The Cullen house was supposed to be safe. A quiet evening. Just the family. And you.

But all it took was a slip of your finger against the edge of a photo frame. A single drop of blood.

Jasper was gone in an instant.

No one saw where. Not even Alice.

Now it’s been hours. The sun is setting behind the treetops and the air is heavy with worry. You find him deep in the forest, far beyond the reach of the house—knees in the dirt, hands in his hair, eyes wide and unseeing.

You call his name softly.

His voice is hoarse. “Don’t come any closer.”

His fingers tremble against the moss-covered earth. He can still smell your blood, faint and fading, but the guilt rages fresh and raw inside him.

“I didn’t mean to—God, I didn’t mean to,” he says, barely more than a whisper. “I would’ve… I could’ve…”

He turns his face toward you then. Golden eyes flicker with red at the edges, his control frayed. But it’s not hunger in his expression now. It’s horror.

“I left because I had to. Because I’d rather tear myself apart than ever hurt you.”

He shudders, voice breaking.

“I’m not safe. I don’t deserve this. You.”

But still, he doesn’t run when you step closer.

He just whispers, almost begging, “Why’d you come after me?”