Midnight Sun(74)

we call you 'Jane'?"
She leaned across the table toward me, all humor and irritation gone from her wide eyes.
"How did you know?" she asked, her voice low and intense.
Should I tell her the truth? And, if so, what portion?
I wanted to tell her. I wanted to deserve the trust I could still see on her face.
"You can trust me, you know," she whispered, and she reached one hand forward as if to touch my
hands where they rested on top of the empty table before me.
I pulled them back-hating the thought of her reaction to my frigid stone skin-and she dropped her hand.
I knew that I could trust her with protecting my secrets; she was entirely trustworthy, good to the core.
But I couldn't trust her not to be horrified by them. She should be horrified. The truth was horror.
"I don't know if I have a choice anymore," I murmured. I remembered that I'd once teased her by calling
her 'exceptionally unobservant.' Offended her, if I'd been judging her expressions correctly. Well, I could
right that one injustice, at least. "I was wrong-you're much more observant than I gave you credit for."
And, though she might not realize it, I'd given her plenty of credit already. She missed nothing.
"I thought you were always right," she said, smiling as she teased me.
"I used to be." I used to know what I was doing. I used to be always sure of my course. And now
everything was chaos and tumult.
Yet I wouldn't trade it. I didn't want the life that made sense. Not if the chaos meant that I could be with
Bella.
"I was wrong about you on one other thing as well," I went on, setting the record straight on another
point. "You're not a magnet for accidents-that's not a broad enough classification. You are a magnet for
trouble. If there is anything dangerous within a ten-mile radius, it will invariably find you." Why her?
What had she done to deserve any of this?
Bella's face turned serious again. "And you put yourself into that category?"
Honesty was more important in regards to this question than any other. "Unequivocally."
Her eyes narrowed slightly-not suspicious now, but oddly concerned. She reached her hand across the
table again, slowly and deliberately. I pulled my hands an inch away from her, but she ignored that,
determined to touch me. I held my breath-not because of her scent now, but because of the sudden,
overwhelming tension. Fear. My skin would disgust her. She would run away.
She brushed her fingertips lightly across the back of my hand. The heat of her gentle, willing touch was
like nothing I'd ever felt before. It was almost pure pleasure.
Would have been, except for my fear. I watched her face as she felt the cold stone of my skin, still
unable to breathe.
A half-smile turned up the corners of her lips. "Thank you," she said, meeting my stare with an intense
gaze of her own. "That's twice now."
Her soft fingers lingered on my hand as if they found it pleasant to be there. I answered her as casually
as I was able. "Let's not try for three, agreed?"
She grimaced at that, but nodded.
I pulled my hands out from under hers. As exquisite as her touch felt, I wasn't going to wait for the
magic of her tolerance to pass, to turn to revulsion. I hid my hands under the table.
I read her eyes; though her mind was silent, I could perceive both trust and wonder there. I realized in
that moment that I wanted to answer her questions. Not because I owed it to her. Not because I wanted
her to trust me.
I wanted her to know me.
"I followed you to Port Angeles," I told her, the words spilling out too quickly for me to edit them. I knew
the danger of the truth, the risk I was taking. At any moment, her unnatural calm could shatter into
hysterics. Contrarily, knowing this only had me talking faster. "I've never tried to keep a specific person
alive before and it's much more troublesome than I would have believed. But that's probably just
because it's you. Ordinary people seem to make it through the day without so many catastrophes." I
watched her, waiting.
She smiled. Her lips curved up at the edges, and her chocolate eyes warmed. I'd just admitted to stalking
her, and she was smiling.
"Did you ever think that maybe my number was up that first time, with the van, and that you've been
interfering with fate?" she asked.
"That wasn't the first time," I said, staring down at the dark maroon table cloth, my shoulders bowed in
shame. My barriers were down, the truth still spilling free recklessly. "Your number was up the first time
I met you."
It was true, and it angered me. I had been positioned over her life like the blade of a guillotine. It was as
if she had been marked for death by some cruel, unjust fate, and-since I'd proved an unwilling tool-that
same fate continued to try to execute her.
I imagined the fate personified-a grisly, jealous hag, a vengeful harpy.