Chapter 6: Comrade

While we watch the body burn, I call Emily to let everyone know that Victoria is dead and none of us got hurt—if the wolves' excited howling didn't already clue them in (okay, it wasn't remotely loud enough for that). Victoria's body and clothes quickly crumble into a mound of glowing embers; these burn more slowly, but the fire steadily breaks down each piece, until only dust remains.

Sam shoves me lightly with his shoulder. Come back with us to celebrate, he thinks.

I am moved by the offer, which three of the other four wolves are happy to support. Although Sam is thinking of Bella as well as me, his invitation represents a deliberate offer of friendship beyond the agreed collaboration.

"Thank you," I reply. "I'd like that."

So we race back to Emily's in a pack of five, because Jacob rejects my company in favor of his own. Despite his leave-taking (and his hostile thoughts), our spirits are high—we have destroyed the threat without injury—and the minor unease they now feel at my presence makes my shared sense of their satisfaction all the greater. I maintain a pace that matches theirs, but otherwise I don't take care to move slowly or unobtrusively.

It takes us just under twenty minutes to get to Emily's. While the wolves reassemble themselves (putting on a few more clothes for Charlie's sake), I knock on the open door and then walk inside (leaving Sam's top on the back of a dining chair). However surprised they may be by my arrival, I need to see Bella.

But when I step into the living room doorway, Emily smiles and Billy welcomes me in without the slightest ill will. I barely make it another step before Bella throws herself at me. Charlie is not so outraged at the sight of me that he isn't also startled by my presence in La Push, but Bella's desperation silences any questions he might've raised, as his anger returns to the fore.

Then Sam walks up behind me, grinning widely, and even though I lift Bella and step out of his way, he walks close enough to give me a friendly nudge with his elbow as he passes. Charlie is already bemused by this easy familiarity when Emily rushes Sam and throws her arms around him. Her matching desperation makes it obvious something out of the ordinary is going on, but Charlie, perhaps wisely, keeps his suspicions to himself.

And then the other three wolves pile inside, shoving each other and generally creating a ruckus, which takes some of the attention away from us couples. While Sam and Emily arrange themselves on a massive beanbag, I take the chair Bella had been using and Bella sits in my lap, without taking her eyes off me. No one acknowledges Charlie's gobsmacked expression.

There is one new face here—Seth, Harry and Sue Clearwater's young son—and he is staring at me curiously. He knows the tribe's legends and the elders' warnings about me and my family, and he has caught glimpses of the giant wolves that seem to give truth to the tribe's supernatural history, but it is all still too surreal for him, not quite believable. He's a smart kid, though, so he's starting to piece it all together, despite his parents wanting to protect him from the truth a little longer.

"Dessert's in the oven," Sue tells the rowdy boys, causing a veritable stampede.

"Bring us some," Sam calls after them, making the three boys argue over whose job it is.

Seth races after them, not wanting to miss out, and the others try to convince him it's his job to serve his 'elders'. He scoffs at them, then whispers, "Sam's not the boss of me."

"Not yet," Paul retorts, and Seth stares at him, his thoughts a whirl of surprise, confusion, unease—and excitement.

The three of them know they'll be in trouble if Seth starts asking questions, so they glare at each other until Embry, the youngest pack member present, finally resigns himself to the task. While the others start filling their plates, he sticks his head round the doorframe.

"Anyone else want some?" he asks the adults. Sue and Harry nod, and Billy shakes his head, but Charlie doesn't seem to even hear the question; from what I can tell, his every thought is still fixed on me (if looks could kill, I'd be a smoking pile of ash). Then Embry looks at us. "Bella?"

She quirks an eyebrow at me, so I give her a smile—it is something I know she will like. "Yes, please," she says to Embry.

Paul and Jared soon return with plates piled high with toffee apple crumble and ice cream, and Bella grins, looking forward to her share. Seth was happy to plate up his parents' helpings, so he comes out next, carrying three normal-sized portions.

