Page 15 of A Twisted Gift

As I observe, I plan my best path to get Rose out of here. All we’ll need to do is avoid the kitchen and the halls in between, and we shouldn’t run into any problems.

It only takes an hour before I see a couple men from the auction leave for the night. I stay next to Adeline for another fifteen minutes, keeping a discreet eye on Ivan. Impatience now will only lead to disaster later. So will giving into my impulse to wring the motherfucker’s neck.

“You’ll be good from here on out?” I ask Adeline the moment I notice Ivan glancing at his watch.

“More than good. I’ve got multiple guys who’ll happily take me home. And…” She smirks. “I think I’ll actually enjoy myself.”

“Good. Thank you again.”

“Thankyou.You have no idea what this money means to me. Now go.” She waves me off. “You’ve got… things to do. Whatever they are.”

After wishing her a good night, I weave through the party. My first stop is the mostly empty foyer. I give the butler a frazzled smile and rake my hand through my hair. “Sorry, may I have mine and my friend’s coat? She’s not feeling well. I think it’s probably best that I get her home.”

“Of course, Mr. Hawthorne.” He disappears into a small room, coming back with our things. “I hope she feels better soon.”

“Thank you.”

Once I’ve turned away, I breathe a sigh of relief. If he was suspicious of Adeline’s absence, he kept it to himself. Hopefully he thinks she’s in the bathroom or something.

Steering clear of the ballroom, I head for the back staircase and creep up the steps. Upstairs, I hear sniffles coming from Rose’s room. I turn the knob, but the door doesn’t budge, and I realize there’s a deadbolt on it. Not on the inside, but on the outside.

Horror fills me.He locks her inside?

“H-hello?” she calls.

Quickly, I undo the lock and shut myself in her room. It looks like she’s thrown herself onto her bed and has been crying into her pillow, but the second she sees me, she scrambles to her feet. A silk robe covers her, one much more modest than what she presumably still has on underneath.

“W-what are you doing in here?” she asks frantically.

It stings that she doesn’t recognize me, but I can’t blame her. It’s been thirteen years, and when people first look at me, usually all they can see is the scar.

“It’s all right,” I tell her soothingly. “I’m here to help you.”

“Help me?” She’s staring at me with terror in her eyes, backing up until she hits the wall next to her window seat. “Who are you?”

“It’s me, Rose.”

“Rose,” she whispers, her brows furrowing.

She was so young when we met—six or seven, I think. I remember her clearly, but that’s because I’m four years older. Is it… is it possible she doesn’t remember me?

“Your secret friend,” I say, unable to hide the way my voice shakes with desperation. “We would meet under the bush by the fence, remember? You’d tell me stories, and I’d teach you how to make paper airplanes. I brought my marbles once to show you, and we lost one in the mulch. You told me the gardener found it and—”

“Erik!” She rushes toward me and jumps into my arms, wrapping her own around me in a tight embrace.

She remembers.

I know I could’ve told her my name. It’s the only reasonable thing to do. But I wanted her to say it, and my name on her lips is just as satisfying to hear as I remember.

“You remember,” I breathe. “You—”

“Wait.” As quickly as Rose leapt into my arms, she wrenches herself away from me. She stumbles back, shaking her head. Hurt and betrayal bleed into her expression, wiping away her relief. “No.No.You were downstairs. You were at the auction. I saw you. What… how could you—”

“It was the only way I could get inside.” Rushing toward her, I grab her shoulders, needing her to understand. I can’t stand her thinking that I’m like one of those men, not even for a second. “The only way I can get you out.”

Well, I suppose that’s not entirely sure. I could’ve bought her. I would’ve happily done it, but it wouldn’t have been right. There’s no way Charles Montgomery is getting his hands on any of myfamily’s money, and Rose deserves better than to be purchased. Knowing she feels indebted to me would be as bad as the torture of not knowing if she was real or not.

Hesitantly, she reaches for me. Her fingertips trace my face, her eyes searching mine. “It’s you?Reallyyou?”

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