Three: Escort
I was half-hoping Renesmee would be asleep when Bella's heart began the sprint toward its final beat, but thanks to her appreciation of her mother's condition, it is easier than I expected to say our temporary goodbyes. (Adorably, she has it in her head that the sooner she leaves, the sooner her mother will wake.)
After Rosalie has whisked her out of the room, I step forward, wishing I could know whether my touch will help Bella get through the last agonizing minutes or let lose the screams that, of all of us, only Carlisle had been able to contain.
Jasper immediately pulls me back; her motionlessness makes him uneasy—he doesn't want anyone within arm's reach. "Give her some space."
I concede the point with a sigh, but he doesn't release my arm (partly because he doubts my ongoing compliance and partly because he's enjoying the direct connection to my anticipation of Bella's awakening). In any other situation, I would simply stare down at the restraining hand and he'd get the message, but I'm not about to take my eyes off Bella—and in this case, I know he'll ignore me anyway.
"Alice?" I murmur, because Jasper won't ignore her.
She grins at me and obligingly slides her hand beneath Jasper's, switching the object of his grip from my arm to her hand. "Any minute now!" she gushes.
Jasper smiles, responding to her enthusiasm and furthering the excitement building in the room. I wonder if Bella can feel it; I hope she can. But the tension also rises as she continues to lie there motionless, her heart the only evidence that the transformation is not yet complete.
Half a minute passes. Then a whole minute. And then, when her heart is speeding through the milliseconds so rapidly that even our sensitive ears cannot distinguish the separate beats, it abruptly stops.
The next instant, Bella's relief and amazement and pure joy suddenly burst into Jasper's awareness as his gift once again affords him full access to the whirl of emotions rushing through her. The diversity of emotions coursing through her surprises him, but I feel nothing but relief—and joy for my incredible wife.
When she opens her eyes, Jasper and I are treated to a new emotion—a fresh and powerful wonder. All of us wait with literally breathless anticipation as she sits up. Watching her move at our swift pace is an unexpected thrill. The fluid way her body moves as she slides from the bed, every line in perfect harmony, makes my body react in ways it shouldn't in polite company. But the primal lust is quickly overtaken by my amazement at the thought behind her eyes. They are the most brilliant red any of us has ever seen, yet they are still Bella's eyes. I see the excitement in them as she views the world with her newborn sight; I see them widen as she takes in Jasper's scars; and I see their heart-melting warmth when she looks at me. Truly, I am the luckiest creature in existence.
Thanks to Jasper (if only I could access Bella's mind as easily!), I can feel her rapture as she gazes into my eyes.
"Edward," she breathes, and her voice is as enriched as everything else about her. It is a little strange to hear her speak my name at speed, but it feels too natural to cause more than a passing distraction.
"Bella, my love," I reply, and her wide eyes widen even more as she hears my voice with her new ears.
Jasper can't understand how she can feel love for me and wonder for the world around her when her throat must be a raging inferno—but I think I do. She has endured so much mental and physical agony to reach this moment that the burn in her throat probably seems like a minor tickle. I just wish I could know for sure…
Her lips stretch into a breathtaking smile. I smile back, truly happy despite my disappointment.
Her quick eyes read the extra emotion in my face. "What's wrong?" she asks sharply.
"It's selfish of me," I reply quickly, laying the blame on me, where it belongs, "but I was rather hoping that I'd be able to hear your mind now that it's more similar to my own."
She stares deep into my eyes. "You still can't hear my thoughts."
I shake my head, rendered as mute by her penetrating gaze as the utter silence of her mind. Her face is a mask, but I feel her familiar relief through Jasper.
"Renesmee?" she blurts.
"She's incredible," I reply, the smile naturally returning to my lips. "She can't wait to meet you—but it's probably best you hunt first." Because the rest of our family is afraid that this rational phase won't last if you don't hunt soon.
Bella's hand goes straight to her throat—so she does feel the burn. "Yes," she agrees, wide-eyed but still wholly in control.
