24. VOTEHE WAS NOT PLEASED, THAT MU

24. VOTE

HE WAS NOT PLEASED, THAT MUCH WAS EASY TO READ in his face. But, without further argument, he took me in his arms and sprang lithely from my window, landing without the slightest jolt, like a cat. It was a little bit farther down than I'd imagined.

"All right then," he said, his voice seething with disapproval. "Up you go."

He helped me onto his back, and took off running. Even after all this time, it felt routine. Easy. Evidently this was something you never forgot, like riding a bicycle.

It was so very quiet and dark as he ran through the forest, his breathing slow and even—dark enough that the trees flying past us were nearly invisible, and only the rush of air in my face truly gave away our speed. The air was damp; it didn't burn my eyes the way the wind in the big plaza had, and that was comforting. As was the night, too, after that terrifying brightness. Like the thick quilt I'd played under as a child, the dark felt familiar and protecting.

I remembered that running through the forest like this used to frighten me, that I used to have to close my eyes. It seemed a silly reaction to me now. I kept my eyes wide, my chin resting on his shoulder, my cheek against his neck. The speed was exhilarating. A hundred times better than the motorcycle.

I turned my face toward him and pressed my lips into the cold stone skin of his neck.

"Thank you," he said, as the vague, black shapes of trees raced past us. "Does that mean you've decided you're awake?"

I laughed. The sound was easy, natural, effortless. It sounded right. "Not really. More that, either way, I'm not trying to wake up. Not tonight."

"I'll earn your trust back somehow," he murmured, mostly to himself. "If it's my final act."

"I trust you," I assured him. "It's me I don't trust."

"Explain that, please."

He'd slowed to a walk—I could only tell because the wind ceased—and I guessed that we weren't far from the house. In fact, I thought I could make out the sound of the river rushing somewhere close by in the darkness.

"Well—" I struggled to find the right way to phrase it. "I don't trust myself to be… enough. To deserve you. There's nothing about me that could hold you."

He stopped and reached around to pull me from his back. His gentle hands did not release me; after he'd set me on my feet again, he wrapped his arms tightly around me, hugging me to his chest.

"Your hold is permanent and unbreakable," he whispered. "Never doubt that."

“But how could I not?

"You never did tell me…" he murmured.

"What?"

"What your greatest problem is."

"I'll give you one guess." I sighed, and reached up to touch the tip of his nose with my index finger.

He nodded. "I'm worse than the Volturi," he said grimly. "I guess I've earned that."

I rolled my eyes. "The worst the Volturi can do is kill me."

He waited with tense eyes.

"You can leave me," I explained. "The Volturi, Victoria… they're nothing compared to that."

Even in the darkness, I could see the anguish twist his face—it reminded me of his expression under Jane's torturing gaze; I felt sick, and regretted speaking the truth.

"Don't," I whispered, touching his face. "Don't be sad."

He pulled one corner of his mouth up halfheartedly, but the expression didn't touch his eyes. "If there was only some way to make you see that I can't leave you," he whispered. "Time, I suppose, will be the way to convince you."

I liked the idea of time. "Okay," I agreed.

His face was still tormented. I tried to distract him with inconsequentials.

"So—since you're staying. Can I have my stuff back?" I asked, making my tone as light as I could manage.

My attempt worked, to an extent: he laughed. But his eyes retained the misery. "Your things were never gone," he told me. "I knew it was wrong, since I promised you peace without reminders. It was stupid and childish, but I wanted to leave something of myself with you. The CD, the pictures, the tickets—they're all under your floorboards."

"Really?"

He nodded, seeming slightly cheered by my obvious pleasure in this trivial fact. It wasn't enough to heal the pain in his face completely.

"I think," I said slowly, "I'm not sure, but I wonder… I think maybe I knew it the whole time."

"What did you know?"

I only wanted to take away the agony in his eyes, but as I spoke the words, they sounded truer than I expected they would.

"Some part of me, my subconscious maybe, never stopped believing that you still cared whether I lived or died. That's probably why I was hearing the voices."

There was a very deep silence for a moment. "Voices?" he asked flatly.

"Well, just one voice. Yours. It's a long story." The wary look on his face made me wish that I hadn't brought that up. Would he think I was crazy, like everyone else? Was everyone else right about that? But at least that expression—the one that made him look like something was burning him—faded.

"I've got time." His voice was unnaturally even.

"It's pretty pathetic."

He waited.

I wasn't sure how to ex