Forks, Washington – 1936
The Cullen Estate – West Wing, Warded Room – Midnight
Rain tapped lightly on the roof like a heartbeat, syncing with the rhythm of the forest—an ancient lullaby written by gods and left to hum beneath mortal ears. The mist outside clung to the evergreens like breath on skin. But inside the west wing, the air was electric. A cocoon. Sacred. Sealed away from prying minds and predator senses by magic so old, even Alice wouldn't get a vision past it.
The room glowed with candlelight and fire runes, golden against rich wood and silk sheets tangled like forgotten spells.
On the massive bed, tangled in shadows and each other, Daenerys lay curled into Hadrian's side, legs entangled, platinum hair cascading over his chest like moonlight spilled across obsidian.
Her skin—marble-pale, firm like velvet-wrapped steel—was cold to mortals, but here, pressed against his, it softened. They were flame and frost, venom and tears. Diamond-hard, but meltable to each other.
She traced idle patterns along his ribs with a nail, teasing. "You know," she murmured, her voice thick and drowsy with pleasure, Valyrian lilt curling at the edges, "you make a very convincing argument for eternal damnation."
Hadrian laughed, low and rough, one hand resting just above the curve of her bare ass, the other combing lazily through her tousled hair. "You say that every time."
"Because you keep improving." Her violet eyes flicked up—dark with desire, wild with joy—and narrowed in mock suspicion. "Are you practicing while I'm out hunting?"
He grinned. "Caught me. Practicing with illusions. They moan when I tell them how pretty they are, but none of them bite like you."
She bared her teeth and bit him shoulder—playfully. Barely enough to pierce. Enough to make him hiss. "That's because they're not your Khaleesi," she purred against his skin.
"Thank the gods," he said, rolling them over in a blur of movement and pinning her beneath him. Her hair splayed out like silver fire across the pillows, her breasts rising as she grinned up at him, utterly unashamed, utterly divine.
"Do you even hear yourself?" he asked, eyes glowing like emerald fire. "You talk like you're made of prophecy and porn."
She lifted a leg to wrap around his waist. "And you love it."
"I do," he whispered, dipping to kiss her throat. "Gods help me."
"Too late for gods." Her voice was a purr, her fingers trailing down his spine. "You're mine now."
"Not just yet."
He sat back on his knees, suddenly solemn. Magic shimmered around his hand like breath over glass, coalescing into a small object cradled in his palm.
The diamond caught the candlelight—cut like a flame, ensorcelled with faintly glowing runes. The band was dark and elegant, Valyrian-steel black, inscribed with enchantments only the most gifted magical artisan could forge. His fire, his soul, his promise—hammered into a ring.
"Dany." His voice was steady, but there was something raw in it. "Marry me."
The words dropped into the space between them like a meteor, silent and blazing.
Daenerys blinked, lips parting. Her chest rose, even though she didn't need air. "Did you just…?"
"I did." He held out the ring with trembling hands—only slightly. "Forged in my dragonfire. Ward runes keyed to your aura. It'll protect against mind-reading, charms, and overly aggressive Cullen opinions."
She sat up slowly, shoulders bare, silver hair falling around her face like a halo. "You made me an engagement ring... that counters Edward."
"Yes," he said with a smirk. "I take my job seriously."
Her gaze softened, and then she laughed—full and rich, head tossed back, the sound of starlight cracking through marble. "You bloody lunatic."
He leaned in, brushing his lips over her forehead. "That's not a no."
"It's a yes," she said, sliding the ring onto her finger. The runes shimmered, recognizing her touch. "But…"
He raised a brow. "But?"
"You have to ask my father."
There was a beat.
"…Carlisle?" Hadrian deadpanned.
"He's the only one who's ever treated me like a daughter instead of a dragon," she said, softly now. "He's earned the right to give me away. And you—" she poked his chest "—are going to be a gentleman and ask."
Hadrian groaned. "He's a two-hundred-plus-year-old pacifist doctor. He's terrifying."
"He's also not going to say no. But I want you to ask him anyway." She smirked. "Show me those Gryffindor balls you keep bragging about."
"You were just holding them five minutes ago," he muttered.
"I know. They're quite nice."
He leaned forward until their lips brushed. "You sure you want to marry a sarcastic British wizard with a hero complex and a habit of makiing magical artifacts?"
