La Push – Night
The fire spat sparks, sending tiny stars into the ink-black sky, the only light flickering over the weathered faces circled tight around the pit. The smell of pine smoke mixed with damp earth and salt from the nearby ocean, carrying the weight of centuries.
Ephraim Black sat tall and still, like a carved statue of the mountains themselves—unyielding, cold, and fierce. His eyes, dark as river stones and deep as old wounds, never left Chief Clearwater.
The elder's voice was low, but heavy, the kind of slow deliberate drawl that carries the authority of a man who's seen too many winters.
"The Cold Ones have come to our doorstep," Clearwater said, voice steady as the tide. "Not as hunters. No... They come like exiles, like ghosts seeking shelter. Refugees, maybe."
Levi Uley's jaw tightened so hard it looked like he might snap his own teeth. "Refugees don't move in packs, seven strong, eyes burning like hellfire, skin cold as grave markers." He spat on the ground. "No. They're predators. Always have been."
Quil Ateara II shifted uneasily. Not quite a man yet, but his words carried the weight of someone who'd lost more than most his age. "They're... different. Not like the stories, or the ones who came before. There's something in their blood—something old and dangerous. Power not meant for this world."
Chief Clearwater's gaze snapped to Ephraim, piercing and sharp. "You stood face to face with them. Did they speak truth? Or lies dressed in silver tongues? Are our people safe—for now?"
Ephraim's jaw clenched, his voice low, cutting through the crackle of fire. "Truth is a fragile thing, Chief. Like ice on the river come spring—one wrong step and it breaks clean through." He locked eyes with the others, voice hardening. "They don't want us dead. Not yet. But peace? This truce? It's a thin thread stretched tight over a canyon. One false move—" He let the threat hang in the cold air.
Levi let out a harsh laugh, bitter and grim. "If they're here to stay, we'll watch them. Every breath. Hunger or no hunger, their thirst runs deeper than any river." His eyes glinted, claws flexing beneath the table of rough bark.
Tane, the oldest elder, voice cracked with age but sharp with conviction, nodded. "The land remembers. So do we. Our ancestors fought to keep balance. If these Cold Ones disrespect that balance—if they spill our blood or desecrate our homes—they'll find no mercy. Only the wolf's teeth."
Quil's father, broad-shouldered and scarred from a lifetime of battles, grunted in agreement from the shadowed edge of the firelight. "We're not pawns. Not in some cold war between shadows. The Quileute answer only to this land—and to each other."
Ephraim's voice rose, steady and unyielding like the cliffs that guard the shore. "We offer peace because we have to. Because this land is sacred, and it demands respect. But don't mistake our mercy for weakness. The Quileute will never bow. Not now. Not ever."
Chief Clearwater's eyes softened for a moment, pride mingling with worry. "We watch, and we wait. The elders will meet in secret. What must be done—will be done. For the safety of our people and the land that binds us."
The fire hissed, sending embers skyward like silent prayers to old spirits.
Ephraim stared past the glow, toward the dark tree line beyond the village, knowing—feeling—their eyes were still on him. Watching. Waiting.
"Let them come," he said, voice low but fierce. "The wolves are ready."
Levi smirked, shaking his head. "If this ends in blood, I hope it's theirs."
Quil snorted softly, younger but already carrying the weight of many winters. "Yeah, well... if they think they can out-run the wolf pack, they haven't met us yet."
Ephraim's eyes flickered with dry humor, just the ghost of a smile. "And if that fails, Levi?"
Levi's grin was savage, teeth gleaming in the firelight. "Then we remind them who's hunting who."
A ripple of quiet laughter drifted around the circle.
Chief Clearwater's gaze swept over the men and boy gathered there. "Tomorrow, we begin the watch. Keep your senses sharp. The land breathes, and so do the wolves. The Cold Ones forget that at their peril."
Ephraim rose, the weight of leadership pressing on his broad shoulders like the mountain winds. "Let the night come. We are the guardians. This is Quileute land. And it will never be theirs."
The circle broke, each man turning toward the shadows—ready, vigilant, unyielding.
