I do not own Twilight.
Edward stares at me, his eyes flickering between mine and I watch as the mask to his expression slips away. Anger builds behind the emerald glare.
"Why?" he demands.
I'm taken aback, left reeling from his irate tone. It's not the reception I would have expected from him, having just learned I left Mike.
"Extenuating circumstances," I say.
His brow furrows, his eyes flickering from my own to my arm and I can feel my muscles locking into place.
"Is it your wrist?"
I try to keep my breathing steady, to mask my own expression now because this isn't something he should know about. This isn't something he should have known about.
"Huh?" I manage, my mouth suddenly dry.
"Your wrist," he says. "The bruises—did he do that?"
I'm at a loss, not sure how to proceed, but knowing I had been as careful as possible with the evidence.
"How did you—"
"Did he do that to you, Bella?" His tone is hard, low in his throat. Dangerous.
"It's not what you think—" I start, but he cuts me off heatedly.
"Really?" His green eyes smolder with the fire that burns through them. I haven't seen him so angry since the day he was arrested. "What is it, then?"
I don't respond, but I can't look away from his gaze. He holds me there, captive to his developing observation, his devastating conclusion.
"Let me see your wrist," he says, his voice heavy with authority and I notice the guard beside the door glancing over in our direction. Clearly our awkward, quiet back and forth has turned into something more, something telling.
Edward notices too, lowers his voice and visibly calms his demeanor, though I can still see anger sparking in his green eyes. "Please," he tries again, softer this time, "show me your wrist."
And because I've never been able to deny him, I pull in a breath and move my arm to the surface of the table. It lies there limply; a limb on a string waiting to be moved.
"Lift your sleeve, Bella," he says gently.
I chew on my lip as I do what he asks, knowing there's no turning back. He knows what is there. He's seen it, apparently.
The bruise is nothing other than gross. Green…yellow. Healing, but gross.
His nostrils flare and he shakes head. He's almost serpentine with his anger. He could strike at any moment. The Edward I knew would strike while the iron's hot.
"Did you tell anyone?" he asks.
"I—"
"Did you tell anyone?" he asks again, because he can already see the wheels turning in my head, the excuses rolling from my tongue.
"Alice," I whisper. He sits back, his expression dazed as though he cannot believe what he is hearing. After a second he's back, his spine straight as a rod, his eyes focused on me. They dance between my battered skin, my humiliated eyes. I want to pull my arm back, to hide, but I know it'll only make him angrier.
"Why didn't you tell your stepdad, Bella?" he asks, argues. "Why didn't you tell Charlie?"
"Well, he saw, but…" I trail off, not knowing what else to say. Charlie saw—and that was it.
"But what?" he presses. I notice his breathing is heavy, erratic, almost. Like he's trying to keep himself contained and I wince, knowing how badly this could go.
"I asked him not to say anything," I answer after a few tense seconds.
He's appalled. "And he didn't?"
"I don't think so—" Before I can finish, Edward is moving to stand, to do God knows what—tell someone, fight someone—but I reach out quickly, instinctively. It's old habit, trying to reign him in before he does something he'll regret, something stupid, something I'll regret, but all it does now is bring the skin of my palm in contact with the skin of his forearm.
We both freeze.
We haven't had physical contact in over a year, maybe even a little more than just over a year. I can feel my pulse racing from my fingers, attuned to his smooth, warm skin and I have a sudden instinct, a sudden desire to curl my fingers against his arm. To wrap my hand in his undivided warmth, in the life that flows through him. And, at the same time, I want to pull away and never look back.
I don't know how Edward feels because he's only staring at my hand and then at me, his jade eyes unreadable. There's too much happening there. Too much pain, too much anguish that it's hard to read between the lines.
Finally, he relaxes back into his chair. He seems to take the shape of the metal, his limbs nearly falling slack, his muscles releasing whatever tension they held. Slowly so that I have time to move if I so choose, he turns his arm in my grasp until our palms face each other. His fingers brush the underside of my wrist delicately, soothingly until he tangles his fingers around my skin, around my arm.
He holds me and I let him, a gentle buzz growing through my body.