Page 119 of Stormswept Colorado

That beat of possessiveness in my heart, in my brain, raised the pleasure even higher.

And I was hers. All of me.

Always.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Ayla

“I’ll walk you home, Ayla,”Sergeant Carpenter said.

Smiling, I pocketed the money he’d just paid me for babysitting that night. His son was reading comics in his room before bed, and Mrs. Carpenter was relaxing on their couch watching TV.

“It’s just next door. You don’t have to.”

“No, it’s late. Want to make sure you’re safe. It’s no trouble at all.”

We walked through the Carpenters’ front yard, past their planters of flowers. Red daisies grew in a pot on the side closest to my house. The same red daisies the sergeant had left in a bouquet on my porch for my birthday.

He was a nice man. A good father.Proof that some of those existed in the world, unlike the colonel.

Whatever. The less time I spent dwelling on my dad, the better. I had to deal with him enough in person. I couldn’t wait until I was old enough to get out of here and live on my own.

We stepped onto my house’s front porch. The light was off, both of us mere shadows. “Goodnight,” I said, but Sergeant Carpenter didn’t go. Instead, he stepped closer.

“You know, I never got a chance to enjoy myteenage years. I became a dad way too young. What I wouldn’t give to be sixteen again.”

“Okay.” I shrugged, not sure why he was telling me this. “I promise, it’s not that great.”

“You’re special, Ayla. You could have the world in the palm of your hand. You have no idea how beautiful you really are.”

The sergeant pulled something from behind his back. A red daisy. He held it out, reaching toward me.

The daisy melted into his palm, turning to blood that spilled over his skin and onto the porch.

I screamed, and the door burst open behind me. My father stood there, so tall he could barely fit in the doorway. “I knew you were a worthless little—” He grabbed my shoulder, yanking me into the darkness.

I jolted upright in the bed, a scream still on my lips.

My hands fisted the sheets. Someone else was here, broad shoulders in silhouette, and I cringed away from him.

“Sweetheart, it’s me,” Teller said softly. “You were having a nightmare.”

“Teller.”It’s him. Just him. Somehow, I managed to breathe. I crawled toward him, folding myself into his arms. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. You’re okay. I just didn’t want to touch you until you were fully awake. I know how nightmares can be.”

He was right. In my fear and confusion, I’d almost pushed him away.

“Have some water.” Teller grabbed the water bottle from my nightstand, and I took a few gulps.

That had been so awful. It took me a couple of minutes for my thoughts to become coherent again and my stomach to settle.

“Did you have nightmares?” I asked, voice hoarse. “After you were wounded?” He’d told me before about his flashbacks.

“Yep. I did.” Teller rubbed my back. “Still do, every once in a while.”

I burrowed as close to him as I could. “I had a lot of bad dreams around the time Lori died. I’d wake up in a cold sweat.” Iwould dream about the basement. My father yelling at me through the closed door.

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