—
CULLEN HOUSE – FORKS, WASHINGTON THREE DAYS LATER.
The sun, weak and bashful behind the Washington mist, poured milk-white light over the Cullen estate. It stood aloof among towering pines like some transplanted European manor—elegant, untouched by time, and completely inappropriate for a logging town. Which, naturally, made it perfect.
Inside? A full-scale supernatural circus.
"Edward, left. No, my left!" Esme called out, a velvet swatch in one hand and a clipboard in the other, her rich cherry-red lipstick perfectly matching the crimson satin she was trying to coordinate with the floral arrangements. Her tone was clipped, but her golden eyes sparkled with something dangerously close to glee.
Edward, tall and visibly tortured, sighed as he adjusted the altar-table for the fifth time. "It's a slab of wood, not the Sistine Chapel."
"It's the altar, darling," Rosalie corrected as she swept in like a queen on a warpath. Her silk robe trailed behind her, hair pinned with surgical precision, heels clicking like gunshots. "And unless you want Daenerys entering matrimonial immortality next to a crooked podium, shut up and shift."
"Someone's a little high-strung," Emmett muttered, holding a literal marble pedestal in one hand like a dumbbell. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing biceps that could crack a car. "I haven't seen Rosalie this wired since the peony disaster of '29."
"They brought barnyard sneeze-flowers to a moonlit funeral affair!" Rosalie snarled.
"I think the florist still has nightmares," Esme murmured to Carlisle, who entered the hall bearing half the wardrobe department from the Savoy Hotel—garment bags in both arms, hatboxes stacked with surgeon's precision.
Carlisle, tall and regal with the air of an immortal who'd been to Versailles and found it tacky, gave a patient smile. "The tailor fainted when Rosalie demanded a hand-embroidered dragon across Hadrian's lapel."
"She demanded?" Emmett barked a laugh. "I thought Dany was the one obsessed with branding."
Edward, adjusting his cuffs, sighed. "Her exact words were: 'We are fire made flesh, Harry. If our clothes don't shimmer like dragon scale and threat, what even is the point of unholy matrimony?'"
"She's poetic," Tanya drawled, appearing at the top of the grand staircase. The blonde bombshell leaned against the bannister, russet curls tumbling over one bare shoulder. She wore satin like it had personally offended her, and a smile like she was here to devour someone—preferably Edward.
Edward tensed. Tanya, naturally, caught the shift in his posture and pounced. Psychically.
Her thoughts, rich with scandal and thoroughly unfit for mixed company, came barrelling into his head. Images of lace, a chaise lounge, and an antique riding crop danced before his eyes.
Edward choked on his own breath.
Emmett howled. "Got him again! That's what, five today?"
"Six," Tanya corrected sweetly, descending like sin on stilettos.
"Could you not?" Edward muttered, tugging at his collar.
"Oh come now, darling. It's the 1930s. If you're not scandalized before noon, are you even trying?"
Rosalie gave her a withering once-over. "You're about as subtle as a jazz saxophone in a cathedral."
"Why thank you."
Downstairs, the sewing room buzzed with motion. Carmen stood like a priestess over the bridal gown: a velvet-and-silk tempest of black and blood-red. Dragons curled along the hem, embroidered with thread that was enchanted by Hadrian to shimmer with the illusion of fire.
"This will be the dress of a queen," Carmen whispered, fingers reverent on the bodice.
"It's a beast," Irina muttered. "I've bent four needles already."
"And had Hadrian enchant the fifth," Kate added, pinning with inhuman speed. "Worth it. The cleavage alone could start a war."
"She wants to look like power incarnate," Rosalie said, sweeping in to adjust the bust. "And nothing says power like a corset you can weaponize."
Carlisle entered, dropping the wardrobe on the table like a gift from Olympus. "Delivery complete."
The suits gleamed: black wool with crimson thread and scale-etched cuffs. The dresses were obsidian and gold, as if they were spun from the last rays of a dying star.
"Carlisle, you magnificent bastard," Kate breathed.
He smiled. "Just a messenger. Esme did the sketches. I merely bribed the tailor with praise."
