“You would be worried about your hair,” he mumbled, but he came to stand behind me, pulling out the feathers much more quickly.
“How did you keep from laughing at this? I look ridiculous.”
He didn’t answer; he just kept plucking. And I knew the answer anyway—there was nothing that would be funny to him in this mood.
“This isn’t going to work,” I sighed after a minute. “It’s all dried in. I’m going to have to try to wash it out.” I turned around, wrapping my arms around his cool waist. “Do you want to help me?”
“I’d better find some food for you,” he said in a quiet voice, and he gently unwound my arms. I sighed as he disappeared, moving too fast.
It looked like my honeymoon was over. The thought put a big lump in my throat.
When I was mostly feather-free and dressed in an unfamiliar white cotton dress that concealed the worst of the violet blotches, I padded off barefoot to where the smell of eggs and bacon and cheddar cheese was coming from.
Edward stood in front of the stainless steel stove, sliding an omelet onto the light blue plate waiting on the counter. The scent of the food overwhelmed me. I felt like I could eat the plate and the frying pan, too; my stomach snarled.
“Here,” he said. He turned with a smile on his face and set the plate on a small tiled table.
I sat in one of the two metal chairs and started snarfing down the hot eggs. They burned my throat, but I didn’t care.
He sat down across from me. “I’m not feeding you often enough.”
I swallowed and then reminded him, “I was asleep. This is really good, by the way. Impressive for someone who doesn’t eat.”
“Food Network,” he said, flashing my favorite crooked smile.
I was happy to see it, happy that he seemed more like his normal self.
“Where did the eggs come from?”
“I asked the cleaning crew to stock the kitchen. A first, for this place. I’ll have to ask them to deal with the feathers.… ” He trailed off, his gaze fixed on a space above my head. I didn’t respond, trying to avoid saying anything that would upset him again.
I ate everything, though he’d made enough for two.
“Thank you,” I told him. I leaned across the table to kiss him. He kissed me back automatically, and then suddenly stiffened and leaned away.
I gritted my teeth, and the question I meant to ask came out sounding like an accusation. “You aren’t going to touch me again while we’re here, are you?”
He hesitated, then half-smiled and raised his hand to stroke my cheek. His fingers lingered softly on my skin, and I couldn’t help leaning my face into his palm.
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
He sighed and dropped his hand. “I know. And you’re right.” He paused, lifting his chin slightly. And then he spoke again with firm conviction. “I will not make love with you until you’ve been changed. I will never hurt you again.”
6. DISTRACTIONS
My entertainment became the number-one priority on Isle Esme. We snorkeled (well, I snorkeled while he flaunted his ability to go without oxygen indefinitely). We explored the small jungle that ringed the rocky little peak. We visited the parrots that lived in the canopy on the south end of the island. We watched the sunset from the rocky western cove. We swam with the porpoises that played in the warm, shallow waters there. Or at least I did; when Edward was in the water, the porpoises disappeared as if a shark was near.
I knew what was going on. He was trying to keep me busy, distracted, so I that wouldn’t continue badgering him about the sex thing. Whenever I tried to talk him into taking it easy with one of the million DVDs under the big-screen plasma TV, he would lure me out of the house with magic words like coral reefs and submerged caves and sea turtles. We were going, going, going all day, so that I found myself completely famished and exhausted when the sun eventually set.
I drooped over my plate after I finished dinner every night; once I’d actually fallen asleep right at the table and he’d had to carry me to bed. Part of it was that Edward always made too much food for one, but I was so hungry after swimming and climbing all day that I ate most of it. Then, full and worn out, I could barely keep my eyes open. All part of the plan, no doubt.
Exhaustion didn’t help much with my attempts at persuasion. But I didn’t give up. I tried reasoning, pleading, and grouching, all to no avail. I was usually unconscious before I could really press my case far. And then my dreams felt so real—nightmares mostly, made more vivid, I guessed, by the too-bright colors of the island—that I woke up tired no matter how long I slept.