Half a minute later, Embry brings out three plates as fully loaded as Paul's and Jared's. He gives Sam the first, along with two spoons, then passes the second one, with its lone spoon, to Bella. "I'll have whatever you don't want," he says with a grin.

Bella grins back at him, her shock at the humungous portion evaporating. I wonder if she realizes how unconsciously brave he is being—sharing food with the vampire girl. "Sure."

Though I am reasonably confident my venom won't be poisonous to Embry if he ingests a little of it in food, I decline when Bella teasingly waves the spoon at me. Embry realizes the risk he faces and begins to doubt his cunning plan; his eyes rest on Bella's plate more than they do his own.

When she finishes as much as she wants and holds out the plate for him—of course, he has already finished his own portion—he hesitates.

"Don't tell us you're full," I joke, wondering if he'll recognize the reassurance I am attempting to offer.

He does, and I am touched when he immediately gets up to take the bowl from Bella and then starts shoveling the dessert into his mouth, smirking at his wide-eyed brothers. They are a little alarmed, but their nerves are based on the same concerns I have, not anything more extreme.

Billy, Sue, and Harry, on the other hand, are horrified, so I give them a quick nod to show that I understand the danger. Gratifyingly, that is enough to reassure Billy that I am not taking a risk with Embry's life, and he waves a hand to silence Sue and Harry before either one makes a scene.

The sugar high keeps the wolves buzzing after the adrenaline starts to wear off, and Jared and Embry can't resist boasting about their part of the "hunting" trip—in as much detail as possible with Charlie (and Seth) in the room, though they're fortunate that Charlie is so furious with me, otherwise he might've wondered what we'd been hunting (Seth suspects correctly, though, and it makes him even more curious about me).

"Cullen kept up pretty well," Jared taunts.

"I'll take you hunting next time," I tease, and the wolves all laugh.

"You're on!"

"When's bear season start?" Bella pipes up.

We all laugh at that, except Charlie, who is understandably shocked by his pacifist daughter apparently condoning the slaughter of innocent creatures for sport.

Embry's thoughts distract me a little. "You've killed a bear?" he asks, his voice slightly awed, even as he remembers coming face to face with an angry bear when he was barely seven years old; despite his wolf self being more than a match for any bear, they still fill him with dread. Next time we can speak freely, I will tell him of Emmett's history.

In the meantime, I say, "Emmett's dragged me out once or twice." Once or twice a year. "He likes the challenge."

"You don't?" Paul asks.

I shrug. "They're big and fierce, but they're still not much of a match for our weapons. Deer might be small and defenseless, but they're fast—catching them is at least more interesting."

"You hunt deer?" Charlie asks, again surprised that Bella isn't disgusted by my choice of sport.

"Carlisle and Esme like venison," I say, not stretching the truth too far. "We don't kill for sport."

"You eat bear, too?" he retorts.

I give him my best smile, wishing I could tell him something that doesn't make me sound like a jerk. But I can't, so I try a joke instead. "Emmett certainly tries."

The wolves and Bella laugh, and Billy actually cracks a smile; unfortunately, Charlie frowns and I feel a swell of disgust alongside his anger. He sighs heavily, then clears his throat. "It's getting late—Bella and I had best be heading home."

Harry nods, and Billy says, "Sure. Always good to see you, Charlie."

Charlie nods back, though he looks like he wants to say something else (probably to demand why they are so comfortable hosting a Cullen—let alone the guy who broke his daughter's heart—after the falling out they had over the tribe's distrust of Carlisle), but he manages a smile for Emily. He hesitates a moment longer, then fixes his gaze on Bella. "C'mon, Bells."

Bella takes a deep breath; for a moment, I wonder if she's going to say she wants to come home with me, but then she simply nods. "See you tomorrow," she says to me, squeezing my hand meaningfully.

