Breaking Dawn   ::   Meyer Stephenie

And then I was a little angry, because he wasdarkening this most perfect of all mornings with his pessimistic assumptions.

“Why would you jump to that conclusion? I’ve never been better than I am now.”

His eyes closed. “Stop that.”

“Stop what ?”

“Stop acting like I’m not a monster for having agreed to this.”

“Edward!” I whispered, really upset now. He was pulling my bright memory through the darkness, staining it. “Don’t ever say that.”

He didn’t open his eyes; it was like he didn’t want to see me.

“Look at yourself, Bella. Then tell me I’m not a monster.”

Wounded, shocked, I followed his instruction unthinkingly and then gasped.

What had happened to me? I couldn’t make sense of the fluffy white snow that clung to my skin. I shook my head, and a cascade of white drifted out of my hair.

I pinched one soft white bit between my fingers. It was a piece of down.

“Why am I covered in feathers?” I asked, confused.

He exhaled impatiently. “I bit a pillow. Or two. That’s not what I’m talking about.”

“You… bit a pillow? Why? ”

“Look, Bella!” he almost growled. He took my hand—very gingerly—and stretched my arm out. “Look at that .”

This time, I saw what he meant.

Under the dusting of feathers, large purplish bruises were beginning to blossom across the pale skin of my arm. My eyes followed the trail they made up to my shoulder, and then down across my ribs. I pulled my hand free to poke at a discoloration on my left forearm, watching it fade where I touched and then reappear. It throbbed a little.

So lightly that he was barely touching me, Edward placed his hand against the bruises on my arm, one at a time, matching his long fingers to the patterns.

“Oh,” I said.

I tried to remember this—to remember pain—but I couldn’t. I couldn’t recall a moment when his hold had been too tight, his hands too hard against me. I only remembered wanting him to hold me tighter, and being pleased when he did.…

“I’m… so sorry, Bella,” he whispered while I stared at the bruises. “I knew better than this. I should not have—” He made a low, revolted sound in the back of his throat. “I am more sorry than I can tell you.”

He threw his arm over his face and became perfectly still.

I sat for one long moment in total astonishment, trying to come to terms—now that I understood it—with his misery. It was so contrary to the way that I felt that it was difficult to process.