Hothouse Flower (Addicted #4)(7)

“No,” I say. “No, I wouldn’t.” Because she’d hear me scream, and I’d have to explain why I have these intense nightmares. And no one knows but Ryke. Not my sisters: Lily and Rose. Not Rose’s husband. Not Lily’s fiancé (who happens to be Ryke’s brother).

Just him. It’s a secret he’s kept for half a year. When I graduated from prep school about four months ago, I moved out of my parent’s house and into a Philly apartment. Things got a little worse, so he spends the night.

At first he just crashed on the couch.

But I couldn’t sleep, and his proximity helped keep my anxiety at bay.

Anxiety—such a weird word. I’ve never been anxious about anything before. Not really. Not until the media surrounded my family.

For the first time in my life, I’m truly scared.

And it’s not even of sharks or alligators or heights and daredevil stunts.

I am scared of people. Of things that people can do to me. Of things they’ve done.

Ryke knows my fears pretty well because I never lie to him. Two years ago, when I was sixteen, he held out my motorcycle helmet, about to teach me how to ride a Ducati. He said, “For us to have any kind of friendship, you can’t pretend with me. I’ve been involved in lies most of my f*cking life, and it’s not something I’m particularly fond of. So you can cut the I don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m little and na?ve bullshit. I don’t play that game. I never will.”

It took me a full minute to process the gravity of his words. But I understood them. In order to be his friend, I couldn’t save face. I had to be me. It wasn’t a lot to ask. But back then, I’m not even sure I knew who I was. “Okay,” I accepted. So far, I’ve kept my word. No lies. And in turn, I’ve opened up more to Ryke than I have to anyone else. Plus, he’s been the only one here long enough to listen.

“Are you worried about going to Paris alone?” he asks me. “You haven’t slept by yourself in four months.”

“I can’t keep you forever, can I? Like a miniature Ryke Meadows carry-on or pocket-sized version?” I try hard not to smile at this.

“I’m not a f*cking teddy bear.”

I gasp. “Really? I thought you were.”

He chucks a pillow at my face.

I smile so hard.

He loves throwing things.

“If you’re scared, maybe you shouldn’t go to Fashion Week without your mom.”

“No,” I say. “I need to do this on my own.” I’ve wanted this for so long—before the shit storm blew in from the press and paparazzi. I dreamed about sight-seeing, and my mother won’t let me do that if she’s attached to my side. She’ll only steer me towards fashion designers, schmoozing everyone for the chance to be the face of their clothing line.

“Well, you have my number,” he says. “Don’t be afraid to f*cking call me, okay?”

I nod, and he climbs off my bed and goes to my dresser, searching through the bottom drawer for some of his clothes that he keeps here. I trace his features quickly. He’s unshaven, so he looks a little older than twenty-five, his actual age. And his brows do this thing where they furrow hard, like he’s in a bad mood. But really, he’s just brooding.

It’s his normal expression, one that’s insanely attractive in this possessive—I will protect you even if it f*cking kills me—quality that I didn’t think I would like until I met him.

And it drew me in like this magnetic pull or a moth to a flame. All those cheesy things people say about attraction.

But below the physical connection (which I’m sure isn’t too hard for any girl to possess with a guy like Ryke Meadows) there’s something more strong and pure. A friendship built from three years of non-f*cking. Of talking and laughing and yes, maybe a little bit of flirting.

And below that. There is only need.

I didn’t realize it was there—that need—until the nightmares of my dreams became the nightmares of my life. And he’s the kind of guy who wants to slay all those monsters for me. Too bad he can’t get to the ones in my head.

Even if he tries.

As he grabs a clean shirt and jeans, he straightens up and meets my gaze. I shouldn’t stare anymore, but I end up eyeing his muscles, the ones that are so supremely cut. Most people would be able to tell that he’s an athlete by looking—and not some muscular bodybuilder type. He’s light enough that he can ascend a mountain quickly, but strong enough that he can carry his weight on a single finger.

A black tattoo with reds, oranges and yellows engulfs his right shoulder, right chest and ribs. It’s an intricate design of a phoenix bound at the ankles, the inked chain extending along his side. A gray anchor is on his waist, a portion disappearing beneath his drawstring pants.

He looks kinda like someone you’d dream about waking up next to but never really think you would.

Despite this darkness that often swirls in his eyes, there’s a hardness along his jaw that’s dangerous, unapproachable, something that instantly hypnotizes me.

I can’t look away.

Even though I should.

His eyes narrow with each ticking second. “Don’t look at me like that, Daisy.”

“I’m not looking at you like anything.”

“I can tell when someone’s attracted to me,” he says without missing a beat.