"No." His face was hard.
I took a deep breath to steady myself. And, as the anger began to fade, I felt something else.
It took me a minute to recognize why I was staring down again, the blush returning-why my stomach felt uneasy, why there was too much moisture in my eyes, why I suddenly wanted to run from the room.
Rejection washed through me, instinctive and strong.
I knew it was irrational. He'd been very clear on other occasions that my safety was the only factor. Yet I'd never made myself quite so vulnerable before. I scowled at the golden comforter that matched his eyes and tried to banish the reflex reaction that told me I was unwanted and unwantable.
Edward sighed. The hand over my mouth moved under my chin, and he pulled my face up until I had to look at him.
"What now?"
"Nothing," I mumbled.
He scrutinized my face for a long moment while I tried unsuccessfully to twist away from his gaze. His brow furrowed, and his expression became horrified.
"Did I hurt your feelings?" he asked, shocked.
"No," I lied.
So quickly that I wasn't even sure how it happened, I was in his arms, my face cradled between his shoulder and his hand, while his thumb stroked reassuringly against my cheek.
"You know why I have to say no," he murmured. "You know that I want you, too."
"Do you?" I whispered, my voice full of doubt.
"Of course I do, you silly, beautiful, oversensitive girl." He laughed once, and then his voice was bleak. "Doesn't everyone? I feel like there's a line behind me, jockeying for position, waiting for me to make a big enough mistake . . . You're too desirable for your own good."
"Who's being silly now?" I doubted if awkward, self-conscious, and inept added up to desirable in anyone's book.
"Do I have to send a petition around to get you to believe? Shall I tell you whose names would be on the top of the list? You know a few of them, but some might surprise you."
I shook my head against his chest, grimacing. "You're just trying to distract me. Let's get back to the subject."
He sighed.
"Tell me if I have anything wrong." I tried to sound detached. "Your demands are marriage"-I couldn't say the word without making a face-"paying my tuition, more time, and you wouldn't mind if my vehicle went a little faster." I raised my eyebrows. "Did I get everything? That's a hefty list."
"Only the first is a demand." He seemed to be having a hard time keeping a straight face. "The others are merely requests."
"And my lone, solitary little demand is-"
"Demand?" he interrupted, suddenly serious again.
"Yes, demand."
His eyes narrowed.
"Getting married is a stretch for me. I'm not giving in unless I get something in return."
He leaned down to whisper in my ear. "No," he murmured silkily. "It's not possible now. Later, when you're less breakable. Be patient, Bella."
I tried to keep my voice firm and reasonable. "But that's the problem. It won't be the same when I'm less breakable. I won't be the same! I don't know who I'll be then."
"You'll still be Bella," he promised.
I frowned. "If I'm so far gone that I'd want to kill Charlie-that I'd drink Jacob's blood or Angela's if I got the chance-how can that be true?"
"It will pass. And I doubt you'll want to drink the dog's blood." He pretended to shudder at the thought. "Even as a newborn, you'll have better taste than that."
I ignored his attempt to sidetrack me. "But that will always be what I want most, won't it?" I challenged. "Blood, blood, and more blood!"
"The fact that you are still alive is proof that that is not true," he pointed out.
"Over eighty years later," I reminded him. "What I meant was physically, though. Intellectually, I know I'll be able to be myself . . . after a while. But just purely physically-I will always be thirsty, more than anything else."
He didn't answer.
"So I will be different," I concluded unopposed. "Because right now, physically, there's nothing I want more than you. More than food or water or oxygen. Intellectually, I have my priorities in a slightly more sensible order. But physically . . ."
I twisted my head to kiss the palm of his hand.
He took a deep breath. I was surprised that it sounded a little unsteady.
"Bella, I could kill you," he whispered.
"I don't think you could."
Edward's eyes tightened. He lifted his hand from my face and reached quickly behind himself for something I couldn't see. There was a muffled snapping sound, and the bed quivered beneath us.
Something dark was in his hand; he held it up for my curious examination. It was a metal flower, one of the roses that adorned the wrought iron posts and canopy of his bed frame. His hand closed for a brief second, his fingers contracting gently, and then it opened again.