"And this?" Rosalie asked, opening a velvet box.
Inside lay a crown wrought from starlight and blood—silver dragons curling around a ruby core. It hummed. Daenerys would love it.
Or set something on fire over it.
Out the window, shadows stirred. The wolves were still watching.
Emmett squinted. "Levi out there again? That guy growls like he wants to punch my face off. I kinda like him."
"Ephraim gave us peace," Carlisle said softly. "That's rare. Honor it."
Edward, trying and failing to ignore Tanya lounging in a silk robe and reading Lady Chatterley's Lover aloud telepathically, snapped, "For the love of all that is unholy, stop."
"I'm helping you explore your repressed urges," she said with a wink.
"You're going to give him an aneurysm," Emmett muttered.
Then everything paused.
Daenerys descended the staircase.
She wasn't fully dressed—just the blood-silk corset and the train, trailing like liquid rubies behind her. Her platinum curls were pinned with dragon-shaped clasps. Her lips, the color of fresh-pressed roses, curved in a knowing smirk.
"I believe," she purred, "I was promised fire and blood."
Edward, dry as a cinder, muttered, "You're getting roses and violinists."
"And cake," Esme offered helpfully.
Hadrian appeared behind her, taller and broader than any man had a right to be. He wore a crooked grin and a crimson cravat. "Also flaming violins. Still working out the fireproofing spells."
Daenerys turned, eyes glittering. "Flaming violins. I adore that."
"You would," Edward said.
She glanced back at Hadrian. "You ready to become legend?"
He stepped closer, hand brushing her hip, voice low and velvet-smooth. "Only if I get to call you my queen at the end of it."
"You call me that now."
He leaned in, his breath brushing her ear. "Yes, but by nightfall, it will be written in fire and bound in blood."
She smirked. "If you behave, I'll let you keep your clothes on until the end of the reception."
"And if I don't?"
She pulled him closer with a hand at his collar, eyes bright with promise. "I'll show you what it means to marry a dragon."
From across the room, Tanya groaned. "Oh great, now I'm aroused and single."
"You were already both of those things," Rosalie said.
Tanya waved her book. "At least Lady Chatterley got to touch a gamekeeper."
Edward groaned.
And outside, the clouds continued to smother the sun, the forest holding its breath as wedding bells prepared to ring in fire, magic, and eternal scandal.
—
The Cullen estate didn't just look transformed. It looked consecrated. Gone was the serene modernism of its cedar-and-glass bones—instead, the house rose like a cathedral to forgotten gods, veiled in shadows and flame.
Torches flared in sconces shaped like dragon talons, casting flickering light that danced on walls draped in crimson velvet. Silken banners snapped in the breeze, their sigils unfamiliar to mortal eyes. A heady blend of roses, burnt sage, and dragon smoke made the air feel like incense in a temple of war and love.
No orchestra. No aisle. No priest.
Just fire. Just family. Just madness. And two people who had never once asked permission to be extraordinary.
In the clearing behind the house, the altar stood—not just carved wood, but a sacred relic etched in a forgotten tongue. The runes glowed faintly, still pulsing with Hadrian's magic: protection, memory, defiance. He'd used magic and will and fire.
At the altar's base, blue flames licked at the edges of an obsidian bowl—breath-lit by Daenerys herself. Her fire always burned clean, hot, beautiful. Like her.
Eleazar stood tall before it, black robes outlined in silver runes. His golden eyes shimmered, full of old knowledge and sharper amusement. The wind kept tugging at his cloak like it was trying to get his attention. Even the forest knew something primal was about to happen.
The Cullens and Denalis had taken their places, a tableau of elegance and stillness. No heartbeat, no shifting feet, no nervous energy. Only the quiet hum of power.
Edward stood beside Hadrian, crisp in a tuxedo sharp enough to cut diamonds, clutching a velvet box like it might detonate.
"You sure these aren't cursed?" he whispered.
"If they were cursed," Hadrian drawled, looking every inch the dark prince in his obsidian-trimmed coat, "you'd already be a frog, mate."