I hold out my hand and the next instant hers is clutching mine, squeezing painfully tightly. But the pain is secondary to the electric charge between us.
One moment, we are a respectable distance apart; the next, Bella has wrapped herself around me, one leg curled around my leg, one arm around my neck, one hand fisted in my hair. If she weren't absolutely steady, she would've knocked me off my feet. And then she presses her lips against mine.
Only one thought survives the overwhelming passion—I have never been kissed before. My arms wind around her, and her body becomes my entire world. The taste of her venom gives me a little extra thrill, as does the strength in her physical form. I barely care that our family is watching. Even Emmett's crass thoughts can't touch me.
And then Bella tightens her grip—on my hair, on my neck, and on my leg. I can't entirely internalize the pain, and even if I could, it reminds me that I need to warn her before she cracks me.
"Ow," I murmur against her lips—and suddenly I'm alone. I sway momentarily, my instinctive balance keeping me on my feet no matter how unprepared I was for her instantaneous movement.
She is standing a full two yards away, hands clenched into fists by her sides, horror-struck at the thought of hurting me. "Sorry!" she gasps.
"Now it's your turn not to break me," I joke.
The tension in her body eases, and her concern becomes relief that she hasn't really hurt me, then self-consciousness. Her eyes flick across our family; "Sorry," she murmurs again, apologizing for our wanton display.
Carlisle simply shakes his head, his eyes sparkling and his smile wide, while Esme and the others give a few quiet chuckles (trying not to enrage the newborn, no matter how rationally she is behaving right now). Jasper alone is too confused to enjoy the moment: Bella's emotions are as powerful as he has ever felt from a newborn, but she is somehow managing to maintain control. I wonder if it's because she has retained a sense of perspective—her thirst is not the sole driver of her existence—but Jasper is at a complete loss to understand how she's doing it.
Bella notices his frown amongst all the smiles and freezes.
"It's not you," I promise her. "He's just—" I pause to find the right way to describe his worries (because I think they're unfounded).
"Waiting for me to snap?" she suggests solemnly.
I chuckle. "Yes. But I don't think that's going to happen."
She smiles and unfreezes, which only fuels Jasper's anxiety.
"He might feel better once you've hunted," I say gently, trying to appease him after revealing my "reckless" faith in the self-control of a newborn two minutes old.
Her crimson eyes flash and her hand reaches partway to her throat again before falling back to her side. (Had she actually forgotten her thirst?) Then, brow furrowed, she murmurs, "Just the two of us?"
"If that's what you want."
She nods once, flashing Emmett an apologetic smile in response to his disgruntled snort, then turns her attention to her feet; more specifically, to the ridiculous shoes she's wearing. We'd all heard the muted snap of one heel breaking off when she separated herself from me earlier, so Alice can't exactly object to Bella discarding the broken shoe—but she gives a little sigh as the intact shoe falls to the floor.
Bella doesn't acknowledge her (although Jasper feels a familiar flash of exasperation). She wiggles her toes in the soft carpet, then steps back within arm's reach and holds out her hand for me. I wrap my fingers around hers and she mirrors the motion carefully—as carefully as if I were human.
I feel the same charge of desire urging me to pull her into my arms once more, to lose myself in her kisses, and so does she—even without Jasper's extra sense, I can see it in her wild eyes—but she controls it, contains it. It is incredible to watch. And a little annoying.
"I'm not that fragile," I mutter, and she laughs.
The sound makes my heart soar.
"Wait," Alice cries, dashing out of the room. "You have to see yourself before you go!"
"There aren't any mirrors—"
"Water is reflective, Edward!"
Bella chuckles at that, and we share a smile; then we have to release each other's hand before our passions get the better of us once more. She must be eager to see herself—further proof that, like Carlisle, she isn't consumed by thirst the way the rest of us were at her tender age—so I appreciate our sister's insistence now.
Alice re-enters the room carrying Rosalie's huge, gilt-framed mirror, which is nearly twice as tall as she is, and several times as wide. She positions it in front of Bella while ensuring she has a direct view of Bella's face—except Bella's initial reaction is barely visible. Jasper can feel her intense pleasure, but it isn't until she meets my gaze in the mirror that a smile again lights up her face.
