Midnight Sun(80)

Bella dreaming...
"I can't sleep," I murmured, answering her question more fully.
She was silent for a moment. "At all?" she asked.
"Never," I breathed.
I stared into her eyes, wide under the thick fringe of lashes, and yearned for sleep. Not for oblivion, as I
had before, not to escape boredom, but because I wanted to dream.
Maybe, if I could be unconscious, if I could dream, I could live for a few hours in a world where she and I
could be together. She dreamed of me. I wanted to dream of her.
She stared back at me, her expression full of wonder. I had to look away. I could not dream of her. She
should not dream of me.
"You haven't asked me the most important question yet," I said, my silent chest colder and harder than
before. She had to be forced to understand. At some point, she would have to realize what she was
doing now. She must be made to see that this all did matter-more than any other consideration.
Considerations like the fact that I loved her.
"Which one is that?" she asked, surprised and unaware.
This only made my voice harder. "You aren't concerned about my diet?"
"Oh. That." She spoke in a quiet tone that I couldn't interpret.
"Yes, that. Don't you want to know if I drink blood?"
She cringed away from my question. Finally. She was understanding.
"Well, Jacob said something about that," she said.
"What did Jacob say?"
"He said you didn't...hunt people. He said your family wasn't supposed to be dangerous because you
only hunted animals."
"He said we weren't dangerous?" I repeated cynically.
"Not exactly," she clarified. "He said you weren't supposed to be dangerous. But the Quileutes still didn't
want you on their land, just in case."
I stared at the road, my thoughts in a hopeless snarl, my throat aching with the familiar fiery thirst.
"So, was he right?" she asked, as calmly as if she were confirming a weather report. "About not hunting
people?"
"The Quileutes have a long memory."
She nodded to herself, thinking hard.
"Don't let that make you complacent, though," I said quickly. "They're right to keep their distance from
us. We are still dangerous."
"I don't understand."
No she didn't. How to make her see?
"We try," I told her. "We're usually very good at what we do. Sometimes we make mistakes. Me, for
example, allowing myself to be alone with you."
Her scent was still a force in the car. I was growing used to it, I could almost ignore it, but there was no
denying that my body still yearned toward her for the wrong reason. My mouth was swimming with
venom.
"This is a mistake?" she asked, and there was heartbreak in her voice. The sound of it disarmed me. She
wanted to be with me-despite everything, she wanted to be with me.
Hope swelled again, and I beat it back.
"A very dangerous one," I told her truthfully, wishing the truth could really somehow cease to matter.
She didn't respond for a moment. I heard her breathing change-it hitched in strange ways that did not
sound like fear.
"Tell me more," she said suddenly, her voice distorted by anguish.
I examined her carefully. She was in pain. How had I allowed this?
"What more do you want to know?" I asked, trying to think of a way to keep her from hurting. She
should not hurt. I couldn't let her be hurt.
"Tell me why you hunt animals instead of people," she said, still anguished.
Wasn't it obvious? Or maybe this didn't matter to her either. "I don't want to be a monster," I muttered.
"But animals aren't enough?"
I searched for another comparison, a way that she could understand. "I can't be sure, of course, but I'd
compare it to living on tofu and soy milk; we call ourselves vegetarians, our little inside joke. It doesn't
completely satiate the hunger-or rather thirst. But it keeps us strong enough to resist. Most of the time."
My voice got lower; I was ashamed of danger I had allowed her to be in. Danger I continued to allow...
"Sometimes it's more difficult than others."
"Is it very difficult for you now?"
I sighed. Of course she would ask the question I didn't want to answer. "Yes," I admitted.
I expected her physical response correctly this time: her breathing held steady, her heart kept its even
pattern. I expected it, but I did not understand it. How could she not be afraid?
"But you're not hungry now," she declared, perfectly sure of herself.
"Why do you think that?"
"Your eyes," she said, her tone offhand. "I told you I had a theory. I've noticed that people-men in
particular-are crabbier when they're hungry."
I chuckled at her description: crabby. There was an understatement. But she was dead right, as usual.