Her eyes darkened. "I want you, Hadrian. Every piece. Every century. Every dark corner."
Their mouths collided again, hungrier now—her fingers curling in his hair, his hand skimming down her waist. Her thighs wrapped around him like a command.
She whispered something in High Valyrian, sultry and smug. He groaned into her mouth.
"You do that on purpose."
"Obviously," she breathed. "It turns you on."
"Of course it does." He growled, flipping her beneath him again. "It's a sexier version of Parseltongue."
"Say that again," she dared.
"I'll do one better," he murmured.
And then he said something in Parseltongue that made her eyes roll back in pleasure and her nails dig into his shoulders.
The room flared with magic. The candles flickered.
Outside, the rain poured harder, as if the skies themselves had to keep up with them. Inside, the dragon and the wizard burned in their eternal storm—flame meeting flame, body to body, soul to soul.
And tomorrow? Tomorrow Hadrian James Peverell would ask Carlisle Cullen for his daughter's hand.
Assuming he could walk straight.
—
Forks, Washington – 1936
The Cullen Estate – Grand Staircase to Drawing Room – Late Morning (Vampire Standard Time)
The Cullen mansion basked in a low, silver fog that rolled off the trees like a secret waiting to be shared. Through its antique-glass windows, morning light glinted across polished mahogany, catching on crystal chandeliers and the faintest shimmer of old magic in the air.
Hadrian descended the grand staircase like he owned the entire century. Shirt half-buttoned, sleeves rolled to his elbows, collar open just enough to reveal claw marks someone had definitely enjoyed leaving. Daenerys clung to his arm in a silk robe the color of stormfire, her platinum hair a wild halo, and the smirk on her lips pure mischief.
They looked like they had just walked out of a fever dream. Or maybe into one.
Edward stood at the foot of the stairs like a living sculpture carved by moonlight—marble skin, perfectly rumpled suspenders, and the face of someone who'd read every Russian novel but still hadn't processed last night.
He blinked once. "Thank you," he said flatly. "For the wards."
Hadrian grinned, smug and unapologetic. "Rosalie and Emmett?"
Edward's jaw tightened like he was suppressing a thousand inappropriate metaphors. "Every wall in this house is load-bearing. Including my self-respect."
Daenerys arched a pale brow, stepping down the last stair with queenly grace. "Let me guess. Rosalie is… expressive."
"She sounds like she's auditioning to be the goddess of war," Edward muttered. "And Emmett thinks foreplay is wrestling a grizzly first. I swear he yelled 'WHO'S YOUR APEX PREDATOR?!' while the grandfather clock fell over."
Hadrian patted his shoulder solemnly. "Wards are now soundproof, scent-proof, and telepathy-dampened. You could detonate a howitzer and the house wouldn't flinch."
Edward's voice was dry enough to qualify as a drought. "You're a gentleman and a sorcerer."
They entered the drawing room, where old jazz crackled from a gramophone and sun dust danced in golden beams. Esme reclined elegantly on a fainting couch, sketchpad in her lap, charcoal-stained fingers flying across designs for something idyllic—a greenhouse? A ballroom? Maybe both. Carlisle sat nearby in a pinstripe three-piece suit, coat draped over his chair, reading a medical journal with the casual ease of someone who'd probably edited the article last decade.
Esme looked up first and smiled, bright as ever. "Good morning, darlings. Or is it afternoon already? I can never tell when the clocks are emotional."
Daenerys kissed her cheek. "Morning, Mama."
Esme lit up like spring. "You know I melt every time you say that."
Hadrian bowed his head respectfully toward Carlisle. "Doctor. You're looking criminally sharp this morning."
Carlisle raised an eyebrow over his wire-rimmed glasses. "You look like you emerged victorious from a vampire opera and several hours of very creative cardio."
Hadrian nodded gravely. "It was diplomatic at first. Then the robe came off."
Daenerys smacked his chest with the back of her hand, laughing. "You were begging for mercy by the time I was done, husband."
"Technically," he said, turning to her with a slow smile, "you haven't made that official yet."
Before Daenerys could question that, Rosalie and Emmett swaggered into the room like they'd just returned from conquering Rome. Rosalie's golden curls were tousled, her lipstick pristine, and the smirk she wore could've shattered mirrors. Emmett had a cocky grin, suspenders hanging off broad shoulders, and the vibe of someone who'd both started and won a bar brawl before breakfast.