Edward raised an eyebrow. "I read your notes. Your last attempt at a 'bonding charm' gave the subject an actual halo."
"And increased fertility."
Edward twitched. "We're vampires."
"Exactly. Just in case."
To Hadrian's left, Rosalie looked like vengeance in velvet—a midnight gown with a flame-colored corset, her golden hair braided like a warrior queen.
Behind them, Carlisle stood like a king from a forgotten painting. His gold-trimmed mantle caught the torchlight, and he nodded once to Eleazar, a silent benediction. Beside him, Esme radiated quiet pride, wrapped in silver lace and timeless beauty. Her eyes, however, flicked between Edward and Tanya like a hawk.
Speaking of Tanya—
"Edward, darling," she purred, slinking up behind him in a crimson gown that clung like treason, "if you want, I know a far more exciting ceremony we could perform under the moonlight."
"No," Edward said.
"He didn't even let you finish," Kate muttered with a smirk.
"Because he's rude," Tanya said cheerfully. Then she leaned closer, voice sultry. "Or scared. Are you scared of a little scandal, Edward?"
"Not of scandal," he said tightly. "Of you."
Hadrian chuckled. "Try the blood-champagne later. It helps."
"That better not be literal," Edward snapped.
Hadrian just grinned.
Then the fire shifted.
Daenerys emerged from the trees.
Even the immortals forgot to breathe.
She moved like prophecy, like ruin in heels. Her dress was pure decadence: black velvet hugging every curve, a corset that gleamed like dragonhide, and a train of blood-red silk that whispered against the ground like temptation. Her silver-blonde hair flowed in loose waves, crowned with steel and starlight. A ruby burned at her brow, bright as a dragon's eye.
Hadrian's voice failed him. Completely.
"You alright?" Edward murmured.
"I just forgot how to function," Hadrian muttered.
Daenerys reached him, and the fire behind them surged.
"Nice runes," she said, brushing her fingers over the altar.
"Nice dress," he murmured back. "Or is that just my future?"
She smirked. "You wish."
Eleazar raised a hand, and the fire flared.
"We gather," he said, voice thunder wrapped in silk, "under flame and magic, to witness the union of two who do not ask for permission."
He nodded to Edward.
Edward opened the box. The rings shimmered, metal etched with magic like constellations. Hadrian reached out, letting his magic seep into the spellwork. Runes glowed gold, then cooled.
Daenerys stepped forward and exhaled a soft breath of fire. The flames kissed the rings, and the metal turned red-hot before returning to silver.
"Well," she said lightly, "they didn't melt. That's new."
"Told you," Hadrian said. "Magically flame-resistant. Like my libido."
Rosalie made a choking noise. Emmett clapped.
"Solid."
They slipped the rings on.
Eleazar stepped back. "Now, by the rites of their homelands, they mark one another."
Hadrian leaned in, voice low. Parseltongue curled through the air, silky and strange. The magic wrapped around Daenerys and left a faint, glowing mark over her heart—a sigil of fire and fang.
Her smile could've ignited the forest.
She gripped his jacket.
And bit him.
Hard.
Hadrian gasped as her venom flooded him—not painful, just deep. Ancient. Intimate.
"Mine," she whispered.
He touched her cheek. "Always."
Then he kissed her like she was the only reason he remembered how.
It wasn't gentle.
It was a storm breaking across centuries.
The altar flames leapt high. Somewhere, a wolf howled and went silent.
Eleazar raised his hand.
"Let it be known—before flame, magic, and immortal witness—they are bound. Not as mortals. Not as monsters. But as fire and magic incarnate."
Behind them, the house blazed with light. Kate stepped into the threshold with a violin, charmed to flicker with fire. Her first note sent sparks drifting into the air.
"Reception time!" Emmett announced. "Let's get weird."
"Hadrian," Edward hissed, "what exactly is blood-champagne?"
"It's festive."
"It's glowing."
"It's probably not sentient anymore."
Tanya sauntered over, glass in hand. "Edward. Sweetheart. Dance with me or I start reading my poetry."
"Hell is real," Edward muttered.
"And she's blonde," Irina added.