"We match," she says exultantly.
Easily ignoring the sad truth of it—because Renesmee is worth every negative—I decide to tease her with the truth. "I'm still ordinary compared to you."
She rolls her eyes—and then Jasper is caught off guard by the wave of horror that ripples through her. I understand, though: she is staring at her new eyes.
But she handles that emotion, too. "The eyes are creepy," she mutters after a second, her tone more joking than distraught; without Jasper's insight into her emotions, I would have had no clue of their initial intensity.
"They'll darken up in a few months," I assure her. "Animal blood dilutes the color more quickly. They'll turn amber first, then gold."
"Months?" she shrills, her voice expressing the fresh alarm that is still concealed beneath her vampire composure. Her perfect eyebrows are lifted incredulously, but they don't express even a tenth of the distress she is feeling.
Jasper takes a step forward, alarmed by the intensity of her sudden anxiety, and Bella freezes again. Her focus shifts inward, and I can see that she is assessing her emotions, checking herself for the breakdown Jasper is afraid of.
"The time will pass quickly," I murmur, daring to draw her attention.
Her gaze snaps back to my face in the mirror. My smile seems to reassure her, but her face is still a mask. Then her lips curve into an answering smile. "Now you mention it," she teases, "I might have an idea for that."
"I hope it's the same as mine."
"I'm sure it is."
"I doubt that," Emmett mutters, daring her wrath because he can't resist any longer; he's sick of me ignoring his thought-directed jibes.
Bella's smile fades as she glances at his smirk and then Jasper's furrowed brow; then she takes a deep, unnecessary breath. "I'm fine," she promises him—but that only confuses him all the more.
"I'm not sure," I murmur to him, "but I don't think there's anything wrong."
Bella frowns. "What question did I miss?"
I can't help grinning. "Jasper wonders how you're doing it."
"Doing what?"
"Controlling your emotions," Jasper answers, not willing to let me 'translate' for him, given my unjustified confidence in Bella's impossible self-possession. "I've never seen a newborn do that—stop an emotion in its tracks that way. You were upset, but then you reined it in, regained power over yourself. I was prepared to help, but you didn't need it."
She glances between the two of us, no doubt weighing the contrast between his anxious expression and my wide smile.
"It's very impressive, Bella," I say, lest her former depreciatory self-image affect her judgment now, "but you must be thirsty…"
Her smooth brow creases ever so slightly, and then she sighs. "Let's hunt."
Alice isn't happy about that. "What do you think?" she asks, gesturing to the goddess in the mirror.
"I'm not sure," Bella hedges, but the way she avoids looking at her face implies that the red eyes have diminished her pleasure.
"You're utterly breathtaking," I murmur, watching her in the mirror as I lift my hand to hover beside her cheek.
She follows my gaze and studies herself anew. Moving slowly, she reaches up to hold her hand beside mine. "Do I still look like me?" she murmurs doubtfully, her quick eyes taking in the slight but noticeable lengthening in her hand and fingers.
"Of course," I reply, although I'm only just starting to realize how much my ability to read the emotions in her face has been undermined.
The new guardedness notwithstanding, even without Jasper's insight, it is clear she doesn't appreciate my answer. When she drops her arm, I follow suit. "I know it sounds weird after everything I've said," she murmurs, "but she's too perfect."
"You've always been perfect," I say, despite expecting the eye roll that immediately follows. Then, hoping she still believes it now that she is one of us, I offer the perspective she has put forth on many occasions. "You are now as you were always meant to be."
It works; she smiles, and then something about her mouth seems to distract her. "Yes," she agrees, sounding happy again. Then she glances down at her body, eyes lingering on the exposed midriff I'm struggling to keep my hands off.
When she looks up, she grins at me, no doubt amused by the way my gaze lingered on her stomach, then smiles at Alice. "I concede that the dress looks good on me—but even dead, I'm never going out in public like this."
We all chuckle, pleased that she apparently remembers her human life so clearly.