"Morning," Emmett rumbled, flexing without realizing.
"Afternoon," Edward corrected grimly, arms still crossed.
Rosalie tossed her hair over her shoulder. "You're welcome."
Hadrian cleared his throat. "Actually… if I could have everyone's attention?"
The room stilled. Even the gramophone needle skipped like it knew drama was afoot.
Daenerys turned, eyes narrowing. "Hadrian…?"
He stepped forward and faced Carlisle.
"Carlisle," he began, suddenly formal. "I realize this is unconventional. We're not your typical courtship—and this isn't a world made for tradition. But Daenerys told me what you gave her: safety. Dignity. Family. A reason to believe she wasn't a monster."
Daenerys blinked. Esme reached for a handkerchief.
Hadrian pressed on. "You gave her a home when she thought she didn't deserve one. And I love her more than I have words for—gods know I've tried. So I want to do this properly. With your blessing… may I marry your daughter?"
A beat.
Carlisle leaned back, folding his hands. His gaze went colder, deeper, calculating like a god weighing souls on a golden scale.
"Have you ever loved anyone this long before?" he asked.
"No, sir."
"Ever had to restrain yourself from killing someone who hurt her?"
"Yes, sir. Frequently."
"Would you let her win an argument if she was wrong?"
"Depends," Hadrian said. "Was she hot while being wrong?"
Carlisle's brow ticked. "Do you know her worst fear?"
"That she'll be abandoned."
"Her greatest strength?"
"She walks through fire and smiles at the ashes."
"Her most dangerous trait?"
"She trusts broken people. Like me."
Carlisle paused. Then turned to Esme. "Thoughts, darling?"
Esme dabbed her eyes, smiling softly. "He's already family. And he knows who she is without ever trying to tame her. That's enough."
Carlisle nodded, then extended a hand. "You have my blessing, Hadrian. Try not to burn the house down in celebration."
Hadrian didn't waste a second.
He turned to Daenerys, dropped to one knee—because of course he did—and produced a ring wrapped in runes, carved obsidian, and warm glowing phoenixfire. The kind of ring no mortal flame could create.
"Daenerys Stormborn Targaryen, First of Her Name—Khaleesi of my heart, Empress of my chaos, destroyer of my shirts—will you marry me?"
Daenerys gasped, hands to her mouth. Then dropped them with a laugh that practically rang the chandeliers.
"You ridiculous man," she whispered, grabbing him by the lapels. "You're lucky I like the way you look on your knees."
"I'm hoping you like me better on yours," he muttered just loud enough for her to hear.
She kissed him—slow, passionate, and electric enough to make Edward groan and glance away like a priest forced to watch a burlesque.
"Yes," Daenerys whispered between kisses. "Yes, again. Always."
Rosalie clapped like it was a Broadway finale. Emmett fist-pumped. Esme dabbed her eyes harder.
Edward muttered, "Please, I beg you both—no sex on the stairs."
Daenerys held up her hand, sunlight catching the runes of the ring. "Look at this beauty. My fiancé made it for me with dragonfire. Beat that, Tiffany's."
Emmett leaned toward Edward. "Ten bucks says she says 'fiancé' every five seconds."
Edward sighed. "You underestimate her. Try every three."
"Fiancé," Daenerys cooed again, holding Hadrian's face in both hands. "Did I mention he's my fiancé?"
"Gods help us all," Edward muttered.
Hadrian grinned against her palm. "I'll need a best man. You up for it, brooding?"
Edward's lips twitched into the smallest smile. "Only if you promise not to write vows in Valyrian."
"No promises."
"Then I expect an open bar."
And in that golden moment, the Cullen manor—usually a monument to restraint, marble, and immortality—felt like a home.
—
Moments Later
Daenerys Targaryen had not shut up about being engaged.
Not that anyone wanted her to.
"My fiancé made this ring from dragonfire," she purred, sprawled like a starlet on Esme's deco fainting couch, letting the diamond-sized flame on her finger catch the afternoon light. "My fiancé lifts cursed swords and imperial burdens before breakfast. My fiancé smells like sandalwood, smoke, and—"
"—war crimes," Rosalie supplied, lounging like Grace Kelly with a hangover and no regrets.
Daenerys pointed dramatically. "Exactly."
Across the room, Emmett made exaggerated gagging noises from behind a vintage copy of Hercules Unchained.