Carlisle raised his glass. "To fire and magic. To love that refuses to be small."
Esme smiled softly. "To the ones who rewrite fate."
Daenerys clinked her glass to Hadrian's. "To us. And the world we're about to set on fire."
Hadrian grinned. "Let it burn."
The stars ignited above them.
And the night truly began.
—
Tanya had slithered onto the table like a particularly golden jungle cat in heels—her dress all silk and sin, her eyes drunk with starlight and something suspiciously fizzing red in her glass. She raised it like a scepter.
"I hereby decree," she purred, "that I am invincible, irresistible, and incredibly drunk."
"Just the one of those would've sufficed," Edward muttered, glaring at the table like it might collapse under her. "And get down, you'll crease the linen."
Irina, all Old Hollywood curls and mischief, clapped like a delighted courtesan. "Don't listen to him, darling. Reign."
Kate, statuesque and starry-eyed, leaned into Irina and offered a lazy smile. "She only gets like this when she drinks the good stuff."
"'Good stuff,'" Edward repeated, holding his glass at arm's length. "This is not good stuff. This is weaponized chaos."
"Thank you," Hadrian said brightly, lounging with Daenerys curled against him like a very smug dragoness in human skin. "I brewed it myself."
"You brewed blood-champagne?" Edward's voice climbed. "Are you insane?"
"It's artisanal," Hadrian replied, completely unbothered.
"It tastes like rebellion and sugar-coated damnation," Dany said, lazily swirling her glass. Her silver-gold hair was twisted into a halo braid, her gown clinging like wildfire. "I approve."
"I'm hallucinating," Edward mumbled. "You're all hallucinations. You—" he pointed at Hadrian, swaying slightly, "—are Ovid. And you," he turned to Dany, "are Cleopatra. And I am suffering."
"Oh, hush," Rosalie said, flicking her finger at him. She looked resplendent and utterly unimpressed, like a Grecian statue who'd had it with men. "You were just speaking Latin in a Yorkshire accent. Poetically."
"It was very dramatic," Emmett offered cheerfully. His suspenders strained over biceps that shouldn't legally exist. "I thought you were invoking a demon."
"I was quoting Cicero!"
"And sounding like a drunk coal miner doing it," Kate said sweetly.
"I think it's romantic," Daenerys purred, tilting her head toward Hadrian. "I get fire magic. You get to break Edward."
"I am not broken," Edward said, utterly unconvincingly.
Tanya leaned down from the table, eyes raking him over like a tigress on the prowl. "You're very breakable, darling. In all the best ways."
Edward backed up so fast he nearly fell into a fern. "No. Absolutely not."
"Oh, come now," she said, sliding a leg forward, golden and dangerous. "Just one little dance? One moment of immortal scandal?"
"Absolutely not," he repeated, voice strangled.
"I'll take that as a maybe," Tanya winked.
"Could we please rename this demonic cocktail?" Edward hissed. "It's clearly cursed."
"It's not cursed," Hadrian said. "It's celebratory."
"It is cursed," Rosalie corrected. "Just...fashionably."
"Blood-champagne," Daenerys sniffed. "Sounds like something a lonely vampire wrote on a cocktail napkin in Vienna."
Hadrian feigned offense. "It's accurate."
"It's embarrassing, husband," she teased, letting that word linger like honey. "You brewed a magical aphrodisiac and called it blood-champagne. Next you'll name our imaginary child 'Magic Baby.'"
Tanya raised her glass. "To Magic Baby!"
"To Firewine," Kate corrected.
"Dragon's Kiss," Irina said, sighing happily.
"Regret," Edward snapped.
"Bite Me," Rosalie smirked.
Esme, elegant and glowing like moonlight on porcelain, sipped delicately and murmured, "You children are terrible."
Carlisle chuckled beside her, looking every inch the Nordic demigod in a midnight suit and subtle fangs. "They're just high on Hadrian's science project."
"I'm going to patent it," Hadrian said brightly. "Just after I finish breaking reality."
"Again?" Esme said fondly. "At least let me redecorate first."
