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For a moment, Alice seemed genuinely surprised by Jacob's words. She allowed herself to study him closely. It was impossible not to notice the change. Months before, he had looked like a suddenly grown teenager, with awkward movements and a transparent, almost innocent air. Now there was something different about him: a straighter posture, a fixed gaze, a hardened expression. He looked older. Firmer. More contained.
But what really struck her was something else.
He had become the Alpha.
The memory returned clearly: when Nate had been injured after the fight with James, she had spent several days at the Winters' house caring for him. During that time, Jacob had come to visit frequently, especially when Billy was away. Those visits had been quiet, almost domestic. Jacob had been kind, curious, and patient. He knew nothing of the supernatural world—or if he did, he preferred not to believe it—and perhaps for that reason it had been so easy to be near him. He had been understanding, genuinely happy to spend time with Nate, and Alice had felt he treated Nate like a younger brother: someone soft-spoken, with a clean heart, without ambitions or hardening.
That boy was gone.
In front of them was a young man carrying a responsibility far too large for his age. It showed in his tense shoulders, in his clenched jaw, in his measured breathing. He was a leader now, even though he clearly hadn't had time to learn how to be one. Someone forced to grow up overnight. And although he tried to project confidence and presence, Alice soon noticed what his gestures actually revealed: the way he kept his feet slightly back, the cautious distance he did not break, the way he stood beside his own as if he needed their backing to remain steady.
He didn't want to fight.
She only needed to connect one piece to another. Jacob had suffered an absolute defeat at Nate's hands. One that admitted no argument. And if there was something Jacob knew now, it was that there was no physical strength capable of changing that result. All of that—the posture, the tone, the firmness—was a mask. A way to fulfill what he had to represent for his people.
Alice understood it silently. And Nate did too.
Nate, for his part, barely reacted. Part of him had expected it. He had read the Quileute stories kept in his father's journal; he knew that authority could be born of tradition more than experience. Being alpha was not a matter of age or learned leadership, but of something older. The possibility of Jacob taking command wasn't absurd.
What did surprise him was something else: that with someone like Sam—more controlled, more experienced, a figure naturally built for leadership—the pack followed Jacob without hesitation.
Nate kept his gaze calm, without judgment or affectation. He simply watched.
His silence hung between both sides of the river.
And in that space, the Quileutes began to shift, restless—some tense, others anxious. All are waiting for the neophyte's response.
Nate noticed that every pair of eyes was fixed on him and spoke, aiming each word at Jacob across the river.
"So I suppose I should congratulate you," he said, with measured coldness. "Although I never pictured you as a leader… I see things have changed a lot. For both you and me."
Jacob watched him without flinching. Around him, some of his people began to let loose harsh thoughts; Jared, in particular, radiated aggressive impulses toward the pack, as if trying to incite them to leap and tear the intruder apart. Sam stood beside Jared with a gesture meant to contain him, and gave Jacob a slight nod: "Take this, you can do it."
Jacob returned his gaze to Nate with a cold, ceremonial voice, as if adopting that tone would mitigate any sense of familiarity between them.
"This is not a conversation between Nathaniel and Jacob," he said clearly. "This is a conversation between the Cullen emissary and the leader of the Quileutes. Leave the personal talk aside, Winter."
There was a new control in him, more centered than in his previous encounter with Nate. There were no youthful impulses; there was responsibility and the gravity of the role.
"You said you wanted to speak to the alpha," he continued. "The whole pack is here. Say what you have to say and then leave with those Cullens from Forks. There is no place for yours here… and there never should have been."
Nate stood still. For an instant, a rush of disappointment passed through him; the image of his dead grandmother planted itself in his mind: fangs disappearing into shadows, a cold smile. Anger sprang up like a sting and crushed any remaining nostalgia.
He drew in a deep breath—or he would have, if he still breathed—and his voice came out hard, restrained, firm as a decree.
"As you wish, Jacob. I'll be clear: none of the Cullens will leave from here. They will remain as long as necessary. They may return in a few decades, as agreed with the old Chief Black. You will not interfere with us, and we will not interfere with you."
His words were precise, calculated. They were not a plea nor an empty threat; they were the imposition of a decision already made. Nate fixed his gaze on Jacob, daring him to react.
On the opposite bank, a murmur of tension ran through the pack. Some drew deeper breaths, others stepped forward; bewilderment at the flat refusal was evident. Jared clenched his teeth and, for a moment, the aggressive energy he emitted threatened to break control, but Sam held him with a mental pressure that calmed his impulsiveness.
Jacob did not answer immediately. Several tense seconds passed like a stretched thread. Finally, his voice emerged, graver, with the weight of tradition behind it.
Jacob replied in a harsh voice, every word soaked in tradition and contained rage:
"That was in other times! Back then, my great-grandfather believed that coexistence with your people was possible… but it has already been proven that it is not!"
Nate stepped a little closer to the shore, soaking the tips of his boots in the cold water. His tone bordered on cutting, precise as a blade:
"The Cullens have not attacked any human, as agreed. They have remained faithful to that promise. You cannot change a deal overnight, not while they keep their word."
Jacob's retort burst out in a growl that swelled into a wave: the pack exhaled with him, tense voices drifting like wind through the trees.