"Don't be jealous," Rosalie said without looking at him, inspecting her nails like they'd insulted her lineage. "Some of us are born to be legendary, others are born to carry the trunks."
"You love me," Emmett shot back.
"I tolerate you," she replied sweetly. "Like I tolerate prohibition. And the French."
Esme Cullen swept in like a Vogue editorial with a heartbeat. Pencil skirt, red lipstick, and enough bridal magazines under one arm to put Macy's out of business.
"All right, you glamorous little demons," she declared. "This wedding is happening. Gatsby is dead, Cleopatra's out of budget, but we are going to resurrect them both for this event."
Daenerys sat up straighter, eyes alight like stormclouds with ambition issues. "Esme. I want obsidian. Crowns, not veils. Black orchids. Silk that shimmers like dragonfire. I want a train so long it makes history apologize."
Esme didn't flinch. "Done."
Rosalie tilted her head. "What's the vibe, your Grace? Femme fatale? Silver screen sorceress? War goddess in love?"
Daenerys turned slowly, her smile something that should've come with a warning label.
"All. Of. The. Above."
"Oh, yes," Rosalie breathed, standing like she'd just been knighted. "She gets it."
The Solarium – Moments Later
Sunlight poured through the glass like golden syrup, glinting off marble and a hundred decades of bridal ambition. Esme opened a hidden drawer and revealed—
"What in the Roosevelt?" Rosalie muttered.
It was a trove: pre-war silk samples, embroidered swatches from Vienna, sketches from a lost royal wedding involving at least one vampire and a scandal in Monaco.
Daenerys ran her fingers over a piece of silk the color of midnight secrets. "This feels like betrayal and a promise in the same breath. I want it."
"We'll call it Moonlit Smoke," Esme said, already scribbling. "Bias cut, open back, sharp collar. Something that says I might kiss you or kill you at the altar—"
"—Depending on your vows," Dany finished. "Perfect."
From behind a potted palm, Rosalie shouted, "Also! There will be a blood fountain."
Esme, calmly: "Antique gold trim?"
"Obsidian base," Daenerys added. "Minimalist murder."
Back in the Drawing Room…
Hadrian—tall, sun-kissed, and entirely too good-looking for the decade—was locked in a staring match with a black bowtie. Edward was opposite him, sipping something dark and judgmental from a tumbler.
"I'm not wearing a noose to my own wedding," Hadrian said, frowning down at the tie like it had insulted his mother.
"It's 1936," Edward replied dryly. "You either wear the tie, or you look like a man who sells vacuum cleaners door-to-door."
"I am the storm," Hadrian growled, turning dramatically. "I wear fire, leather, and love like armor. I'm not strangling myself for fashion."
Carlisle, lounging in a wingback with a leather-bound edition of Byron's Collected Works, didn't even look up. "I wore a cravat while operating on a man who'd been shot by Al Capone. You'll survive a bowtie."
Emmett, arms behind his head, smirked. "So what's the plan, Romeo? Daylight wedding? Twilight? Full moon Gothic rave with demon jazz and champagne corpses?"
Hadrian grinned like he'd just won a war. "Dusk. Magic hour. That breathless moment when the world forgets what it's supposed to be."
Edward blinked. "That was… poetic. I hate it."
"I'm writing it into the vows."
"Oh please," Edward muttered. "Just elope and spare us all the drama and glitter."
Back in the Solarium…
"I want dancing," Daenerys said, standing on the marble with the poise of a crowned serpent. "Jazz. Charleston. Swing so wild it resurrects flappers from the grave. I want a saxophone solo that could start a war."
Rosalie, lighting a cigarette like a 1930s villainess with too much eyeliner: "You want me to throw a table?"
Daenerys beamed. "I demand it."
"Bless this bride," Rosalie said with the reverence of a pirate discovering gold.
They turned as Hadrian entered the solarium, sun gilding his frame, dark hair tousled like it had just been through a fight or a really good kiss. Daenerys's face softened instantly. She crossed to him like a queen crossing a battlefield, hands slipping around his waist.
"Bowtie?" she asked, breath brushing his collarbone.
"Nope," he whispered against her lips. "Might wear dragonhide and defiance."
"Mmm," she purred, leaning in, "and if I ask nicely?"
"You'll have to convince me," he murmured, eyes locked on hers.