"Good," I say firmly, because there's no way I could endure the naturally lascivious thoughts her divine form would inspire.
She flashes me another grin, then glances back at her face in the mirror and takes a deliberate breath, before turning to face me. "Ready when you are."
When I gesture to the open window across from us, however, a flicker of nerves exposes her reservations with this new mode of exit.
"Gentlemen first," she replies, managing an impressively casual tone.
I dip my head to accept her 'polite' offer, then saunter over to the opening, turning as I go in order to keep my eyes on her the whole time and making a show of stepping backward into space without altering my gait. She approaches the window and watches intently as I descend. Her eyes widen ever so slightly when I hit the ground lightly, having cushioned the impact so that there's barely a sound, without once looking down.
She takes a deep breath, then steps off. Jasper feels a burst of fear from her before the rush of falling through the air takes over and she starts to enjoy it. Her gaze darts across the ground, across me, and across the view, back and forth, before fixing on the ground as it draws close. She does an impressively good job of cushioning her fall, making only slightly more noise than I did, but it is the grace of her movements that catches us all—even me—by surprise.
Graceful is not a term that has ever been applied to a newborn, yet Bella moves with the fluidity of water over timeworn stone. She is graceful in stillness, too. Her posture had always been flawless, but now she stands perfectly erect, no sign of stiffness and no vestige of (the hopefully former) self-consciousness visible in her mien. She seems taller now, too, even though her physical height has scarcely changed.
We share another grin and then she looks back up at the second-story window and the majority of our family assembled there.
"You can jump up there when we get back," I quip, figuring there's at least a chance she's contemplating doing that amongst all the other thoughts she is apparently sustaining right now—this awe-inspiring composure makes missing out on her unique thoughts all the more devastating!
"All right," she concedes with a laugh, confirming my assumption. "So, what's the plan?"
"We jump the river," I say, pointing to a spot which will be visible to our whole family, including our excited daughter.
"I'll let you go first again," she says generously, exposing none of the fresh nerves I can feel through Jasper.
"As you wish."
To put on as much of a show as possible, I bound toward the river in two long strides before launching myself into the air from a large, flat stone at the water's edge. As I ascend through the air, I turn a somersault, adding a corkscrew so as to once again have Bella within my sight (rather than relying on our family's eyes).
For a split second, her open-mouthed expression betrays the admiration she's feeling; but when she sees the triumph in my face, she clamps her lips together.
"Show-off," she mutters after I land noiselessly on the other bank, and the familiar reproof makes me laugh.
To tease her, I give a theatrical bow, which makes her (and the rest of our audience) laugh.
Her nerves return, however, when she refocuses on her own jump. She studies the river for almost half a second, her eyes mapping out the path I took, before skipping a few paces to the right to give herself a longer run-up. Except, after springing off one foot and discovering that she reaches the same flat stone in a single bound, she doesn't hesitate before launching herself into the air.
She errs so much on the side of caution that she flies skyward in an arc that will take her deep into the dense forest behind me. I start running before she hits the ground, and I know exactly where she is—thanks to my own calculations and the many eyes of our watching family—but seeing her disappear into the trees a hundred yards ahead still sends a visceral jolt of terror through my body.
While homing in on her joyful laughter, I do my best to process the terrifying truth that her heartbeat is no longer the constant signal ringing out through the distance between us. It won't be long before she learns to completely quiet her breathing and moderate her steps, so I will soon have little more than her scent and her voice to follow whenever I lose sight of her.
My speed is almost as great a comfort as her laughter, helping me put aside the anxiety in the third of a second before I reach her. She is standing on a branch fifteen feet above the ground, still laughing. Everything around her is aglow, the ordinary made magic, more colorful, more vibrant, in the reflected light from her luminescent skin. I feel like I should sink to my knees in worship; maybe I would if I could concentrate on something so utterly unimportant as my own body. So I simply watch in awe as she gives one last musical chuckle and then steps off the branch, her bright eyes locked on mine, landing effortlessly by my side.
"That was fun," she declares. "What's next?"
