I own nothing to do with Twilight, and never will.

This Edward and Bella are step-siblings, Edward's mother married Bella's dad. They have only been married for a year and in that time, Bella has noticed her step-brother is very controlling in all that she does and how he looks at her body very inappropriately. She is a little unaware of the reasons into why he does the things he does, but it will become ultimately clear as chapters progress.

Bella is eighteen in September. Edward is twenty-six.

Rating: Will definitely go up to an M, as further chapters progress. This Edward will be very manipulative, and nurses some pretty obsessive tendencies for our Bella. Mature themes; character death, and crude language.

PLEASE TAKE NOTE: This Edward is eight years older than Bella. He first started liking her when she was FOURTEEN and he, TWENTY TWO (Some have said this pedophilia)- Please know that I do not condone it, and DO NOT mean any offense by it, if taken that way. Edward says some lewd comments that are inappropriate towards a young girl, I apologize if it's taken into wrong context.

If you are wondering whether or not you'll find certain topics offensive, such as the obsessed, deranged love Edward has for Bella- even at a young age, then please don't read further. There will be no rape in the story, but a lot of pleading and manipulation for love to be returned, the love is mostly one-sided, but with a turn of events, things might change.

Taken

And so it is, the shorter story,
No love, no glory,
No hero in her eyes.
I can't take my eyes off of you.
Oh, did I say, that I loathe you?
Did I say, that I want to leave it all behind?
I can't take my mind off of you,
'till I find somebody new
- Damien Rice, The Blower's Daughter

At five o'clock in the afternoon, I am sitting sprawled out in my folded, rusting aluminum chair in the front yard, working on getting brown. I am wearing my favorite yellow print polka-dot bikini, which really didn't leave much to the imagination.

Not if you were a boy, anyway.

My best friend Alice, at school, told me that, whenever a boy saw a girl wearing nothing but a bikini, they couldn't help but stare.

That theory was about to be tested.

I close my eyes and lean my head back, feeling the gentle summertime breeze cooling my flushed and heated skin. It is relaxing and quiet outside in the front yard, with only the sound of the scattering unraked leaves, and the branches of the large looming maple trees lining our yard rustling in the calm wind to be heard.

Just as I feel myself slipping into a peaceful, calming sleep, I hear a noise.

The sound of a vehicle coming down the long driveway; Ashphalt and leaves crackling underneath a set of rolling tyres. My eyes flit open at once in alarm and, just as soon as I hear it, I realize it's only my step-brother Edward's silver volvo accelerating up the crooked winding bend of the driveway, it's shiny polished exterior glinting and reflecting glaringly in the sun off into my eyes.

He's home. I honestly dreaded these moments.

His car skids a fraction over the loose bits of rocky ashphalt laid on our driveway, when he makes a quick and abrupt stop. The car jerks forward a bit, and then the gurgling engine cuts off. A door on the left opens. A set of polished black loafers appear as he climbs out, his height making him duck down low and swoop out, then as he turns his body to the side to slam it shut with a creaky racket of noise, the gravel underneath the heels of his work shoes crackle loudly with his movements.

Edward was the only child and son of my step-mother, Esme, who married my father, Charlie, last fall.

He is older than me by eight years, and because of the age difference, and the fact he gets a regular income by working a nine-to-five hour office job as an advertising executive, he believes he has the right to dictate everything I do, right down to what I wear and, especially, who I'm allowed to date.

But if I wanted another responsible father figure in my life, I would have asked.

Almost as if he can feel my eyes on him, evaluating him and assessing him curiously to judge whatever wretched mood he is in today, he tilts his head to the side, inspecting our yard. Then, those eyes fall right onto me.

A particularly unnerving sensation overcomes me, as though I've been sprayed by a hose of trickling ice-cold water, as he turns and starts stalking toward me, like a man on a mission. I don't know whether to dart quickly inside, or to just resume there relaxingly in my fold-out chair. Either way, I knew what was coming.

He is wearing his usual work clothes; a white dressy buttoned-up shirt and tie underneath, with dark grey dress pants. The tie is light aqua blue, and fastened to his collar with a green almond shaped tie-clip. He has his men's blazer off, draped along his right shoulder with a crooked index finger.

Just with the way he walks at me, in long urgent strides, as he slips his unused hand deeply into the trouser pocket at his side, as well as his jingling set of car keys, I knew he was in a huff about me sunbaking outside our front yard.

For some reason, he also acted incredibly protective of me, playing up his role of adult step-brother. This included, who saw me in a bathing suit, I was presuming, since he looked so pissed off at me; He wouldn't be too happy with the possibility of anyone seeing me so scantily covered, after all. His little pure seventeen-year-old step-sister.