"Oh gods," Rosalie groaned. "Stop. You two are the reason we had to burn the last chaise lounge."
"I regret nothing," Dany replied, not breaking eye contact.
"Except maybe the velvet," Hadrian added with a crooked smile.
Esme, scribbling notes: "We're doing a second dress for the reception. Something more lethal. Maybe something with feathers."
Edward appeared in the doorway like the ghost of sarcasm. "Just tell me where to stand and how much blood to bring for the fountain."
Rosalie perked up. "Ooh! Can it pour from a gargoyle's mouth?"
"Classy," Daenerys approved.
Edward blinked. "I was joking."
Daenerys turned, all smirk and menace. "I wasn't."
Esme smiled beatifically. "We'll make it tasteful. Maybe with antique gold and a hint of necromancy."
Edward left, muttering, "I hate everyone here except the saxophone player."
"Love you too, Sparkle Prince!" Emmett called cheerfully.
"Vampires," Rosalie sighed, flicking ash into a mother-of-pearl tray. "We're a walking wedding disaster."
"And yet," Daenerys said, her eyes on Hadrian, "we're about to make history."
She kissed her fiancé—gods, she loved that word—right in front of everyone.
And none of them dared look away.
—
The fading sun sliced the sky like a sharp dagger, spilling molten gold and blood-red fire across the edges of the conservatory. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of jasmine, aged wood, and something far more dangerous: an unspoken tension between two souls orbiting each other, desperate not to collide.
Daenerys stood near the window, a slow smile playing on her lips, those sharp green eyes sparkling like emerald fire. Draped in a vintage silk dress that clung to her like it was painted on, she traced delicate circles on Hadrian's chest with a finger, her voice low and teasing.
"Do you really have to make those brooding faces every time I turn around? I'm trying to appreciate the sunset here, not audition for Gotham Noir."
Hadrian's dark eyes softened, but his jaw clenched in that signature way—equal parts frustration and something unspoken, like a storm waiting to break. "Someone has to keep the brooding alive. Besides, it's not like you make it easy to stay focused." He slid his hand up hers, fingers curling like vines around hers. "You're a distraction I'm not willing to fight."
Daenerys laughed—a soft, throaty sound that filled the room with warmth and just a touch of mischief. "I am a distraction. And I plan to be your permanent one."
Before Hadrian could reply, the grand doors burst open, heralded by a clap of thunder that was very much Emmett Cullen in all his jacked glory. He filled the doorway like the punchline to a bad joke wrapped in a suit too tight to contain his ego.
"Alright, you lovebirds," he boomed, voice ricocheting off the glass and mahogany. "Time for some real talk."
Edward stirred on the chaise longue, eyes half-lidded with that familiar brooding disdain Robert Pattinson perfected. "If you say 'strippers,' I swear I'll shove this damn jazz record into your eye socket." He brandished a 78 RPM, looking dangerously unamused.
Rosalie, perched like a deadly queen on the armrest, polished a stiletto heel with surgical precision. "If he says 'strippers,' I'll bottle his balls and display them in the parlor." Her tone was ice and fire, perfectly Sophie Turner—equal parts fierce and regal.
Emmett grinned, that perfect Noah Centineo grin stretched wide. "Please. I'm no amateur." He threw his hands up dramatically, chest puffed like he was auditioning for The Great Gatsby. "Okay, okay—I admit I used to be dumb enough for that. But this is 1936, gentlemen. We've evolved."
Edward raised a skeptical brow. "Evolved how? You learned to conjugate verbs without getting distracted?"
Rosalie smirked, "We're all so proud."
Emmett cleared his throat and strode toward the study, flinging the sliding doors open like a man revealing the Crown Jewels. "Gentlemen—and ladies—we're here to plan Hadrian's bachelor party."
Hadrian turned, the hint of a smile teasing his lips like he was ready for anything—except what came next. "I'm listening."
"Forget booze," Emmett said, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Forget burlesque. Forget whatever grotesque human 'fun' involves before you voluntarily shack—"
"That's marriage, Emmett," Edward deadpanned.
Emmett shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. "Exactly. So why start the hangover now? No. We hunt."
Hadrian blinked slowly. "Hunt what?"
"Grizzlies."
Edward rolled his eyes so hard it might've caused a minor earthquake. "Not this nonsense again."
Emmett's grin twisted into something feral. "Tennessee, 1933. You remember what that bear did to me."