I nod and give her a quick kiss; Charlie's fury feels like a hurricane of loathing. Bella, not oblivious to her father's outrage, stands up, pulling me up with her, and says goodnight to everyone, before finally letting go of my hand and allowing Charlie to herd her outside.

I wait until the cruiser has pulled away before I say my goodbyes and thank Emily and the others for their hospitality.

"Thank you, Edward," Billy replies respectfully. Then, at Sam's non-verbal encouragement, he adds, "You are welcome here anytime."

His thoughts make it clear he is extending his tribe's hospitality towards me permanently; the Clearwaters don't exactly share Billy's confidence in me, but neither disagrees. "Thank you," I reply, humbled by the honor. "I am truly honored."

He smiles at me, pleased that I appreciate the gift he is giving me. Then he says, "Just you—we respect your family, but one… Cullen," he says, catching himself before he used the word vampire in front of Seth, "is more than enough."

"I understand," I assure him, "and they will, too."

Sam holds out his hand, and I shake it, enjoying the friendly gesture. "We appreciate the help you gave us tonight," he says.

"Likewise," I reply.

When he lets go, I can't help glancing at my hand, surprised by the amount of heat his hand had so effectively transferred into mine.

He chuckles. Too hot for you?, he teases. Then he says, "We'll definitely take you up on that hunting trip."

I smile, but he is planning a trip much sooner than I am. "You might have to wait a month or so, until I'm… more okay with leaving Bella for a few hours."

"How often do you hunt?" he asks curiously; he'd assumed at least weekly.

"Usually every two weeks," I reply, aware that Seth is hanging off our every word, "but I doubt you want to go at three a.m.…"

The wolves all scoff at that, in immediate consensus about the ridiculous hour.

"Aren't deer asleep then?" Jared asks.

Boring, Paul thinks.

I shrug. "Makes it faster, and I'd rather not go while Bella's awake."

With the exception of Seth, who is picturing me drinking the blood of a deer in various ways (including wondering if I have fangs), they all think about the six months I have just spent away from her and try to reconcile the two impulses—to want to be with her and yet be so against making her like me. Their thoughts are curiously similar to Emmett's, although, unlike Emmett, they understand my reasons for not wanting to change her. Sam's understanding turns to sympathy, reminding me that he has his own sad history. Even when Emily had been angry with him for hurting Leah, he hadn't been able to stay away from her; he had kept his distance, but he had still followed her everywhere, like an abandoned puppy.

Then Embry wonders whether I ever spend the night at Bella's, so I decide it's best to leave now before they start asking awkward and embarrassing questions. Although Bella won't be home yet, I speed home in the Volvo, then sprint to her house; I want to be there when she gets home, as if that will make up for Charlie's bad mood. I'm worried she is receiving the tongue lashing he was dying to give me, but there's nothing I can do about that.

When the car pulls up, they aren't talking. Bella climbs out without thanking him and then shuts the door a fraction too hard, although, being used to her truck's heavy doors, she often does that without thinking. It is her silence as she marches up to the house and goes straight upstairs that really suggests they argued. The final confirmation is the scowl on her face when she enters her bedroom.

She starts when she sees me sitting on her bed, but then her whole face lights up and she throws herself at me. I catch her carefully and wrap her in my arms.

"Edward," she murmurs happily.

"I hope you weren't arguing the whole way home," I reply.

"I wasn't arguing at all," she retorts.

I sigh. "Please don't be angry with him—I earned every bit of his hate."

She leans back and takes my face in her hands. "You're here now, and you'll never leave me again," she says, as though she still needs me to confirm it, "so he'll just have to get used to it."

"I will never leave you again," I repeat, reaffirming my promise. "But I don't want to cause trouble between you and your father. He loves you so much."

"I know," she acknowledges. Then she smiles. "Let me worry about Charlie. You just focus on my happiness."

"Always, love."