"What does it matter if they haven't attacked anyone? Their mere presence has already affected the humans of Forks! Innocent blood has been spilled on these lands simply because they are here! How long until there are more victims? First it was Mrs. Winter… and then who? Bella? Charlie? They have already been marked by your kindness! I was there that night! Your grandmother wasn't even the target: that vampire was going after Charlie! How many more will suffer as collateral damage? The Cullens attract their own… do you think we didn't see the vampire who came with the doctor?"
He spoke with a mix of rage and pain, seeking an immediate reaction from Nate.
Nate let him speak, calm as a wall. When he took the floor, his voice was restrained, firm, and almost didactic.
"Vampires are chaotic," Nate said. "Even if the Cullens weren't here, they would still appear. This land, its forests, and its darkness, is fertile ground for our kind. With the Cullens present, we can protect more people than you imagine. Most vampires respect other hunting territories; the Cullens' presence is a deterrent…. Also, the vampire who came with Carlisle came at my request and left a few minutes ago. And even if that weren't true, Charlie and Bella are now under the Cullens' protection… and mine."
At the last words, his muscles tightened; he had to restrain the impulse to clench his fist in fury at Jacob's mention of his grandmother.
Jacob, on the other hand, stepped forward, anger briefly overpowering the memory of his defeat.
"The only way they will be safe is if they leave you… If they leave all the misery your kind drags with them," Jacob said, as if each word were an ancestral command.
Nate frowned, with barely concealed contempt.
"We are not dragging them into anything," he replied, his voice cold and direct.
"Charlie will remain oblivious to all of this. I will take care of the vampire who tried to attack him. And Bella… she has made a conscious decision: she will become what she chooses when the time comes. There is nothing you can do about that. You cannot decide for the Cullens, nor for Bella, nor for me. What right do you have…?"
The sentence died on his tongue. Jacob, ripped by fury, cut him off with a shout that echoed across the river:
"You are the ones who have no right! This land has belonged to my people for generations! We are the guardians of everyone who lives here! You are nothing but leeches who kill and corrupt everything you touch. It may be too late for you… But Bella is still human, and she will remain so."
A heavy silence fell between the two banks. The pack held its breath; some wolves scraped the earth with their paws, others closed ranks. The river continued on, impassive, an indifferent witness.
Nate laughed, humorless, like someone hearing a bad joke. When he stopped, his words fell sharp on Jacob, each syllable measured to wound.
"You speak a lot about duty, about tradition… but if you truly cared for your people, you wouldn't put them at risk for this. Not when you know firsthand that the Cullens do good for this land, that they care for the people of Forks. How many lives has Carlisle saved, even with thirst lurking in his throat? Can you say the same of your pack?"
His voice turned more caustic, and Nate no longer concealed the intent behind his words. "No. None of this is about the land or the innocents. It's about Bella. Now, are you going to sacrifice your brothers to stop her from being with Edward? Come on, Jacob… Even if the Cullens left, do you think that would save her? You would only push her to chase them. You wouldn't save anyone; you would only put your own in danger for someone who never looked at you that way. You always knew it. You knew it when the three of us used to go out: she was never for you. I thought you'd get over it—that it was a summer crush—but I see I was wrong."
Jacob clenched his fists so hard his knuckles blanched; anger carved his jaw. He looked down and, when he spoke, his voice was contained but sharp, tinged with a pain that made him human.
"It's not about that… She is my friend. Long ago, I accepted she would never be with me. I only want her to be happy. And that's why I can't let you turn her into what you are. I won't let her become a monster… like what happened to you."
The last sentence broke. For an instant, Jacob was small: vulnerable, battered by a story he didn't know how to order. Alice, standing beside Nate, felt a twinge of tenderness in her chest. That crack in the boy's armor touched her. For a second, she thought she understood him: a young man watching the one he loved walk away without being able to stop it.
"Jacob…" Alice began in a warm voice, leaning slightly forward, "I understand how you feel. I know you only want the best for everyone."
There was no time for the sentence. Jared, held in check until that moment by Sam, shook off the pressure and took two steps forward, muscles taut. He growled and let out a bark that vibrated through the trees; his gaze fixed on Alice was pure animal warning: to him, she had no right to intervene.
Nate turned his head and fixed his stare on Jared. Disbelief crossed his face at seeing aggression directed at his companion; that disbelief turned into a primitive fury that cut through him: his muscles tightened, his mouth opened, revealing white fangs; a deep, dark, primal growl rose from his throat. The entire pack—and Alice—looked at him.
With eyes glowing red, his voice low and cutting as steel, Nate spat out:
"Do you dare? Do you really dare, dog?"
The next line was an icy promise, designed to pierce anyone's courage:
"Give me one reason. Move one inch closer… and I will make sure you watch all your brothers die without being able to do anything, before I let you drown in your own blood."
The effect was instantaneous. Jared, who had barely been holding back to lunge, dropped his ears and lowered his chest to the ground as if an invisible weight forced him to submit. A ripple of fear ran through the pack; Seth and Leah, who had purposely stayed at the back, couldn't help but whine in response, even Sam—steady as he was—made a short, surprised sound and took a step back; the pressure that kept the others in check slackened for a moment.
Alice watched Nate with wide eyes; for a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. There, by the river, Nate's threat was not a rain of words: it was a presence that bit the air, capable of breaking bones and will. And everyone knew it.