—
Carlisle's Study – Later That Night
The manor had settled into its eerie, immortal hum—music from the Victrola wafted up like a perfume of jazz and secrets. But in the study, only the firelight moved.
The walls pulsed faintly with Hadrian's magic—wards ancient and brutal beneath their elegance. They throbbed like a sleeping beast.
Eleazar stood near the hearth, his suit crisp, his eyes the weary gold of an old predator who'd lived through too many empires. He looked like a man who'd danced with the Inquisition and survived.
Carlisle poured himself a drink anyway.
"You always did like rituals," Eleazar noted, voice smooth, accented like velvet over a dagger.
"They keep my hands steady."
"You'll need more than steady hands." He moved closer. "You know why I'm here."
Carlisle's jaw clenched. "If you're here to warn me—"
"I'm here because the Volturi are watching." Eleazar's voice dropped. "Because tonight wasn't just a wedding. It was a statement."
Carlisle glanced at the crystal orb glowing faintly on his desk—a gift from Hadrian, keyed to Daenerys's aura. A protective artifact. A promise. A threat.
"They're in love," he said quietly.
"They're a ticking warhead," Eleazar snapped. "She bends flame like it's silk. He reshapes magic like it's clay. And your mind-reading son just got high on magical wine and quoted ancient Rome in front of a hundred immortals."
Carlisle's voice stayed soft. "And?"
"And Aro doesn't share," Eleazar said. "He collects. Talents. Power. Leverage. He'll want them."
"He won't have them."
A beat passed.
Then Eleazar said, voice like a blade unsheathed, "Then you'll have to be ready to burn."
Carlisle stared into the fire for a long moment. "You think Hadrian knows?"
"He warded this room," Eleazar said, nodding toward the ceiling. "He knows everything."
Carlisle looked down at the crystal again.
Eleazar followed his gaze. "He's preparing for war. The only question is…"
"...whether he plans to start it or finish it," Carlisle finished.
Another long silence.
Then Eleazar said softly, "Be very careful, my old friend. Your family just became the most dangerous coven in the world."
From somewhere far down the hall, a giggle echoed—sharp, silver, unmistakably Daenerys.
And another—Hadrian's, low and wicked.
Eleazar smiled thinly. "Gods help the Volturi if those two ever decide they're bored."
—
The reception had become a fever dream of champagne bubbles and jazz delirium, the kind of glittering chaos F. Scott Fitzgerald might've wept over—if he weren't too busy dancing on a table with Rosalie and a flute of Hadrian's homemade infernal brew.
Rosalie—hair swept up like a Hollywood starlet, switchblade glinting in her garter—was teaching Irina how to Charleston with the kind of reckless glee only vampires and very drunk flappers could manage. Emmett had taken over the bandstand, crooning something halfway between Elvis and a thunderstorm while wearing a white tux two sizes too tight on his biceps.
Tanya, of course, was draped like sin incarnate across a fainting couch, champagne in hand, her eyes locked on Edward like a panther tracking prey.
"Edward," she purred, slinking toward him. "Dance with me. Or I'll start reading Pride and Prejudice aloud in Russian until you give in."
Edward, visibly pale even for a vampire, looked around in a silent plea for divine intervention. "Why me?"
"Because you're broody and repressed and I have a thing for tragic poets," Tanya said, lips curving. "Also, you smell like sin and suffering."
"I smell like—what?"
"Sin," she repeated, trailing a finger down his chest. "And suffering. Like a fallen angel with a trust fund."
"This is why I don't attend weddings," Edward muttered.
Meanwhile—above it all, quite literally—Hadrian stood at the top of the Cullen's grand staircase, Daenerys cradled in his arms like a stolen goddess from a forgotten myth.
Not carried like a bride. No—cradled like a storm that had deigned to fall in love.
Her platinum gown shimmered with every movement, baring her shoulders, clinging to her like molten moonlight. Barefoot, glowing, smug from head to toe. Her silver-gold hair was tousled, lips swollen from a kiss that had taken out half the chandelier enchantments.
Behind them, Emmett bellowed, "You break the bed, you're building the next one!"
