Red.

What is it people think of when they see the colour red? Love, anger, danger, sex?

Or is it the far more obvious answer? Blood.

Anastasia has always found red to be rather calming. When colouring pictures as a child, she'd use red as the colour for everything. When she still worked along in school, red was the colour she used to mark phrases and write the headline with.

She just simply preferred it over blue, green and yellow. She preferred its playful, alarming tone over the calming one of pastels.

And yet, staring down at her leg, red liquid drawing its own beautiful pattern on its pale skin, her stomach can't help but do twists. Anastasia can neither say the red is any less beautiful nor can she say she doesn't find enjoyment in its colour.

Her eyes follow the drops, trying to make out a way they might have followed before and her hand is pressing tightly against her thigh. She would much love to say she is trying to stop the bleeding but her fingers have found themselves split around the wound, squeezing as she attempts to control the blood flow in a completely different way.

This probably should not be close to as satisfying as it makes her feel and she probably should not feel quite as calm as she does. But then again, it has not been more than a knife to her leg. It happens.

Or well, it happens to her, it happens when your father is an asshole, it happens when he has a short temper and it happens when he just found out you took something he has grown to love to control around.

Not that it would ever happen again.

Hissing in a breath when her finger slides over the open wound, she lets out a low sigh before pulling her hand away completely; raising it in front of her face to turn it left to right. Her eyes still watching the blood flow into bigger drops before eventually dropping to the ground.

Why does she find this so damn satisfying?

Letting her head fly to the door when she hears the front door gets thrown open, her eyes fall back on her leg and she lets out a curse while forcing herself to her knees; Wincing ever so slightly at the pain shooting up her thigh.

"Anastasia!" a frantic voice calls out, her breath stopping for a second before she looks around, trying to find a way to hide or escape. Anything to not be here any longer.

What the heck is Jasper doing here? This is not good. Hearing heavy feet walk up the stairs, she quickly looks down at herself and pulls the sweatshirt off herself; hurrying over to the trash to throw it away. The dark shirt she wore beneath doesn't show much blood.

Not that it would matter much.

"Anastasia," Jasper appears at the door to the kitchen, looking relieved once his eyes fall onto her.

Her body tenses up when his arms wrap around her, his face nuzzling into the crook of her neck.

"You're okay. You're okay," he mumbles. Over and over again as though he has to make himself believe what he can see and feel.

Allowing herself to relax for the split of a second, Anastasia's hand slowly creep around his waist while her head falls forward against his shoulder; a shaky breath leaving her lips.

"Why are you bleeding?" he asks her, his mind too busy trying to figure out what happened to actually notice anything around them two.

It's only when he pulls away from her that he glances around and takes in the chaos. But that can wait until later. For now, he leads her to the kitchen table and helps her sit down on it before once again letting his eyes sway through the room. His eyes fall onto the bloody knife on the sink and his jaw clenches together even tighter than before.

"Do you have a first aid kit around?" he asks her, his accent as heavy as never before. "Bathroom. Last room on the left," she replies, watching him walk away. Her eyes are once again focusing back on the blood dripping down her leg and she finds herself too focused to hear him come back.

"This is going to sting but I have to clean the wound, alright?" he speaks up, remembering the times he has either listened to Carlisle or has actually witnessed it in the army back in his days.

To be honest, Jasper isn't sure whether or not he is actually and honestly in control of himself. It feels as though the control is switching from him to the major and back to him. And the only reason he is still able to contain himself is the fact that both of them want her to be alright. And both of them want the guy responsible dead.

Only Jasper would try to hold himself back and the major is already plotting in his mind.

Jasper can hear them, the major's thoughts, he can see the scenarios he has planned out for whoever did this. Jasper can feel his emotions, can feel the rage, hatred and worry thirst for revenge bubble up inside of himself.

But his worry for her, both their worries for her, are so much heavier and stronger than whatever else is going on inside of him.

Yet, he knows he will flip anytime soon and he has to make sure he is not around her at that time. He has to make sure the major doesn't scare her off. He has to make sure he and the major don't accidentally hurt her.

He has to make sure she is safe before he can allow himself to hunt down whoever hurt her like this.

And Jasper sure as hell doesn't care about their pact with the mutts, he sure as hell couldn't care less about them. And while he usually does value Carlisle's opinion, now he doesn't care about him either.

Because they hurt Anastasia. And no one hurts Anastasia and lives.