She gives me a pat on the cheek, then excuses herself to take a shower. I can hear that she doesn't wash her hair, so she isn't under the water for long, and then, once she has toweled herself dry, she brushes her teeth. I enjoy the familiar routine; it makes me feel like all is right with the world. Even if we are veering towards the alternate ending I've worked so hard to avoid—the one in which the heroine sacrifices her life for love.

She walks back into the room, wearing a pale pink t-shirt and brown shorts I haven't seen before, smelling of orange blossom soap, peppermint toothpaste, and her own unique, invigorating, floral scent. I lift up the covers and she slides in beneath them and stretches out against me.

Her hand is still bleeding a little, so I retrieve the bandage from the bathroom. There's more blood on it than I'd expected; the clean segment isn't large enough to bind the wound.

Bella sees my hesitancy and grins. "Isn't this where you tear a strip off your shirt?" she teases.

I chuckle. "That's hardly sterile—and the… oils," I say, for want of a better description, "on my skin might irritate the wound."

"Oils?"

I shrug. "It's not venom, but it's probably an irritant."

She ponders that for a minute, then deliberately presses her uninjured hand against my shirt, near my heart. "Feels fine."

I roll my eyes. "Bella, my shirt is dirty."

"Take it off then."

I know I really shouldn't, but I obey. Her heartbeats quicken as I unbutton the shirt, moving only a little faster than human speed. I undo the cuffs and then slide my arms out of the sleeves. She stares at my naked chest for a long moment, before reaching up to stroke her fingers across my skin. She has touched me like this before, but the time apart makes it feel so much more intense. The heat of her skin and the thrill of her touch feel like electric sparks dancing across my chest.

I hold myself still, fighting the urge to rip the flimsy t-shirt off her body. In contrast, the urge to lick her bloody palm is barely noticeable. She rests both palms on my abs for a moment, leaving behind a faint smear of blood.

"Your skin doesn't hurt," she says, implying she had deliberately pressed her wound against me. "It feels nice."

I take her hand carefully in mine and examine the wound. It doesn't look any redder than it did a few minutes ago, and it might even be bleeding a little less. "Let's leave it open, then—I'll make sure it doesn't catch on the blankets while you're sleeping."

She smiles. "You'll stay here all night?"

"I need to change my clothes," I point out; "you probably got blood on my shirt."

She chuckles. "Oh no—people might think you're a vampire."

I join in with her quiet laughter. "I'm serious."

"So am I."

I stroke her cheek. "Okay. I'll take you home with me in the morning, and change then."

"I'll drive," she says happily, obviously planning to stay a while.

I pretend to think it over. "How about I drive your truck?" I suggest.

She screws up her nose. "I've got a sore hand, I'm not an invalid." Then she grins. "You can't drive—what if someone sees you?"

"How late do you plan on sleeping in?" I tease.

She glances at the clock on her bedside drawers, which reads 11:28. "I'm driving," she insists.

"All right," I relent; but when I lean over to turn off the light, she catches my arm.

"I want to see you."

"I'm not going anywhere. Go to sleep now, love."

But any chance of her settling down to sleep vanishes when she catches sight of the scar farther up my arm. "What's that?" she demands, her voice indignant even at a whisper. "Tell me exactly what happened!"

I sigh. "You already know everything that happened—Jacob bit into my arm, but then Sam stopped him before I had to defend myself."

She strokes her fingers along the line. "It looks different," she says, not letting it go. "There aren't any tooth marks—" she breaks off. "It goes all the way around…"

"He tore off my arm," I admit. "But as you can see, I reattached it and it's completely fine."

She sighs. "Are the scars permanent?"

I nod; they will serve as a token reminder for the pain I put her through.

"Will I still have James's scar?"

"No," I say, glad it will be so. "The transformation removes all imperfections."

She smiles, but not smugly, so it is another moment before I realize I have answered her as though the debate about her future is over. I don't know what to say—maybe she hasn't noticed it consciously—so I follow a related train of thought.