Rather than spoil her high spirits by reminding her that we're supposed to be hunting, I propose another physical exploit. "How's your running form?"
"Let's find out!" she gushes—and then she is moving, already disappearing into the trees ahead by the time I spring into motion. "Keep up!" she calls over her shoulder, laughing when I arrive at her side before she's finished teasing me.
"Careful not to run into any trees," I tease back.
She lets out a glorious peal of laughter—and then ups the pace. I can't tell if she's running at full speed yet, but one of her strides is equivalent to four of mine. She really is a natural at this, both physically and in the way she takes advantage of the trails made by large animals to ease our passage through the forest.
Not letting it go unsaid, I say, "You're a natural-born runner."
"I'm a natural-born vampire," she corrects with another laugh.
I have to laugh, too—because she must be the furthest from a 'natural' vampire that has ever existed. But I know what she means, and I am equally pleased by the ease with which she has adjusted to her new body. "I'm glad you think so."
She smiles for a split second, then suddenly gets serious. "How worried were you that I wouldn't like being a vampire?"
"I wouldn't say I was worried, but it is a huge change…"
She ponders my words momentarily before shaking her head. "Not for me," she murmurs, and there's a wistful quality to her voice that leads me to believe she's thinking of all the other big changes she experienced in her short human life.
But the moment of introspection is fleeting; in another split second, she is distracted by something out to her left; then her attention is drawn by a pileated woodpecker launching itself from a branch above our heads, flapping noisily as it tries to gain altitude as quickly as possible.
As I watch her head swing from side to side, alongside my yearning for her thoughts, I realize just how much I have taken my sharper, swifter senses for granted. When she was human, her movements gave me all the time I needed to foresee her actions and read her reactions, but now that her new mind and body work as swiftly as mine, guessing the object of her focus or anticipating her intent seems all but impossible.
I knew it would be like this, but it is only now that I realize I'd expected to have time to adjust while Bella learned to manage her newborn instincts. I should have known she would adapt instantly—stretching my own adaptability to the limit. And yet, as always, she is also helping me cope. The way her eyes flit back to my face every half-second or so, as attentive as always, reassures me, and her frequent bursts of laughter make my heart sing.
As we race northeast through the forest, part of my attention is still held by our incredible daughter. Even as we approach a distance of ten miles, I can see and hear everything she can, almost as if I were there myself. (Right now, she is replaying her mother's beautiful laughter and our river crossings, while listening to the others express their wonder at the impossibly poised, rational newborn they just met.)
After 14 miles, her thoughts start to fade from my mind, but I don't really mourn the loss; Bella is simply too captivating. She is utterly incredible. I can hardly believe that she is only minutes old. But I remind myself that she is a newborn, even if there is nothing wild about her—easing her thirst should be our focus right now.
Before I've figured out a way to gently broach the subject of hunting, apropos of nothing, Bella suddenly gathers up her hair in both hands.
"I should have braided my hair," she exclaims. "It must be so tangled!"
I can't stop the little chuckle that escapes me. "It won't ever get tangled."
She drops her hands, letting her hair fall back down across her shoulders and back. "Wasn't Victoria's hair a mess?" she asks uncertainly.
"That was the work of centuries of total neglect. Nothing short of a jet engine could tangle your hair now."
It takes a moment for that news to sink in, and she has to comb her fingers through a few sections to confirm it for herself, but then she laughs. "Every time I think I know how amazing this life is, it gets even better."
"I'm glad," I murmur, wishing I could spare her from the worst aspects of this life (the bloodlust and the isolation from her human family) the way she has spared me.
"How fast are we going?" she asks excitedly, either to check her own calculations or to calibrate her internal yardstick.
"Six-hundred-seven-and-a-quarter miles per hour."
She laughs delightedly. "Can you go faster?"
I am intensely curious to know just how much faster she can already run—and how much faster I could push myself with her as my incentive—but I have to be the responsible one. "Shall we hunt first?"
She frowns—and then abruptly stops running. I'm three yards ahead before I can react, spinning around to return to her side.
