The scent of blood was overwhelming. It filled your lungs, clawing at your throat like fire, demanding, insatiable. The hunger had taken hold so quickly, so violently, that you barely remembered how you ended up here—on your knees on the damp forest floor, fingers curled uselessly in the thick fur of the deer Carlisle had brought down for you.

Your hands were shaking too much to guide the blood to your lips. You knew it was there, hot and fresh, pooling beneath the carcass, but the hunger made you clumsy, made you weak. A cruel irony, considering the unnatural strength now coursing through your body.

Then, suddenly, there were hands over yours. Steady, practiced, patient. His hands.

Carlisle knelt beside you, wordless as he guided your trembling fingers, tilting the deer’s body just enough to let the blood trickle into your mouth. The moment it touched your tongue, a ragged gasp tore from your throat, and your grip on reality solidified just a little. He didn’t flinch when your red eyes snapped up to meet his, wild and desperate.

“Slowly,” he murmured, voice low, reassuring. His golden gaze held yours, unwavering.

Because he knew. Knew what it was like to drown in that first hunger, to lose yourself to the brutal need for blood. But more than that—he knew you.

Maybe it was the way his instincts—honed over centuries of restraint—shifted whenever he looked at you. Protective. Steady. Unwavering.

It wasn’t the same kind of love he had for his coven. It was something else, fragile, forbidden. He had fought against it, buried it beneath duty and responsibility, convinced himself his attachment to you was nothing more than guidance, an anchor in the storm of your newborn chaos.

And yet, as your bloodied lips parted, as your trembling fingers steadied beneath his touch, he felt it again—that pull. The way your red eyes, once wild, softened when they met his.

A slow breath escaped your lips, and his grip on your hands loosened.

“There you go,” he whispered, his voice as gentle as his touch. “That’s my girl.”