Hothouse Flower (Addicted #4)(130)

He groans. “Fuck.” He moves faster and faster. So hard. So crazy. So f*cking insane. “Dais…”

“Ryke…” My hands find his, one on the backside of my thigh, raising my leg, the other on the bed beside my hair. I hold both, and with one more thrust, he’s true to his word.

He releases, and I feel my body clenching around him. I shut my eyes and breathe. I just ran around the world in thirty-five minutes.

He stays inside of me while he crawls onto the bed and pulls me into his arms. We kiss for probably another five minutes. And then as we both relax against each other, he says, “This wasn’t to help you fall asleep.”

He’s mentioned on numerous occasions that he would never medicate me with sex. “It was a just because f*ck?” I ask with a smile.

“No,” he whispers, “it was an I love you f*ck.”

I brighten. “No wonder it was my favorite.”

He combs my hair, my breathing beginning to match his steady rhythm. “Do you need me to check the doors?” he asks.

“I’m okay.” I’m not as paranoid as I was before we were together. I don’t think starting a relationship necessarily fixed my problems. But knowing Ryke will be here for me one-hundred percent—it’s a security that I didn’t have before. It squashes most of my irrational fear.

I rest my cheek against his chest. I don’t fall back to sleep right away. And he stays awake with me for however long it takes. Just holding my bare, tired body until slumber finally calls me to a peaceful place.

I drift to sleep in his arms, where I know I’ll be safe.





< 62 >

RYKE MEADOWS



Movie night at Rose’s Princeton house has already turned into a f*cking fight. Gravity stays paused on the flat screen with Sandra Bullock suspended in space. Besides the furniture, the TV is the only thing left standing in the living room. All the books are packed away and the pictures on the walls have been taken down and rolled in bubble wrap.

Lo and Rose have been fighting for the past ten minutes, and unfortunately Lo’s go-to move is to throw popcorn at her. She swats away another flying kernel.

“I’m trying to talk to you civilly,” Rose combats. “Stop pelting me with your popcorn.”

“I will when you start f*cking listening to me.” He throws another kernel at her, and it lands on her lap.

Connor has to grab Rose around the waist, since she looks ready to spring off the couch.

“Careful, Rose, you’re pregnant. You’re not going to be able to take out your claws for seven more months,” Lo tells her in his edged voice.

“Don’t be an ass,” I cut in. I hold Daisy on my lap as we sit in the big chair facing the TV. She stays quiet, always the spectator of fights, never really in them. It’s not a coincidence. She hates this shit and tries to avoid inserting herself into these situations. I’m not as nice.

Lo and Rose continue to bicker, and I drift out of the argument as I watch Daisy delete a text message from her mom. My stomach caves.

“Hey,” I whisper, and her big green eyes meet mine. “Don’t make my f*cking mistakes, okay?” I tuck a strand of pink hair behind her ear. I’m the cynical one who holds grudges. She’s the lighthearted girl who forgives and opens her arms to strangers. I don’t want her to change because of this.

“She called the cops on you, Ryke,” she murmurs. “It’s not okay.”

“I’m already f*cking over it,” I say. My publicists have been blasting the media, denying the allegation, and reminding people that Greg Calloway confirmed to People that our relationship started after Daisy turned eighteen. It was his way of apologizing for his wife’s rash, emotional decision.

But the pictures of me going to jail—the headlines that circulated through every major magazine—those won’t ever disappear. Not even with a public statement. The backlash—I felt it, even if I don’t read tabloids. The nasty stares at the gym, the glares at the f*cking grocery store. Time magazine pulled that issue of us off the racks.

There is a whole lot of f*cking hate towards me. And a lot towards Daisy too, for sticking by my side. I don’t care what anyone thinks except the people in this room and our families. But the more people attack “Raisy”—as the press has called us—the more she blames her mom.

The more her hate stirs.

“How?” she asks. “I watch you get handcuffed, all because of her.”

“It was her way of protecting you and saying f*ck you to me. That’s it, Dais. She loves you, you know that.” I pause. “And you love her.”

Daisy stares at her cellphone with a watery gaze. I hug her close and kiss her head. Our mother problems have always been similar; mine are just a few more years down the road from hers. I took a wrong turn, and I don’t want her to follow me this time.

I tilt her chin up, and she says, “I’ll think about what you said.”

“Okay,” I nod. My voice lowers even more. “Are you going to talk to your sisters about your sleeping issues?”

Her face falls. “After this?” This past week, she’s been more open to the idea of sharing all the details of what happened in the past, even the most painful one.

“Yeah.” I give her a look, to make sure she knows what I mean.