I gently shift her hair to expose the light scar on her forehead. "Seven stitches," I murmur, imagining the pain and humiliation she would have felt, and feeling intensely guilty that I hadn't been there to protect her. Then I wonder if she told Charlie what she'd been doing; his dislike of motorcycles is no secret.

"It was fun," she insists, her tone defensive—but there is some other emotion lurking there in her voice.

Hoping to tease out her true feelings on the matter, I quirk an eyebrow. "Worth a trip to the hospital?"

Her cheeks flush. "You had your distractions; I had mine."

I can't help but frown at that; Victoria was my distraction, and Jacob hers. The two are likely as opposite in our affections as they are in appearance.

"I know I broke my promise," she murmurs, stroking my forehead, "but I'm not sorry. You made me a promise you could never honor."

"I did try," I reply, though I know it is a pathetic excuse.

"Maybe, but it was never as if you'd never existed—and the times it did feel like that—like I'd dreamed you—were so much worse than all the rest. Like I was losing my mind."

I pull her uninjured hand up to my lips and kiss her knuckles. "I am truly sorry, Bella. I told myself that your pain would be so much less than mine, but I was wrong, and I almost killed us both. If it had not been your life—your soul—in jeopardy, I couldn't have made myself leave you."

"You almost died?" she murmurs.

I stroke her cheek. "Do you remember what I said about Romeo having it easy?"

Her brow furrows slightly as she realizes I'm referring to killing myself. "Do you remember what I said about not being allowed to hurt yourself?"

The memory of that conversation, appropriately, feels like poison in my veins. "I said I'd never put you in danger again, and then I did exactly that—mistake after mistake," I mutter bitterly, remembering my criticism of Romeo, though he hadn't made any mistake to compare with my monumental idiocy. "If not for Jacob, you'd be dead."

She doesn't answer, just presses a soft kiss to my lips. We lapse into silence. I want to raise the subject of the radio, but I can't bring myself to start another painful conversation, so I let myself have a moment to enjoy being with the girl I love and forget my failures.

A minute passes before she takes a deeper breath, signaling she is about to speak, then she blurts out, "I want my CD back. And my photos."

When I don't answer immediately, she frowns. "You didn't throw them away, did you?"

"I never took them out of the house," I confess. "You were right: I made you a promise that was meaningless. I hurt you deliberately, thinking I could protect you from my world, but it was already too late."

She nods. "I am yours, too."

As selfish as I am, I can't help but smile at that; then I realize I'm being unfair on another point as well. Perhaps confessing to it will help me resolve it—and help me gain some insight into her thinking. "I tried to force you to give up on me, so it's wrong of me to be upset that I almost got my wish—"

"What are you talking about?" she interrupts, frowning.

"Jacob," I murmur, half unwillingly.

"What about Jacob?"

"His feelings for you… and yours for him."

"He's my friend."

I wish that that is all he is to her, but I know there is a deeper attachment between them. "He showed me his memories," I murmur.

She cringes. "I'm sorry."

I take her precious head in my hands. "You have nothing to apologize for. I tried to force you to build another life without me, because I thought I knew what's best for you—but I don't."

"So you concede that I do?"

"Not exactly," I reply, still clinging to the last argument I have left. "I don't agree that changing you is remotely what's best for you."

"Well, then," she huffs, "I'll ask Alice what she sees."

I frown, and so does she. "Sounds like you have it all figured out," I say, trying not to sound bitter as I shift my hands back to the bed.

She sighs, then shakes her head. "That's the least of my problems."

"What's the greatest?" I ask, trying to understand her logic.

"You," she answers without the slightest hesitation.

"I deserve that," I mumble, shot through with guilt. "I don't want to be a problem."

"Then don't be. Accept the inevitable."

"I can't," I say, hating myself for putting her in the position of wanting the life of a vampire; hating myself for denying her what she wants. "I won't doom you to this cursed existence."

