Page 46 of Twisted Redemption

Downstairs, Blaze is leaning against the kitchen counter, phone in hand. He glances up at me, his gaze raking over my body and snagging on my bruises.

“Let me look at your head.”

“It’s fine. I cleaned it by myself.”

“I want to see how it’s healing.”

Rolling my eyes, I pull myself up onto one of the stools. “You looked at it yesterday morning. It’s not like it’s going to look much different.”

He grits his teeth, setting his phone on the counter. “Would you please be invested in your wellbeing even a little? We need to watch it to make sure it doesn’t get infected.”

“I told you. I cleaned it myself.”

My stomach growls, but breakfast is the last thing I want to think about right now. I groan inwardly, leaning my head on the counter. I realize my mistake too late, wincing when Blaze’s fingers push aside the hair around my cut. When he pulls away, he doesn’t say a word.

“Did you sleep at all?” The words come out of my mouth, but I regret them instantly. Don’t let him know you care. He’ll just use it against you.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, but his voice has softened just a smidge.

“You didn’t sleep Friday night either, did you?” I straighten, watching as he grabs a bowl from a cabinet and some cereal from another. Looking at him, you wouldn’t be able to tell that he’s an insomniac. He doesn’t look sleep-deprived at all.

In fact, it’s just the opposite. He looks... good.

For a split second, he meets my gaze and shakes his head so slightly I think I might be imagining it.

I frown. That can’t be good for his health.

Blaze grabs milk from the fridge, sloshing it over the cereal. “How are you feeling? Still sore? Headache?”

“Fine,” I mumble, jumping back when he sets the bowl in front of me with a spoon. Normally, I’d dive in, especially since I locked myself in my room yesterday and didn’t have access to the kitchen.

But all I can do is stare at the bowl and try to find the will to eat.

It doesn’t come.

“I need to feed Angel,” I murmur, sliding off the stool. But there’s already food and water in the little bowls sitting on the floor.

“Sit down and eat, Brooke.” Blaze’s voice is firm.

“You can’t tell me what to do.” I turn to head into the living room, but he grabs me and sits me back down on the stool. Then he moves to the other side of the counter, watching me. His glare is stern.

It’s enough to make me pick up the spoon and take a bite of cereal. But the more I stare into the bowl, the more those old, shameful feelings come back.

Not good enough.

You don’t deserve it.

I push the cereal around with my spoon.

“If you don’t eat willingly, I’m not above forcing food down your throat.” He’s gripping the counter so hard that his knuckles are white. The veins in his forearm are extra defined, and the stupid, lovesick girl in me can’t help but stare.

When I don’t respond, Blaze rubs a hand over his face. “You barely ate yesterday. You’re falling back into old patterns, Daisy, and it’s not good. You need to eat.”

When I look at him, my heart stops. He looks exactly the way he did the last time he found out I’d relapsed. Worried, angry, and a little bit panicked.

Like he really does still care.

“Do you want a breakfast soufflé? Do you want a different kind of cereal? Waffles? Toast?”

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