She trusts us completely. Perfect.
He thinks he can control me. Perfect.
I have been waiting for a very long time, since that first day in their wretched biology class, for my chance. I thought, that day in the ballet studio, that I might be able to get the upper hand as her warm, rich blood hit the back of his parched throat; but he was too strong. The good Edward. The civilized Edward.
It's a pity, this estrangement of ours. We got along so well when he left Carlisle. Edward is a fiercesome predator when he wants to be. Self loathing aside, his gifts, his speed, his skill combine to make him the consumate hunter. When he wants to be. But for now he is listening less to me, his instinct, and more to what he considers his moral self. (I do try to quietly play the Devil's Advocate on occasion and ask him how exactly it can be so immoral to take what is inherent to one's nature. It worked, for a time, and it nearly won again that first day he met her. He came so close to turning the car around and slipping into her house. An opportunity wasted.)
But now, even though he is aware of me (us), my (our) lurking, my (our) urging, our need for that blood, he is gambling that his desire for her body and her love and her eternal company are stronger.
I am gambling on not.
If he feels just a bit more complacent, a bit more confident, a bit more emotional and a bit less rational, he might just miscalculate slightly.
And that will be all it takes. One slight miscalculation. One fraction of a second of inattention.
In that split second, I will finally, finally take what I want.
And oh how I want it.
He wants it, too; even the Ever Moral Edward wants it. Part of him does. Always. Every minute of every endless, sleepless day her scent sifts through his perfect memory, taunting him (us) with what could be his (ours) if he just reached out, ever so gently, and took it.
(He's still – in the very back of the darkest corner of his mind – unsure if he reacted so violently to James and Jasper and Felix and Victoria so he could protect her or so he could protect what should be his.)
Oh, it would be so, so very exquisite, her blood. She wouldn't even fight. She wants him to change her, to taste her. Him, the vampire who craves her blood more than he craves anything else in this world. She trusts him, trusts their love. Fool. Sometimes, when he pushes himself, I see an ever so slight flicker of fear in the back of her mind. I'm sure she hardly acknowledges it, but it's there. It's the one slight bit of reason in her pretty little head. Everything else is romantic foolishness. She knows that this part of him is here. She's just bought into the facade of gentlemanly, self controled, rational, loving Edward.
Even he doesn't truly understand how tenuous a facade all of that is. Her trust in his ability to control himself, to not hurt her, has made him confident. For the most part. He has tried to set up all manner of failsafe measures to keep her from his darker nature on their wedding night, on the night he will bite her. Just in case, he thinks.
He thinks he can do it: taste but not devour. Love but not destroy. Caress but not bruise.
Every time he touches her, I try to get him to push just a bit harder – to break her.
Every time he kisses her, I try to get him to shift his lips just a bit – to puncture that thin, pale skin.
Every time she approaches him, I try to get him to see not the lover, but the rightful prey.
She is ours. One of us will have our way sooner or later. What is unsure is whether it will be a time to love or a time to kill.
I so want it to be my way; all the way.
The honeymoon can't come quickly enough. For both of us.