"You're not cursed," she replies dismissively. Then, deliberately, she says, "Carlisle changed Esme."

I quirk an eyebrow, momentarily confused by the forthright statement, before I realize what she's getting at. "You. Want. Me. To—" I break off, shaking my head.

"Yes," she says firmly, not the least bit sympathetic to my distress. "I want you to change me—to choose me."

"I can't accept that changing you is the right choice."

"It's the only choice. I love you. You love me. But in order to progress our relationship—"

"Progress it by ending your life?"

"It's not an ending, it's a beginning. I am ready to start my life with you."

"Ready to say goodbye to your human life?" I press. "To your parents?"

She sighs. "Yes."

"I hate that you would have to give them up. I don't want to take anything away from you."

"You are all that I want—all I will ever want." She leans over to kiss me, and of course I respond.

She is convincing me—the selfish part of me already agreed with her, but now the part of me that I have so carefully protected, the part that tries to always do the right thing, is starting to see her argument. I see us together, our skin the same temperature, the same hue. We are a couple and we don't just complement each other's looks, we match in every way.

I want that, too. But to damn Bella's soul in the process?

I make one last attempt to argue with myself—mistakes are easier to make when the damage is invisible—and then the objections fail, and there is only cowardice left. Can I really take on the responsibility of changing her? Carlisle's burden is something I have never wanted to bear. If she grew to resent my action the way Rosalie does…

And then, out of the blue, I think of the one thing that would tempt me. Bella and I have never discussed it—I've never found the right time to raise the topic—but I suspect her reaction won't be the typical one. I try to consider it objectively, to predict her opinion, but I want it too much. And if it will delay her for even half a year, it would be worth taking on the burden of changing her myself.

"If you're so fixed on eternal damnation," I blurt, "there might be one thing that will persuade me to change you myself."

"What?"

"Marry me."

Her mouth falls open.

"Marry me, and I promise I will change you."

Her shock morphs into frustration. "You're being unreasonable."

If we weren't discussing her death, I would laugh. "You're asking me to kill you—to end your human life. All I'm asking for is what people who love each other do." (I would also mention my enduring hope to safeguard her soul, but that would only raise the unresolved argument about my soul.)

"Marriage isn't about love," she grumbles.

"It is for me. You're already giving up so much for me; this is one thing I can still give you."

"I thought you realized you were wrong about dragging me to prom."

"You're comparing our wedding to prom?" In my head, I hear myself saying our wedding and I want it so badly.

She doesn't answer for a moment; I go further on the offensive.

"You say you want to be with me forever, but—"

"Marriage isn't forever."

"Divorce didn't exist—"

"In modern society, marrying at eighteen just means you're pregnant."

I cringe. "I wish I could—"

She laughs in whispers. "You want me to be pregnant?"

"I just wish I weren't taking that possibility away from you."

"Who says I want kids?"

"Maybe not now, but in a hundred years—"

"I will never want anything more than I want you."

I sigh. "You're too stubborn for your own good."

"No, you are. Give in. Change me."

"Wouldn't you like to give your parents a bit of closure?" I ask, trying a different approach.

She frowns. "They married young—look what it did to them."

Ah, so she blames marriage for her parents' failed relationship? Now I understand her objections a little better.

"If you weren't so determined to die young, we could wait a few years."

She frowns. "Stop referring to it as death. You know that's not true."

I sigh. "You'll be frozen forever, just as you are. Is that what you really want?"

"Not exactly like this."

I ignore her—I know she's referring to the physical transformation that accompanies the change—though I weave an answer into what I was going to say. "You'd think Rosalie would be the happiest of us all, but she hates this endless, petrified existence. She would rather have died."

Bella looks surprised. "Even though she has Emmett now?"

I nod.

She thinks about it for a moment, then shakes her head. "I know I won't feel that way. I'll be as happy as Emmett."

