Author's Note: Another story? Yup. You see it. I've been bitten by a writing bug, and I can't seem to stem my imagination.

I really hope you like it know! I just needed it out of my head and on paper instead.

Important: This is set years after Twilight, and Jacob is 28 and Alpha of the La Push Pack. I'll go into more detail in the story itself about the split from the Cullens, but there is no Renesmee in this world of mine, inspired obviously by Stephanie Meyer.

Please let me know what you think? It's a quick start, but there will be plenty of background soon, don't you fear!

And I'm a sucker for a slow burn, so there won't be a lot of rushing in this story! But lots of yummy, yummy tension and attraction!

Daisy Rae would bang down the god damn door if she had to.

It was pouring down sheets of heavy rain, droplets the size of her fist battered against the roof of the porch she found herself on, suffering in the little protection it provided. She was sure she was an absolute fright: hair a tangled, wet mess, her clothes misshapen by the weight of the water, cheeks flushed from the effort of continuous thumping on the black wood of the front door she desperately needed to open.

But she didn't feel any of it.

Instead, frustration – bubbling, acidic and hot – festered in her lungs as she heaved in exhausted breaths, slamming her palm against the door to alleviate the repetitive bruising of her knuckles, the cold air bludgeoning her throat with every harsh inhale.

If this Jacob-Fucking-Black doesn't open his stupid fucking door in the next 30 fucking seconds –

Normally she wouldn't be so persistent. She could take a hint. She wouldn't be aggressively battering at the home of a man she'd never met before, a man that could be, potentially, very dangerous; she knew to move on when she wasn't wanted.

She knew that fact better than most.

But this wasn't for her.

And when it wasn't for her she could be as aggressive and persistent and as god damn annoying as possible. Without fear or regret.

So she kept pounding on the door, kept getting soaked by slashing, diagonal rain, kept the infecting frustration burning in her throat.

Because really, with her little brother out there, alone and scared and freaking furry, what else could she do?

It was the whole, entire, complete bloody reason she was even there – a sopping, wet mess of distress and desperate stubbornness – smacking on the door of a stranger like she was unhinged. Because she was told he could help.

Because she was told he was the man to see about when puberty goes from hair in new places to hair in all bloody places.

She felt like she might vomit. He'd looked so scared; he'd looked so lost.

He had been so angry.

And then it happened again. He'd gone from her somewhat sweet, somewhat happy sixteen year old brother to a snarling tuft of giant fur in the time it took his clothes to rip at the seams.

God, she needed to find him.

She needed Jacob-Fucking-Black to find him.

A snarl of anger and anxiety bit out from between her lips, and with renewed vigour that was born from pigheadedness she began slamming her shoulder against the door. It hurt, but screw it. She meant it when she promised to break the god damn door down.

"It's kind of impolite to break into someone's house, you know."

The voice was muffled through the static white noise of the rain, but it was deep and rough and in an accent that she still hadn't become accustomed to after being out of England only two days. The words were clear enough to demand her attention, and to force her to rebuke the creep of warm embarrassment that threatened to consume her after being caught red-handed.

Gulping, Daisy whipped around, seeing a tall and dark figure in the mist of the storm, the rays of the dying light – not sun, there had been no sun at all that day – allowing her only titbits of the stranger.

He was big. Tall and broad and – shirtless? That was all she could decipher as he paused metres from her. Metres from Jacob-Fucking-Black's porch.

"It's kind of impolite for people not to answer the bloody door." She emphasised the point by smacking her hand against the offending blockage once more – and really what was this stupid thing made of, reinforced steel? – shooting an impatient look at it and the weird, shirtless stranger.

Daisy might have been worried about that, about how big and tall he was, about the tribal tattoos woven into the taught skin of his arms, and how desolate their surroundings were, and how vulnerable it made her, but she was freshly tapped out of all of her worry, her nerves fried and tender from thinking over her brother, and the woods, and the look on his lovely, sweet, young, little face.

Though he wasn't really all that little anymore.

"It's kind of hard for someone to answer when they're not home." The stranger moved closer, raising an eyebrow, approaching her slowly, cautiously.

Like she was insane. Like she was something to be wary of.

Good, let him think she was crazy. Let him think she was rabid and wild. That she might bite any moment.

Because really, she felt like she could. She felt like she could bite down really bloody hard.

"Well it's kind of rude to not be home when someone needs your help." She had meant it to be snappier, ruder, fiercer, but really it escaped her with a desperate and tired edge that betrayed the sob tightening her throat.

Because she really, really did need him. He was the only one who could help her, could help her brother. The most precious thing in the world to her, the only person she had left, the person she would happily throw herself on a spike and die for – and Jacob-Fucking-Black wasn't even home.

"I'm sorry?" The apology was hesitant, and Daisy hadn't even realised the sadness in her eyes had weighed them down to gaze at the wooden deck of the porch until his words cut the rope, and she snapped her eyes to him, hope a warming light in her chest.