"You can't break the bed," Hadrian called back without looking, voice smug and honey-smooth.
Rosalie snorted. "Why not?"
"Warded the whole room," he replied. "Runes. Magic. Emotional stability of a Slytherin in love."
Edward's voice floated up, horrified. "What does that even mean?!"
Daenerys kissed Hadrian's jaw and whispered, "Take me to bed or lose me forever, dragon."
Hadrian smirked and turned with the kind of flourish that made Edward groan and Tanya fan herself.
"Terrifying," Rosalie observed. "And deeply hot."
"Try not to set the manor on fire," Esme said sweetly from the punch bowl.
"No promises," Daenerys purred, silver eyes glowing.
—
The Marital Suite – Hadrian's Warded Paradise
The door shut behind them with a soft click, like a secret being sealed.
Inside: decadence carved in dragon bone. Gold-veined marble, ancient Grecian tapestries, dragonfire sconces burning in hues of blue and white. The magic in the air was thick enough to hum.
"Gods," Daenerys murmured, running a hand across the carved headboard of their towering, impossibly regal four-poster bed. "I feel like Cleopatra might've felt underdressed here."
Hadrian unfastened his cufflinks and tossed them into a floating drawer. "Cleopatra didn't have to deal with dragonfire or vampiric sex."
She arched a brow. "You think we'll be that intense?"
He crossed the room in a blink, crowding into her space. "Darling. I'm made of basilisk venom, phoenix tears, and the bad ideas of every Potions Master who ever lived. And you... you make fire flirt with you."
She grinned, feral and electric. "You're insufferable."
"You love it."
She yanked him down into a kiss that turned the sconces wild.
—
Somewhere Between the First Kiss and the Fifth Ward Flare
Clothes disintegrated in swirls of gold and flame, magic snapping like impatient fingers.
Daenerys climbed him like a tree, legs wrapping around his waist, her lips branding a trail from his throat to his collarbone.
"Hadrian," she gasped when his hands slid down her thighs, strong and reverent.
He whispered something in Parseltongue—low, dark, reverent.
She shuddered. "Say that again."
He did.
The chandelier above them dimmed.
He laid her down with the gentleness of a man handling holy relics. Her hair spilled over the pillows like moonlight. She looked up at him, cheeks flushed, eyes molten.
"You're dangerous," he murmured.
"You made me so," she whispered back. "And you adore it."
He surged into her like the storm he was.
The bed didn't break.
Reality did.
A pulse of heat and power burst outward—muffled by wards, barely. Birds for half a mile took flight. The stars blinked.
—
Downstairs
The House flickered.
Lights shimmered. Magic sizzled. Emmett paused mid-swing dance with Rosalie.
Edward clutched his head like he'd been hit by divine migraine. "What in the—"
"They're consummating," Esme said primly, sipping wine.
"Consummating what? An apocalypse?!" Edward demanded.
Tanya fanned herself with a cocktail napkin. "I could listen to that man talk Parseltongue all day."
Irina blinked at the ceiling. "Did the moon just blush?"
"It's 1936," Kate muttered. "I don't think the moon's allowed to blush."
Carmen, lounging like a painting, murmured, "You never saw Andalusian fireworks."
Eleazar nodded solemnly. "That was not magic. That was passion."
—
The Morning After
Hadrian emerged first. Shirtless. Glowing. With a look in his eyes like a man who'd stared into the abyss and made it purr.
Daenerys followed.
Barefoot. In his shirt. Hair tousled to hell. Smiling like a goddess who'd set Olympus on fire and danced in the ashes.
"Good morning," she sang, stretching like a cat.
Irina stared. "That's not fair."
Tanya looked like she might combust. "Did you two glow last night?"
Emmett nodded reverently. "They made the moon blush."
Edward had a far-off look in his eyes, like a man reliving trauma. "I need therapy. And maybe a priest."
Carlisle appeared from nowhere with a fresh cup of coffee. "You'll be fine. Eventually."
Rosalie snorted. "If they ever stop."
Daenerys kissed Hadrian's jaw, eyes gleaming. "Next time, let's see if we can actually break the bed."