I cringe, because I can't believe that she is right—even though she can't have any idea how truly happy Emmett is. "He didn't lose anything when he died."

"Neither will I."

"Your parents. Your friends." Jacob.

She winces briefly, but her resolve is unwavering.

Selfishly, thinking about Jacob makes me want to reassert my claim on her. "Marry me, and I'll change you as soon after as you like. You can spend the honeymoon writhing in agony if that's what you want."

She frowns at my deliberately negative portrayal, and I regret using my first mention of our hypothetical honeymoon to illustrate a point that neither of us wants to think about.

"Let your parents picture the life they want for you—even if it's not the one you're choosing."

"I'm choosing something better."

Again, I vary my approach. "In a hundred years' time, I don't want you to look back and wish you'd married me before you had to leave your human life behind."

"I won't," she insists, but there is an ounce of doubt in her tone now, where before there was absolute certainty.

"Rosalie has married Emmett seven times already, but none of them makes up for the human marriage she didn't get to have."

She sighs; then she blurts out, "Does Emmett know how she feels?"

"Yes."

She shakes her head slowly, her expression full of sympathy. "Lucky he's not the type to dwell on emotional stuff."

I can't help but laugh, though it is a sad laugh. "Yes, it is lucky." We stare at each other. Without having to read her mind, I know she is thinking about how I would cope in Emmett's place—and she seems fully aware that it would cripple me.

"I'm not Rosalie," she says eventually. "I choose you."

"Now."

"Always."

"Then marry me," I can't help but beg—even though now it means that I am begging her to let me end her life.

She laughs, perhaps amused that I've brought our discussion back to our marriage. "Not tonight," she teases.

I flinch, ruining her lighthearted mood.

"I thought you wanted to marry me," she observes dryly.

"I do," I agree.

She drops her gaze to the bed, abruptly sad. "But you're giving up things, too," she says miserably.

I don't understand. "I'm getting the most out of this by far," I say, only then realizing how true that is. I am giving up nothing, while she gives up everything. And now, after agreeing to something that we both want, I am demanding that she marry me first. Am I being stubborn again? Forcing her to do something just because I think it's right? Is it like prom all over again? No, I decide. My worries for her soul are valid—except I can't ignore the fact that Bella doesn't share my stricter, "old fashioned" beliefs, and I don't want to force them on her. The last time I tried that—when I left her—had been a total disaster. This time, I will build my case more reasonably, without losing sight of Bella's own beliefs.

"I won't be the same," she murmurs. "I won't be warm, or—"

"Bella," I interrupt, raising her chin and pressing our lips together. "The only thing that will be different is that you will be a lot less breakable."

She stares into my eyes, testing my resolve. "You won't miss the color of my eyes, or the way I smell?"

I laugh softly. "No, I won't miss that."

"My eyes, then? My warmth?"

"You will still be you," I say—and then I realize I'm giving her plenty of ammunition. "You might rethink how you see me, though," I add, expressing my deepest fear before I've really thought it through. I don't mean her to worry. Or to have such thoughts in her head while she is writhing in agony. My body tenses up, but I hope she doesn't notice.

She strokes my cheek. "I will only see you more clearly," she murmurs.

I give a wry chuckle. "That's what I'm afraid of."

She rolls her eyes. "You are the best man in the whole world."

"Carlisle—"

"Carlisle would say the same thing."

I shake my head—not because she isn't absolutely correct, but because I disagree with both of them. "He doesn't understand how selfish I am. He is a far better man than I." Oh, how I wish that were not true. If I were as good as Carlisle, I would have stayed away from Forks until Bella had grown up and moved away. And yet, would that really have been better for her? I want to believe she will be happier with me than with anyone else, but now that that someone else has a name and a face and loves her passionately, it is harder for me to argue in my favor, knowing she wouldn't have to give up anything to be with him.

