What Edward was thinking while Bella is asleep on their first night on Isle Esme.

Disclaimer; Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer.


"Bella," I breathed, tasting the silence.

Gazing upon her sleeping face, I brushed back the lock of hair that had fallen across her skin, pallad in contrast to the rich browness of the individual strands. Closing my eyes, I breathed a sigh of relief, sending a flurry of feathers into the air, where they floated down slowly; creating intricate patterns in the air, dancing.

I had done it.

I didn't kill her.

She was here, asleep in my arms.

She was right again, which didn't surprise me, as I had made many mistakes, I had a century's worth under my belt.

Her lips trembled, and she rolled over, "Edward," she whispered.

As I rearranged my arms, allowing her to lie flat across my chest, I let out a low hiss.

A purple bruise blossomed across the small of her bare back, small yet defined, like a small rose. My eyes narrowed as I scanned across her body, looking for the shaded colour in her unusually pale skin.

I clenched my jaw as I saw it, straining away from the battered body of the girl I loved.

There, just above the crook in her elbow, was another blossom, larger this time, darker.

No. Not a blossom. A hand.

Tentatively, I untangled my right hand from her delicate fram, and extended my arm. I stopped midair, poised, ready to match my palm to the print that was growing steadily darker as the night wore on.

I didn't need to see how my hands fit the outline on her arms, her legs, her back, her skin.

I knew it was my fault.

I knew it was me.

Me that hurt her, that could do such a thing, to physically mark her.

A second hiss caused another snowstorm of feathers, but this time I wasn't smiling. Turning away from my angel, lying there so peacefully, my eyes fell on the tattered remains of the pillows I had destroyed.

A mental image filled my head, Bella. Not pillows destroyed.

I would not, could not, hurt her again.

The space in my mind that was usually trying to block out the array of voices was now quiet, an upside to being all alone in the middle of the ocean, and for once, I felt oddly alone although my angel, my broken, battered angel, was there asleep in my arms.