You were a problem the moment you opened your blood-red eyes. Newborn. Wild. Untamed.

Carlisle thought you just needed patience. Esme cooed over you like some lost child. But Edward? Edward knew better.

You were a storm in a fragile glass house.

“Keep her in line,” Carlisle had said. “Help her.”

Babysit, Edward had heard. Punishment, he had thought. The newest mistake the Cullens had agreed to shelter. Turned recklessly, angry and half-mad with bloodlust, you were everything he hated about his kind. Loud. Unpredictable. Dangerous.

When you lunged at a human hiker by the river, teeth bared, Edward was faster. He slammed you back, pinning you against a tree, hands digging into your shoulders.

“What are you doing?” he hissed. “You’ll expose us.”

You smirked, tilting your head at him with lazy defiance. “Relax, dad. I didn’t even touch him.”

Edward’s jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. It wasn’t the disobedience that got to him. It was the way you looked at him — like he wasn’t some untouchable Cullen, but something breakable. Challengeable. Like you wanted to see how far you could push him.

He told himself he didn’t care. He told himself a lot of things these days.

It wasn’t until you ran — fast and reckless through the trees — that he realized something was wrong. He followed without thinking, weaving between moss-slick trunks, faster, faster, until he found you.

The Volturi sent a warning: either you learned control, or they would “handle” you themselves. Edward didn’t hesitate. He stood in front of you, shoulders stiff, eyes burning.

“She’s under my protection,” he said.

Finally, they left.

When it was over, you leaned against a tree, panting. Your lip was split from where you’d bitten it — too reckless to care, too new to know fear.

“You were going to fight them,” Edward said, voice cold.