Deliberately, I slide my round-rimmed sunglasses back over my eyes, nursing them at the front of my nose, just so he can't tell I've noticed his arrival home.

It didn't work as well as I'd hoped, though.

I was kind of naively hoping he would assume I had fallen asleep out in the yard while lounging around in the sun, and that consequently, it would cause him to turn right around and head back for the door to step inside the house, leaving me in peace.

But Edward wasn't that dumb.

He knew when I was truly sleeping, or when I was deliberately trying to evade him. He knew that by slipping my sunglasses on and pretending I was dozing, I was trying to do exactly that.

Evade him.

He stops right in front of me, throwing a long slender shadow imprint right at where I'm sunbathing. It covers all over my skin, and the sudden loss of sunlight against my skin leaves me trembling inside.

I feel goosepimples raise on the sides of my arms, lifting all the little short hairs, and I am unable to contain the shiver that ripples through my spine downwards, failing all intended short-lived plans of acting almost comatose.

He notices. Of course, he does, with those overly attentive eyes of his.

"Are you wearing sunscreen?"

As he says it, his light bluish-green eyes run down my legs appraisingly in a very inappropriate manner for an older step-brother to do.

His light auburn hair is windblown from the humid breeze, curled strands of his fringe dipping into his creased forehead. Awkwardly, I cover over my bare midriff with my long gangly arms.

Maybe I had always been too eager to shun that whole line of thinking off, but Edward was always looking at me in a way that sincerely bugged me to the core.

Even at the dinner table, I always caught him staring at me, while I ate; A bit like he was counting how many eyelashes I had, or something. Or a bit like he was truly fascinated by me.

It was seriously creepy.

I suppose then, Alice was right on her theory. Not that I wanted my step-brother, of all people, to be ogling my body in a tiny bathing suit.

I sigh, and fold my hands over my chest self-consciously. "That kind of defeats the purpose when you're trying to get brown," I say, in my flattest voice.

"Right, of course."

And still, there he stood, blocking the sun...

The eyes are on my bare legs again, paying my thighs avid attention. Just as I'm considering leaning over and grabbing my towel to cover myself, and protect myself from those shining pervy eyes of his, he clears his throat and tears his eyes away. Took him long enough, gross.

"Where's my mother?" he asks, quite belatedly.

"Inside getting started on dinner early," I say. To Esme- Edward's real mother and my step-mother- the kitchen was like a second home to her. But to her credit, she was an amazing cook. Lucky us. "She's grilling rump steak with baked potatoes and green beans," I add, knowing this will please him, like it does most men, I'm pretty sure.

Alice also told me the way to a man's heart was through his stomach. Not that I wanted Edward's heart or anything like that, but I did want him to go easy on me.

He licks his bottom lip and says with the merest hint of a smile, "Excellent. I'm hungry all ready."

No surprises there. Edward was always hungry whenever he arrived home from a day's work.

Then, with a deadly serious expression which told me he wasn't done with me yet, he says, through glistening wet lips and shiny teeth, "You should probably put on some sunscreen before your fair skin burns."

I roll my eyes, which goes unnoticed by him, since I'm wearing my sunglasses. "Yes, father," I groan, swinging my bony legs to the side of the chair. I reach over for my towel.

Out of the corner of my eyes, I catch him smile vastly and throw his head back, stifling down a chuckle. He was too altogether amused by my words. Heaven knows why.

I stand and fling my white cotton towel securely around my waist, knotting it tightly above the side of my hip to keep it in place.

I'm fairly certain he's still grinning broadly as I go to step past him, and just as I'm nearing past his shoulder to get away from him, he leans down behind me, closely so that his warm moist breaths tickle my ear, "Trust me; you wouldn't want your father thinking about you in the way that I do," he says, rather huskily. "That would be extremely perverted and incestual."

I am startled and maybe even believe I had imagined the whole thing.

I turn to look up at him inquiringly, searching for any indication on his face that I had somehow conjured up the whole perverted comment inside my head, but he's looking down at his fancy work shoes. His face gives away nothing.

O-kay. That's not a weird thing to say at all...

Before I am full of courage and able enough to ask him to repeat himself daringly, he begins to walk to the front door of the house. I follow slowly, keeping my eyes on his back. The wispy-looking material of his shirt is creased, straining against his shoulders.

Just as he opens the fly-screen door, he turns and glances behind his shoulder at me. He stares at me for a lingering moment, his expression thoughtful. Something comes over him, a peculiar glint to his sun-bright eyes.

He looks as if he is about to say something, something most likely inappropriate, but then decides against it and says another thing instead entirely. "Soon when you're eighteen," he says, just loud enough that I can hear him. "In due time," he finishes with a sly wink, and I don't know what he means. At all.