Bella trusts him. In her way, Bella trusts him. 

If he’d made her cross, she’d tell him. In her way, she’d tell him. And now that he’s asked the question, out loud, there’s another voice in this place of shadows. It’s not just something that looks like Bella, sitting down for the quiet talk he’d always hoped to have with her, watching him with eyes that wouldn’t rip through him and pluck out his every feeling, bearing coffee, and softness, and telling him what was going on. What she felt. What she wanted. What he could do.

No. As a matter of fact, this Bella couldn’t tell him what was going on.

Bella trusts him.

“You are right. Your questions are relevant.” His chair scrapes against the white floor as he pushes back from the table. The noise bites at his ear. “But I think your heart ought to be a part of this conversation.”

There is not a sword in his hands. There is a coffee cup in his hands. If it matters at all.

“Take me to her. Please.”

Bella trusts him.