Hadrian grinned darkly. "Darling... that was just the warm-up."
—
Meanwhile – In Volterra
The throne room of the Volturi was as cold and immaculate as the marble it was carved from. Torchlight flickered against obsidian columns, casting shadows that moved like predators.
Aro, the ancient king of the vampire elite, lounged like a serpent in ecclesiastical robes—somewhere between Renaissance cardinal and deranged choir director. His fingers, long and pale as ivory, were steepled before him. In one hand, delicately pinched between thumb and forefinger like the relic of a saint, he held a scrap of scorched silk.
Charred at the edges. Still warm to the touch. Still singing with magic.
Daenerys's.
Stolen by a spy who no longer existed. Well, he existed… just across a very wide area now. Mostly dust and bad decisions.
Aro inhaled deeply, eyes fluttering closed as he swayed slightly in pleasure.
"Ahhhh…" he sighed, nostrils flaring. "Dragonfire, pheromones, and one hell of a magical orgasm." His red eyes snapped open, gleaming. "This is couture chaos. They're not just having sex—they're altering the weather patterns."
Caius, perched like a permanently disgruntled buzzard on the lesser throne, made a sound like he'd just tasted sour grapes. "They're an abomination. A union of instability and unregulated ego. We should strike now, before they gain any more influence."
Aro smiled dreamily. "Mmm. But isn't that what makes them delicious, dear Caius? So raw. So unrefined. The world has too many rules. Hadrian and Daenerys... they are rewriting the script."
Marcus blinked slowly from his own throne, as emotionally expressive as a dying houseplant. "They're in love," he said in a monotone.
Aro gasped, scandalized. "Don't be absurd. This is far beyond love. This is myth. This is tragedy and power, sex and fire, wrapped in a power couple who could collapse nations mid-climax. If Helen launched a thousand ships, Daenerys just grounded the Luftwaffe."
He stood suddenly, the silken scrap fluttering from his fingers like a petal scorched by the sun. "Send the twins."
The chamber went still. A cold wind curled through the arches. Even the guards, statues carved from death itself, shifted uneasily.
"Master," said Felix carefully, "Are you certain diplomacy is the wisest course? With... them?"
Aro twirled once, arms flaring like a man performing to an opera only he could hear. "Oh, not diplomacy in the boring, hat-wearing, treaty-signing sense. No, no, no. We shall send Jane and Alec to watch. To smile sweetly and see how the dragon and the phoenix behave under pressure. And if they breathe fire…" Aro's grin turned fanged, "we breathe back."
A pause. Then:
"Also, tell Jane to please not incinerate any of the Cullen's furniture. I hear their decorator was French. And possessed."
Caius grumbled, "You're playing with fire."
Aro turned slowly, his smile dripping madness and music. "Caius, darling, I'm dancing in it. The world is changing. The mortals are on the brink of war, the magical world is in denial, and the Cullen children just threw a wedding so extravagant it made Versailles look like a chicken coop. This isn't the end of an era—it's the birth of an empire. And we? We must decide whether we will kneel… or burn."
He turned to the shadows near the door.
"Twins, children—come forth."
Jane and Alec emerged, eerie and elegant, dressed in midnight velvet, their expressions blank but eyes sharp.
"You'll travel in style, of course," Aro said. "Private train. One with proper silverware. Maybe a bit of arsenic in the tea—just to keep things exciting. You're going to America. Forks, Washington. Dreadful name, isn't it?"
Alec tilted his head. "What do we do if they attack?"
Aro clapped his hands delightedly. "Oh, survive, dear boy. Survive, and observe. And if the opportunity arises…" He leaned in, whispering with gleeful menace, "Make them think twice about ascending without our blessing."
The twins nodded and disappeared into the shadows, already fading from view like smoke on water.
Aro sank back into his throne, eyes gleaming.
"Hadrian and Daenerys," he whispered. "Lovers. Monsters. King and Queen in all but crown. With them by our side, the world worship us... or fear us."
He picked up the silk scrap again and pressed it to his lips.
"And it will burn."
---
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