Page 20 of Twisted Redemption

“On your side, Daisy.”

“Shut up,” she groans, but she rolls over.

“Call me if you need anything, okay? And I’m turning on the alarm.”

Her face scrunches up, and I swear I hear her whisper, “Stupid.”

I do a quick sweep of the house, because dammit, I need the peace of mind. And then I go, arming the security system before I step outside.

I sit in my car for a few minutes before I leave, going over the night. My mind keeps snagging on one thing. One look.

The satisfaction in Brooke’s eyes after I punched the guy who touched her. Like she was using him to get a reaction out of me.

Like she wanted a reaction from me.

Staring up at her bedroom window, I let out a sigh.

I just need to wait a few months, until after the wedding. And then Brooke can have any reaction from me that she wants.

But for now, I need to disappear from her fucking life, before I make things worse.

CHAPTER FIVE

BROOKE

CALL ME IF you need anything.

Blaze’s words echo through my mind. Was that a dream? Did he really bring me home? Carry me up the stairs and put me to bed?

Sitting up, I groan, half from the pounding headache I have, half from remembering that I asked him to stay. To kiss me again.

Where are your pajamas, Daisy?

On your side, Daisy.

Daisy, Daisy, Daisy.

A hand flies to my mouth. Did I try to undress in front of him? No. No no no no no. It was a dream. It must’ve been.

Yet the only memory of me getting home last night was with him.

Slowly, my stomach filling with dread, I head downstairs and check the alarm.

Armed.

A tendril of warmth curls through me. There’s only one reason he’d turn it on, and it’s not because he hates me.

But the warmth fades as quickly as it came. Because that means that all of my memories of last night are real.

I want you to kiss me. I loved the way you kissed me, Blaze.

“Fuck,” I whisper, just as the doorbell rings. My eyes widen, the memory of me sliding off my jeans in front of Blaze too real.

Thankfully, one of the boxes in the living room is full of clothes, so I snatch a pair of shorts and yank them on before answering the door.

The sunlight is excruciating, but I manage to smile at the guy standing in front of me, holding a paper bag and a coffee cup from my favorite café.

“Order for Brooke Grayson?” he says.

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