"You live here? This is your house? You're Jacob Black?" The words tumbled from her mouth, indistinct and hurried, her eyes flitting over the sharp planes of his bronze face, the ridges of his strong, intimidating torso, the black intricate ink. He'd moved nearer, standing only a foot from the porch in the muddy onslaught of the rain, and she threw herself closer, leaning over the porch railing, noting that – even elevated here – she stood only an inch or two taller than him.

But she didn't care.

She didn't care that he was huge, and handsome, and soaked to the very bone in only shorts, with feet bare and hair dripping. She didn't care that he had moved closer, only half a foot away, and from there she could tell just how easily her bones would crumble in his freakishly massive hands.

She didn't even care that he was staring at her, noting when she finally met his honey-hued eyes that they were locked on her, absorbing her, undressing her, revealing every inch of her, more of her than she knew she had to give.

She didn't care that she felt safe and warm, and something else that was perfect and lovely and thrilling and terrifying, because it really wasn't her feelings she was bothered with right then.

She only began to care when he remained silent, and Daisy really, really, needed him to be speaking. She repeated, shoving tangled dark hair from her eye-line, wetting her lips, her voice a half-rasp, "Jacob Black?"

The stranger blinked a few times, before swallowing something down, his Adam's apple bobbing forcefully, and nodding, holding his hand out for her to shake, "At your service."

Daisy could have cried, or squealed, or collapsed in relief, but instead she clambered over the slippery wood of the porch railing, Jacob's eyes widening as she threw herself somewhat gracelessly down into the mud, almost falling over in the squelching bog that had formed in the storm. Reaching a hand out, Jacob steadied her by pulling her closer, and his heat stole her breath for a moment, numbing her in the contrast of the cold she'd suffered so long.

But she didn't have time to think about how strong he was, or how nice and hot and enticing he felt, or how he was looking at her, because really it just wasn't the damn time to be looking at her like that. Or for her to be thinking about how he was looking at her.

Grabbing the hand around her waist that was somehow both soothing and restarting the tremors in her muscles, not thinking about how it dwarfed and paled her own fingers, she began tugging him away from his house – the house she was sure he was probably very happy to have returned to, given his wet and muddied state – and toward the forest that bordered it.

"Thank God. I need your help."

He was following her of his own volition, because she definitely would not have been able to force him, no matter how she much she wanted or needed to. There are stories about panicked mothers so overcome with adrenaline that they've lifted actual cars, single-handedly, off of their child. Daisy wasn't sure about how much adrenaline she had, but looking at Jacob Black she thought she'd never have enough to lift or drag him anywhere if he were dead-weight.

"In the forest?" His question might have annoyed her because obviously that was where they were heading, but his voice was rough and soothing and warm and it somehow dampened the irritation her frustration had blistered in her lungs, like a salve on an open wound.

"My brother. My brother is sixteen, and his name is Michael, and he is wonderful and clever, and messy and loud, and right now he is scared and lost and a huge, horse-sized, mythical wolf-thing." She stopped, turning to face him in the rain, looking up into those expressive, beautiful, honey-hued eyes that were staring at her like she was a freaking rainbow in the night sky; like she was wonderful and awe-inspiring and completely out of place.

"And he is in that forest, alone. And maybe I'm wrong, and maybe you're going to call the police, or white men in coats, or you're planning to move and change your address because you think I'm some kind of lunatic freak that tried to break into your home, but I'm told you're the man to see about this, and I'm guessing that's because you too can turn into a huge, horse-sized, mythical wolf-thing. Or at the very least you know what this means.

"So can you help me?"

He was still staring at her, his strong, shapely jaw slack, and shock painted across his features. Maybe she had made a mistake; maybe she really was going insane and had just admitted it to a complete stranger after trying to break his door down. Maybe this was all a dream, or a hallucination.

Maybe he was releasing her hand and nodding at her to appease her, moving around her and closer to the forest to escape.

But those eyes were so warm, and they stayed on her, pleading with her not to go anywhere, but determined to leave. To help her brother? She hoped so, and Jacob's resolute nod made her think as much.

Digging into his shorts' pockets, he withdrew keys – a carved wooden keyring in the shape of a howling wolf attached – and pressed them into her palm, eyes searching her as she looked at him, confused and hopeful.

"I will find him. Go inside, get dry – help yourself to fresh clothes, food, drink, to whatever you want. I'll be right back."

She hadn't realised her hands were shaking until the one he held between his – one beneath, one above, encasing and holding and sheltering – stilled and went limp, weakly grasping the metal key that would finally grant access to the stupid black door that had bruised and bitten at her skin.

"I should come with you." Even Daisy thought she sounded weak and tired.

Jacob shook his head, "No. It's dangerous in there. I'll find him; I'll bring him to the house, and it'll be faster if I go alone. I'll let him know you've been looking for him…?"