Edward took a slow sip of his scotch, eyes never leaving Emmett's face. "It was a bear, Emmett. Doing bear things. Like ripping your limbs off."
Emmett growled. "It laughed at me. You weren't there. Didn't see the malice in those beady eyes. Didn't hear the snort after it tossed me into a pine like I was a ragdoll."
Edward deadpanned, "I was there second time around. I distinctly remember telling you not to body slam a three-ton apex predator."
Emmett held up his hands. "I was wrestling it into a cradle pin. For the culture."
Rosalie finally lifted her gaze, those sharp eyes narrowing to knives. "You're lucky you weren't turned into a decorative rug. Again."
"I still have the scars—"
"You're undead," Edward cut in, voice thick with mockery. "You literally don't."
Hadrian raised a hand, stepping closer to Daenerys, who watched with amused curiosity. "So this hunt... are we turning it into a tradition?"
Emmett's grin blossomed like a wolf spotting fresh prey. "Oh, we will. You, me, Edward, Carlisle—midnight in the Olympic forest. Bear country. Fresh air, roaring testosterone. Possibly a grudge match."
"Definitely a grudge match," Edward muttered.
Rosalie stretched languidly across the settee, channeling that perfect blend of disdain and lethal charm. She tapped the heel of her stiletto on the floor and said, "I vote we make it a family affair."
Emmett blinked, dumbfounded. "You... what?"
"I'm not letting you idiots get mauled again," Rosalie said, voice soft but deadly. "And I want to see if that bear had descendants. I've been practicing some new moves."
Edward folded his arms, eyebrows knitting together. "This is either going to be a massacre or a nature documentary narrated by a lunatic."
Rosalie grinned sweetly. "I'll bring the camera."
From the shadows, Esmé glided forward like a vision in silk and deep red lipstick—Bitsie Tulloch's warmth and grace embodied. "As long as the tuxedos survive, and nobody gets dismembered before the reception, I'm fine with it. Just… no blood on the invitations, please."
Emmett's grin turned mischievous, cocky, and borderline dangerous. "Gentlemen—and murder brides—we ride at midnight."
"Correction," Rosalie said, leaning into Hadrian with a playful smirk. "We stalk. In heels. Through bear-infested woods. Because this," she tapped her chest, "is how we express love."
Hadrian's smile curled like smoke, fingers tightening around Daenerys's waist. "Can I bring a sword?"
Edward groaned into his glass. "You're all insane."
Daenerys's voice dropped an octave, husky with promise as she slid her fingers through Hadrian's hair. "We're engaged, darling. Insanity is mandatory."
Later, as Forks bled into night and the moon rose like a silver omen, a very different kind of bachelor party began.
No bourbon. No jazz clubs. No drunken debauchery. Just six immortal lunatics, impeccably dressed, stalking through the Olympic forest like they were on a bridal registry bloodsport.
And somewhere deep in the shadowed pines, a grizzly stirred, eyes glinting with ancient fury.
Revenge was coming.
—
The Quileute Reservation
The scent was wrong.
It rolled in like stormclouds off the water—sour, sweet, and sharp with a metallic tang that made the fur rise along Ephraim Black's spine.
"We've got leeches," Levi Uley growled, his teeth already shifting, claws half-formed.
Quil Ateara II didn't speak. He didn't need to. The look in his amber eyes said enough. He could feel the tremor in the earth, the disruption in the natural rhythm of their land. This wasn't one or two Cold Ones passing through.
It was a coven. And it was large.
The transformation was swift and violent—muscle tearing, bone reshaping, fur ripping through skin—and then the wolves were bounding through the dense Pacific woodland, all rage and purpose, running like thunder given shape.
They found them near the river bend, standing in a loose formation too poised to be anything but deliberate. Six of them. Tall, motionless, otherworldly. Pale as ghosts and still as statues.
Ephraim felt Levi and Quil tense beside him. Quil—the youngest of the wolves—was crouched, ready to leap. His growl was already vibrating the moss-covered stones.
Then Ephraim saw their eyes.
Not red. Not red.
The vampires' eyes were gold. Five of them, at least. But two stood out: the tallest male, dark-haired and built like a demigod, had eyes the deep shade of a forest in midsummer—green, unnatural and vivid. And in his arms, like a goddess being protected, stood a woman with long pale hair, eyes like crushed amethyst and a smirk that was anything but afraid.