"If you're selfish, so am I," Bella says. When I shake my head again, she catches my chin in her hand. "I want you, and I want your life. I want your family. And it's selfish, because I won't ever be able to see my parents again—but that doesn't change anything."

I sigh. Her selfishness is so much less than mine, but I appreciate the effort—and I am selfishly glad that she thinks I am better than I am. "Please," I beg, "just think about it a little longer—let's go to college in the fall. What's another year?"

"I want to start my life with you right now."

"You can," I plead, clutching at straws now. "We can live together while you're still human. You might even find you like college—why not give it a try before you have to wait a decade or two until you can resist eating your classmates?"

She sighs. "And then you'll change me?"

I take a deep breath. "No terms," I say. "I won't force you to do anything. I'm just asking you to think about an alternative—about the choices you still have, before you give them all up."

Her eyes widen. "So you'll change me?"

I close my eyes. "Yes," I vow.

Her reaction, of course, is the opposite of what it should be. She throws her arms around me with a hushed cry of joy.

"Will you at least consider postponing?" I ask, doing my best not to beg.

She sits back so she can look into my eyes. "I'm not going to change my mind," she warns. "I will still want you to change me one day."

"I know," I acknowledge, though I can't deny that the little part of me that strives to do what is best for her still hopes she will find a better path. "I'm just hoping to delay that day for a little longer—so you can have a few more human experiences."

She gives me a hesitant smile. "I suppose one more year won't matter…"

My face must show how much that little concession would mean to me, for her smile widens, and this time, it reaches her eyes.

"I love you," I say. "I want you to have everything you want. And I accept that you want—"

"To be with you forever," she supplies helpfully.

"To be with me forever," I repeat, grateful to avoid the v word. "I'm just afraid that one day, you'll realize you do want at least some of the things you missed out on. I can't bear the thought of causing you any regrets."

"As long as I'm with you, I won't regret a thing."

"Forever is a long time."

"And we'll be happy as long as we're together."

I smile at that, letting her conviction give me hope—whatever else happens, I can believe that that will always be true. "Yes," I agree, "we will." I feel abruptly foolish for prolonging the agony for us both. "You're right," I say, accepting her superior wisdom.

She chuckles at that, but her satisfaction doesn't completely mask the drowsiness.

"Lights out," I murmur.

"I don't want to go to sleep," she complains; but this time, she doesn't stop me when I reach over to switch off the lamp.

I smile into the darkness that isn't dark to my eyes. "Sleep, Bella," I murmur, stroking her cheeks and forehead to encourage her to relax. "I will be here when you wake. I will always be here."

She snuggles against me, shifting her pillow so her head rests against my side. I take her hand in mine, so she can relax without resting the wound on anything, and she hums contentedly.

A few seconds pass in silence, then she murmurs, "You didn't want anything else."

"I'm not a good example," I reply. "I didn't even know I wanted you until you came into my life."

"Boys are clueless," she teases. After half a minute, she adds, "You wanted to go to war."

"True," I breathe, speaking softly, hoping to help her brain switch into sleep mode.

She doesn't say anything else; watching her fall asleep gives me an even stronger feeling that no time has passed. Except, when she falls asleep and I am left to my thoughts, I realize that it feels like almost the exact opposite of the last night I'd watched Bella sleep. That night, I'd been steeling myself to leave her. Tonight, I am steeling myself to stay—now that I have agreed to change her whenever she chooses, I somehow have to prepare myself for the moment she will ask me to end her human life in the most agonizing way possible.

I find myself counting her heartbeats, wondering how many more I will get. Will she wait the full year, or will she change her mind? Can I dare to hope for more than a year? But knowing how unhappy she is about surpassing my physical age makes her changing her mind seem much more likely.

My only comfort now is the image from Alice's vision: a red-eyed Bella and Alice with their arms around each other, both smiling.

I lie there for a long time, trying to convince myself that it is not a failure.