"Sorry," she murmurs.
I shake my head. "I'll figure it out."
"We will," she amends.
As much as I appreciate her consideration, I find myself blurting, "There wouldn't be a problem if I could hear your thoughts." It is my own fault; clearly, I am too used to voicing my thoughts around her, but now she has the hearing and the mental swiftness to understand me. The way she cringes swamps me with guilt.
"You think I'm deliberately blocking you?" she murmurs, the hurt just barely audible in her hushed voice.
"No," I say quickly, cursing my thoughtlessness. "It was a poor attempt at humor."
"Nothing more?" she presses, seeing through my pathetic excuse.
Nodding would be untruthful, so I shrug lightly in an attempt to downplay my answer. "Maybe you could choose to let me in?"
She sighs. "How?"
Instinctively, I go to take her hand before remembering just how distracting the feel of her new body is; with the thrill of running still lingering in my body, I will lose my head the moment I touch her. So I drop my hand. "I'm sorry," I murmur instead. "It's selfish of me."
"I understand," she replies kindly. "And maybe I'm being selfish, too. Maybe I am blocking you."
She is still much too forgiving of my weakness, but I've already delayed us needlessly, so I don't want to dwell on the negative. "We'll figure it out," I say, pleased when she smiles. "After all, the others can't hear each other's thoughts."
"But it's normal for you, and I get how unsettling it must be having no warning of what I'm going to do."
"I'm not unsettled," I assure her. "It'll take a little adjustment, but no more than any of the other little things that are different now—for instance, I think you'll have to forgive me for being unnecessarily protective for a little while."
She laughs. "Of course—and I hope you won't have to forgive me if I hurt you."
Figuring I'll have a better chance of convincing her there's no need to feel guilty before she hurts me, I pick the 'happier' memory of a time I caused her physical harm (skipping over the injuries James inflicted, the time I threw her into a stack of glass plates, and the two days of torture she just endured). "I turned your body into a finger painting—any such count is massively in your favor."
As I'd expected, she smiles widely at the reminder, though it only takes a split second for her primary focus to shift from pleasure to sympathy. "Do you still feel guilty about that?"
"Yes," I admit, because anything else would be a lie, "but I have forgiven myself, because I know you don't want me to feel guilty about it—so remember that I don't want you to feel guilty either."
She nods again, and we share a comfortingly familiar moment of harmony. Staring into her vivid red eyes is a constant reminder of how changed she is—and yet her composure means I can already revel in the joy of my mate no longer being terrifyingly fragile.
And then, at no sign I can discern, she abruptly frowns and looks away.
"What's wrong?" I blurt, half afraid of the answer.
"My eyes," she murmurs forlornly. "They must spoil—"
"They don't," I interrupt, eager to relieve her of this imagined unpleasantness. She lifts her gaze back to mine and I feel like I can see the hopeful look beneath their sang-froid. "The color is a constant reminder of how strong you are now."
She smiles a little, but doesn't seem fully reassured. "They don't look like monsters' eyes?"
"They look like your eyes."
She snorts self-deprecatorily. "I know that's not true."
I raise my hand toward her face, before remembering that if I touch her, I'll lose sight of our purpose (easing Bella's thirst) altogether—not that my answer will do anything to remedy our current distraction. "Truthfully… the red turns me on."
"What?"
"I've never seen such a bright red—even Jasper hasn't."
She ponders that for a split second, her lips twitching as though she can't decide whether to smile or pout. "It's probably the extra blood in my system," she proposes, sounding happier beneath the hesitant tone. "Or maybe it's because you pumped me so full of venom…"
I chuckle at her phrasing. "That's my new favorite theory."
She laughs once, then abruptly lets out a sigh. "How do you keep track of everyone else's thoughts and your own? Mine are—" she gives up on words and instead mimes her head exploding.
The yearning I already feel for her thoughts multiplies a billion times. "Tell me?" I beg.
