Vs. Iron

	“Bella, I could kill you,” he whispered.
	“I don’t think you could.”
	Edward’s eyes tightened. He lifted his hand from my face and reached quickly behind himself for something I couldn’t see. There was a muffled snapping sound, and the bed quivered beneath us.
	Something dark was in his hand; he held it up for my curious examination. It was a metal flower, one of the roses that adorned the wrought iron posts and canopy of his bed frame. His hand closed for a brief second, his fingers contracting gently, and then it opened again.
	Without a word, he offered me the crushed, uneven lump of black metal. It was a cast of the inside of his hand, like a piece of play dough squeezed in a child’s fist. A half-second passed, and the shape crumbled into black sand in his palm.