"Wait." Ephraim's Alpha voice cracked through the clearing like a whip. It wasn't a suggestion—it was law. Levi and Quil froze mid-lunge, claws digging into the earth.
With a low grunt and a shimmer of shifting bone, Ephraim returned to human form, tall and proud even in his nakedness, though he casually held out a hand to keep the vampires' female members turned respectfully away.
The green-eyed vampire took a step forward, pulling the violet-eyed one slightly behind him in a gesture that was more instinct than thought. Protective. Intimate.
"We don't want trouble," the green-eyed one said calmly, his voice warm like summer lightning. "We didn't come to hunt your kind. Or any humans."
Ephraim's eyes narrowed. "Then what did you come for, bloodsucker?"
The vampire smiled—wry and tired, like he'd had this conversation too many times in too many centuries. "We feed only on animals. No human blood. That's why our eyes aren't red."
"And the green?" Ephraim asked, his gaze sharp. "And the purple?"
The vampire hesitated, then nodded toward the woman by his side. "We were born with abilities. She and I... they're different. The blood that changed us reacted to what was already inside. It colored more than just our powers."
Ephraim tilted his head slightly, watching them. Their stance wasn't hostile. Defensive, yes. But not aggressive. The others behind them didn't flinch, didn't snarl, didn't even blink. It was unnatural. It was... impressive.
"I'm Ephraim Black," he said finally, voice clipped but not unkind. "Alpha of the Quileute pack. This land is sacred. Ours. If you cross into it again without permission, there will be blood."
The green-eyed one nodded solemnly. "Understood. My name is Hadrian. This is Daenerys."
The name rolled off his tongue like silk and storm. The woman inclined her head slowly, a gesture regal and faintly amused, like she was very used to men looking at her and expecting her to be afraid. She wasn't.
"We ask only to hunt the forest," Hadrian continued. "Your land is off-limits—we'll honor that. But if you allow us to stay on the fringes, hunt only the wild game... we'll make no waves."
Ephraim frowned. "I'll speak to the elders. I can't promise you permanence. Not yet. But—"
"But you won't attack us now," Daenerys finished smoothly, her voice like crushed velvet. "A wise choice, wolf."
Ephraim looked at her long and hard. She didn't back down. She met his stare like a queen would a rival monarch—bold, untamed, and strangely respectful.
He exhaled slowly. "If you harm a human, if you even bite one—our truce is void. You'll be hunted. And there won't be a second warning."
"Fair," Hadrian said. "We don't want your people hurt. We're not here to rule. We're here to hide."
A silence stretched between them.
Finally, Ephraim nodded. "You can stay. For now." He turned to shift, pausing only once. "But I'm warning you, Hadrian—if you're lying, I'll know. And I won't be holding back next time."
The air shimmered as he became the great wolf again, and in the blink of an eye, he and the others disappeared into the trees.
Daenerys raised a brow. "They don't trust easily."
"Neither do I," Hadrian murmured, pulling her closer. "But they'll learn."
She smirked, curling her fingers around his collar. "If they don't, we burn them to the ground?"
He chuckled darkly. "Let's not start a supernatural race war on my engagement weekend, love."
"Fine," she said, resting her head against his chest. "But only because I haven't tried on my dress yet."
Behind them, the rest of the Cullen family emerged from the trees, silent and watchful.
Carlisle finally spoke, voice soft and level. "Well handled."
Hadrian didn't look back. "I wasn't trying to handle it. I was trying to avoid the first massacre of the twentieth century."
Rosalie muttered, "Says the man who almost brought a broadsword to a bachelor party."
"Correction," Daenerys said sweetly. "I brought the broadsword. He brought the moral ambiguity."
Esme smiled gently. "It's going to be an interesting stay."
"Interesting?" Edward muttered, eyes sweeping the trees. "Try apocalyptic."
"Just another day," Emmett said with a grin. "I call dibs on the big one if they come back pissed."
---
Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!
I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!
If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!
Click the link below to join the conversation:
https://discord.com/invite/HHHwRsB6wd
Can't wait to see you there!
If you appreciate my work and want to support me, consider buying me a cup of coffee. Your support helps me keep writing and bringing more stories to you. You can do so via PayPal here:
https://www.paypal.me/VikrantUtekar007
Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:
https://www.buymeacoffee.com/vikired001s
Thank you for your support!