He recalls, with certain animosity, the morning he returned home from Bella's and found her sitting in his bedroom. Watching, waiting… tempting.

It's not a pleasant memory.

Not pleasant at all, even though her golden hair reflected all the hues of the dawning sunlight which crept through the window in the same way as she had in the night. Not pleasant, though her voice was sultry with the familiar husk of campfire smoke.

'Ah, Edward, I've missed you.'
Her voice was low, seductive. He shudders now, remembering the splintering of ice down his spine at the sound of those words in that voice. Because being reminded of what once was, is not what he wanted at all.

'Bella is my life now. She is what I want, what I need.'
The urgency in his words did not deter that smile from continuing to dance on her perfect, marble lips. She simply rose gracefully to her feet, strode across the room in two fluid, purposeful strides, and looked him square in the eyes with her own topaz gaze so much more alluring than any song of human blood.

'It won't last. It will destroy you both, and you know it.'


If there had been any humans in the room, the silence would have been perpetuated with the rhythmic thud of a heartbeat. As it was, there were not, and so the room had been so deathly quiet that both of them, in unison, had stopped breathing to preserve the sterilised, unnatural environment from which the tension had sprung.

Their relationship had always been based on tension.

He'd been first to turn away, to curb the mounting heat in the room though both of them were cold as statues. Her sigh had hung in the air, tormented him with its underlying currents of empathy. She'd always been so good at pretending to be something she wasn't. This time had been no exception.

'You're right, Edward. It's none of my business. I'm sorry.'
Her apology was flawless down to the last quavering note of her velvet voice, so similar in melody to his own. His neck had twitched, he'd wanted so badly to turn to her and see in her eyes what he'd been denying himself for decades. The simple, animalistic lust which always had, and always would, blaze in her eyes for the world to see. She, the succubus goddess of temptation, had never been ashamed of what she was.

The light flitter of her fingertips as they briefly skated across the granite-smooth surface of his cheekbone in a silent farewell still lingers, shadowy, in his memory. Still remains, even as he watches her, dressed in fallen-angel red, as she crosses the lawn to her seat behind Esme. Even as he waits, with anticipation, for his bride to assume her position at the other end of the aisle. Even as he waits to marry his la tua cante, Juliet, Ophelia, love-of-his-life, Isabella Swan…

That smile plays on her lips as she notices him watching her. She inclines her head slightly, a greeting, and then turns to talk to Irina, whose face is animalistic with fury as the burning scent of werewolf assaults her senses. He shakes himself (how incredibly human) and exchanges glances with Jasper, who's picked up on the tension and is attempting to remove it, much to Edward's grateful relief. But somehow, it's not quite working.

The murmurs of the crowd rise and there, suddenly, is She. She of the dark hair, dark eyes and rosy cheeks; irrational, reckless, incredible Bella Swan, who today, stands to make him the luckiest m-vampire "alive". She is radiant, perfect, and as she stumbles a little on the train of her dress, his cold heart seems to spring to life and throb with inexplicable, unstoppable adoration of this girl, this woman.

'It won't last. It will destroy you both, and you know it.'
He can't work out if she's repeated it in her head or whether his subconscious has merely chosen this entirely inappropriate moment to resurface this memory, but either way, he falters visibly. His mind, always working on overdrive to keep up with the rapid thoughts and overthoughts of his Hamlet-esque psyche, is shooting questions at him, even as Bella draws closer and closer, so close the exquisite detail of her dress is emblazoned across his retinas. But always, in the back of his line of vision, is that siren in blood-red, unholy red, red, red, red and it's driving him mental, he's not concentrating, voices wash through his head as he struggles to control –


Ah. Clarity.

Her fingers, warm and alive, reach up to anxiously stroke his forehead and he focuses in on the perfect, comforting silence of her mind. Guilt floods through him as he quickly glances up to see his nightmare has vanished and there is a conspicuous space next to a puzzled Irina. The guilt intensifies and then disappears as he looks down into a set of warm, liquid eyes which gaze at him softly in a way that could never be interpreted as shamelessly lustful.

And here, he realises, here is where he is home.

inspired by and dedicated to metro.max, whose Edward/Tanya pieces are something extraordinary.

(don't worry Christina, your birthday present is coming. lol)