He trailed off. He wanted her name. She swallowed the ache in her throat, the cold setting in now her adrenaline was wearing thinner, "Daisy Rae." She cleared the rasp in her throat, feeling for strength, reiterating, "Daisy."

"Daisy." He repeated, and she'd never thought her name had sounded so valuable before. Like he gave it meaning, gave it philosophy, and merit. She must be getting very tired. Her hand was still in his, and she tugged it away gently, trying to recapture the very real and appropriate fear that she noted Jacob had sapped from her. A fear she felt she owed Michael. "Go inside. I'll be back soon, with Michael."

And he turned away, striding into the tree line with all of the confidence in the world.

Jacob was a fucking mess.

His paws were heavy and rhythmic on the ground, his body agile and quick, dodging forest debris instinctively, a primal force of muscle mass to be reckoned with, but his mind and spirit had somehow surpassed the clouds and were tangled in constellations he couldn't see, but that burned him with a wonder that seared his soul and shone so brightly, lighting every part of him.

So this is what it felt like. This is what it really meant.

He had imprinted.

He had an imprint.

A complete stranger: an English, pale-faced, fast-talking bundle of energy that had been trying to break into his house. That had been hunting him down, that had been dragging him around, tugging and pulling at him, that he'd only spent two minutes with.

That he was completely captivated by.

God, she was fucking beautiful.

Even before he'd really seen her, before his soul had recognised hers, before the world had stopped spinning and had tilted and every current of the ocean had magnetised to her, he'd seen it.

Well, really it was her ass that he'd seen. Round and firm and looking really fucking good in wet jeans. He'd wanted her to turn around, he'd wanted to see more. Was that just because her ass was so tight, or because of the imprint?

He supposed it didn't really matter.

Because when she had turned around, Jesus fucking Christ she was glorious. All thick black hair, wet and curled and heavy, luminous creamy skin, rosy lips. And eyes. Eyes that were a stormy blue so deep he thought he'd just fucking drowned and come up for air all at once.

Pale. Her brother was a wolf, but she was pale. Half-brother, maybe? But he knew the people of the rez, and she wasn't one of them. Knew the kids of the rez, especially potential wolves, and couldn't think of a Michael.

And Daisy – he would never admit to the reverent sigh that wrapped around her name in his mind – Daisy was English. Very blatantly English. So how the fuck was her brother a shifter? How did she know to find him? Did she know he was Alpha? How was she here?

He really needed to get back to Daisy.

The deeper into his mind he went, the more he tried to silence his own thoughts. He opened up a little hutch, a mechanism he had somehow managed to build after years of practice to keep the pack mind at bay when he needed solace.

Finding Michael was his priority. And as the hatch opened, racing and panicked thoughts spilled into his head in a voice he hadn't heard before. A scared teenager that couldn't seem to make his body shift back.

'Michael?'

Jacob's interruption stilled the onslaught of emotive ranting, an echoing 'Who's there?' resonating in Jacob's own mind.

'Jacob Black. Your sister sent me to find you.'

Michael seemed to recognise his name, and apparently he and Daisy had been looking for him for a while, if Michael's thoughts were anything to go by. Selfishly it felt nice, that she had been looking for him. Because God knows he had spent a long time looking for her, too.

'How are you in my head?'

Jacob could feel the distress of the other shifter, and he moved direction to the clearing he thought he could see in Michael's mind's eye.

'Because I'm a shifter. And you're part of my pack, so I can hear your thoughts and you can hear mine. You must be Quileute.'

Michael's head spun, memories of a lot of other children of a lot of different ages in the same house. 'Maybe. I don't know. I don't know my parents, I never have.'

Jacob thought that that solved one thing: Daisy and Michael obviously weren't blood related. Did that mean Daisy was adopted too? Had she adopted Michael? How old was she? Michael heard his train of thought and groaned a little, 'If you're just here because you fancy my sister you can piss off; I'm not helping you score points so you can shag her. That's gross.'

Wanting to laugh but swallowing it down, Jacob approached the clearing, his enhanced eyesight catching the black and grey wolf that stuttered and paced anxiously, visible through the foliage. 'I'm here because she told me you need help. Is this the first time you've phased, Michael?'

Michael's wolf whined a little, and memories of two different occasions fluttered through his head, a messy jumble of pain and fear and wide stormy eyes flooded with concern. 'The second time. We moved here after the first, to find out what's happening, to find someone that can help.'

Moving slowly, showing he meant no harm, Jacob entered the clearing, Michael's snout snapping to him and releasing a whine as his eyes darted across the forest, looking for an escape. Jacob lowered his head, making himself seem docile and smaller, 'I can help. I've been where you are and I know what you're going through.' Jacob allowed the memory of his first phase to play out, letting Michael see how unsure he was, how scared, how lost and alone and in pain. Then he showed the others, Sam and Paul helping him, Jared comforting him, The Pack in their lupine forms, 'We all do. Will you let me help you? Will you let me show you what's happening to you?'

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