"I don't think I can—a lot of it isn't in words. Or, rather, most thoughts end up incomplete. Each one reminds me of another before I can even finish the first." But she isn't immune to my peculiar neediness, so she takes stock for a moment, then says, "I thought that, technically, vampires are dead—or undead, whatever that means—but I've never felt more alive, more connected with every living thing around me. Can I really hear the plants growing?"
"Yes, and animals burrowing through the earth."
She listens, then nods. "I think I can tell the difference."
"Can you hear the heartbeats?" I prompt, hoping to get us both back on track—remedying Bella's physical discomfort is the priority right now.
Her brow furrows ever so slightly, then her head whips around, orienting south toward the sound. "Deer?"
I nod, just barely stopping myself from telling her that they're elk, specifically, because the distinction isn't relevant (and would only place more attention on our unfortunate prey). Instead, to help calibrate her senses, I say, "Five of them, a little under a mile away."
I breathe with her as she tastes the air.
"They don't smell great," she mutters.
"When we're closer, they'll smell better—and worse."
She hmmms, then nods. "Let's hunt," she says firmly—but when she starts running, she goes at a 'leisurely' 237 miles per hour.
Even as we close to within a few hundred yards, Bella maintains a steady pace. I know she isn't looking forward to killing innocent creatures, so I'm considering offering to make this first kill for her. But such thoughts are entirely forgotten on our next synchronous breath—when the heady scent that fills our nostrils is no longer the musty ungulates.
Bella turns aside, sprinting east toward the forbidden source before I can even open my mouth.
I call her name as I race after her, but my voice has no effect. The vampire's instinctive bloodlust has blinded her to all else.
This catastrophe is one I've considered in the past, but now that it's actually happening, I feel utterly unprepared. Alone (because even if Alice has a vision of this, none of our family will be able to reach us in time), I can see only three possible outcomes: Bella killing the two humans before I can stop her, Bella ripping me apart and then killing the two humans, or (the least likely by far) Bella attacking me, then realizing I'm hurt and managing to stop herself.
"Bella, please!" I beg, trying to express every ounce of my fear through my voice in the hope that it might touch her. "Don't leave me!"
When there's still no response, I can't think of anything else to say that would improve our odds. If I had time, I'd break off my own arm in the hope of distracting her—but dismembering myself for the potential shock value only works if I can get her attention (and in that scenario, it would be even easier for her to incapacitate me). So I focus all my energy on catching up, willing my legs to move faster, to stretch farther on each stride.
As I close to within twenty yards, she suddenly emits a feral snarl and spins around, fixing me with the most frightening glare I've ever seen. It is my Bella, but there is no recognition in her eyes. I am nothing more than a would-be rival—a potential threat that she will not hesitate to eliminate if I dare to try stealing her prey.
I come to an immediate halt. It feels as though her warning scowl is what freezes me in place, stabbing me through the heart with its empty stare—and yet this is more than I'd dared hope for. "Bella," I murmur, begging her to see me.
And then, impossibly, she does. The hardness in her eyes is replaced by alarm, and the aggression drops from her pose.
I dare to take a step toward her, raising my hands in a universal signal of surrender. "Let me help," I murmur.
Her eyes flash across my hands and back up to my face, but otherwise she stays rigidly motionless, so I take another step—and then she suddenly bolts, sprinting northward.
"I have to get away from here," she hisses through gritted teeth.
Not wanting to risk reigniting her instinctive defensiveness, I give her a 30-yard head start before following after. For nine miles, she impels herself to run faster and faster. Then, at the start of the tenth mile, she finally slows, to warn me, before coming to a halt. As I close the distance between us, she sinks to the ground, hunching up on herself, gripping her ankles in opposite hands and growling softly.
"It's okay," I murmur as I approach, just in case she needs the reminder that it's me.
"I still know exactly where they are," she moans, her voice full of bitter longing.
It breaks my heart to see her in pain—pain that I caused with my unforgiveable carelessness. "Let me help you," I beg as I kneel down in front of her, trying to think through the crippling remorse.
When she raises her right hand, I have a split second's warning that our passion is the distraction she's choosing before she grabs my face and slams our lips together.