“Maybe you’re not supposed to remember yet,” I tell her. “Maybe you’re meant to experience things fresh.”
She laughs, bright but a little shaky. “That’s a very optimistic way of looking at a brain injury.”
I shrug. “It’s the only way I get through my days.”
She giggles, and I feel it low in my gut.
The food comes. Daisy eats slow, methodical, like she’s trying to teach herself how to use a fork. Her posture is rigid at first, but halfway through she slouches a little, picks at her omelet with her fingers. I watch the way her mouth moves, how she licks a spot of hollandaise from her wrist. She catches me staring and gives a tiny, flustered smile.
I’m hard again under the table. I’m never not hard around her.
“Sorry,” she says, setting her fork down. “I keep feeling like I’m supposed to say something. Maybe that I’m grateful? Or scared? Or that I want to run away, but I don’t know where I’d go.”
I lean forward, keeping my voice low. “You don’t owe me anything, Daisy. I just want you safe. That’s all.”
She nods, and I can see the trust start to solidify behind her eyes. That’s what terrifies me most. She believes me. She always did.
We talk about the weather, the city, how she likes her coffee. I throw out little clues, just to see if she’ll take the bait: I mention a band I know she loved, a beach we visited once, the name of her high school. Each time, her brow furrows, but nothing lands.
It’s the strangest version of seduction I’ve ever attempted. I feel like I’m wooing a ghost. A very beautiful ghost, but a ghost nonetheless.
The waiter refills her mimosa, and when she sips, I watch a drop cling to her lip. I want to lean over and catch it with my tongue. I want to ruin her in every way. But instead, I sit back, cool and controlled, and ask, “Is it weird, not knowing your real name?”
She shrugs, and the motion is so soft and feminine I almost lose it. “I think I like Daisy,” she says. “It’s pretty, and simple, and it’s mine now. It feels right.”
“Good, I’m glad,” I tell her. “I don’t want you to be afraid.”
She smiles at me, and it’s like the sun shining on my form. I let myself relax for the first time in days. Maybe I don’t have to worry about her remembering. Maybe this is my second chance, my blank page, if I don’t fuck it up.
When we finish, Daisy stands, smoothing her skirt over her thighs, and for the first time, she doesn’t hesitate. She slips her arm through mine, and we leave together.
The wait staff watches us go, but I don’t care. Let them stare. I have what I want.
As we reach the elevator, Daisy squeezes my hand. “Thank you, Hunter. For everything.”
I don’t know what to say. I just stare at her, and the world goes a little blurry at the edges.
She’s not my stepsister right now. She’s just Daisy. And she’s perfect.
“So what next?” she asks, her tone innocent, those big blue eyes looking at me.
I pause.
“I think the club can help you,” is my low growl. “But we should talk to a manager to understand what we can do for you.”
Her small hands squeeze my arm.
“Yes, of course, Hunter. I trust you.”
Those three words cause possession to rage in my chest although I hide my reaction. This girl needs me. Trusts me. Belongs to me.
I press the button for the fifth floor, and when the doors close, I let myself imagine a hundred ways to break the rules.
All of them start with her.
All of them end with me on my knees, begging for forgiveness I’ll never deserve.
Sanctum is a vault of secrets.Most people think it’s just a club, a place for men in suits to drink and debauch themselves, and it is, but there’s also business to be conducted. When we step out on the fifth floor, we enter a warren of plush corridors and private parlors, silent but for the hush of carpet underfoot. I walk Daisy to the end of the hall, her arm on mine. She trembles with each step, trying to be brave, trying to act like she fits.