence stretch. Let her decide.
Finally, the thought came, quieter, edged with bitter humor.
{"So what? You came to tell me to stay away? To remind me he's yours now?"}
I felt the weight of that assumption. The ache behind it.
"No," I said simply. "I came to make sure you didn't hear it from someone else first."
That stopped her cold.
Her thoughts flickered, confusion breaking through the hostility.
{"Hear what."}
I held her gaze, steady and unflinching.
"I'm engaged to Thomas." I held up my left hand showing the ring Thomas had placed there.
The impact was immediate.
Her mind went white-hot, then abruptly, devastatingly empty, like something had been knocked loose inside her and hadn't landed yet.
Her body didn't move.
But her thoughts shattered.
{"Of course you are."}
I did not interrupt. Did not soften it. Did not apologize.
"I didn't come here to ask for your blessing," I continued quietly. "And I didn't come to demand anything of you. I came because I respect you enough to say it to your face. Or to your mind."
Her breath came faster now, the wolf's chest rising and falling.
{"You think that makes this better."}
"No," I said honestly. "I think it makes it honest."
Silence pressed in around us again.
Then, beneath the anger, beneath the grief, something else surfaced.
{"Does he know you're here."}
"No."
That answer landed harder than any admission could have.
Leah's thoughts flared, sharp, chaotic, and wounded.
{"You came out here without telling him."}
"Yes," I said calmly. "Because this conversation isn't about what Thomas wants."
Her head lifted a fraction, eyes narrowing further.
{"You don't get to decide that."}
"I'm not deciding anything for you," I replied. "I'm deciding what kind of person I intend to be."
The wolf's claws sank slightly into the earth, tearing moss. Anger surged, but beneath it, confusion. She hadn't expected this angle. Hadn't expected me to withhold Thomas rather than wield him.
{"Then why are you here?"} she demanded. {"Really."}
I rested my palm against the stone behind me, grounding myself in its solidity.
"Because I know what it's like," I said quietly, "to stand at the edge of someone else's happiness and realize there's no place for you in it. To feel like the world rearranged itself without asking your permission."
Her thoughts jolted.
That—that—was too close.
"I won't pretend to understand your pain completely," I continued. "But I recognize the shape of it. And I won't let you be blindsided by something that will hurt you more if it comes from anyone else."
The forest remained unnaturally still.
Then, raw and unguarded, the thought slipped through before she could stop it:
{"He was never mine to lose."}
I didn't respond immediately. Let that truth breathe between us.
"No," I said at last. "And I am not sure you have lost him. What do you know about Tigers and their mating habits?"