Chapter 10
Sleep eluded him.
Trystan tossed and turned all night, haunted by the memory of Iris’s face. She hadn’t touched the leftover curry he’d taken to her room after his failed attempt to reach Quinny.
She’d barely seemed to register his presence in her room, remaining curled up in that defensive little ball on the sofa. He’d tried to convince himself that it wasn’t his problem, that she wasn’t his problem. If she didn’t want to eat, then he didn’t—shouldn’t—fucking care…
Only, something about the way she’d sat there, silently rocking herself in what he assumed was an attempt at self-soothing had made him want to scoop her up and cradle her in his lap.
Another part of him had resented her histrionics. She was being dramatic, she had plenty of space, plenty of diversions, she was fine. It wasn’t a tiny, dark supply room, for fuck’s sake. Even though he’d asked about the bullying, Trystan recognized that she must have shared that story in an attempt to manipulate him into giving her, her way. But Trystan had been burned too many times by the paparazzi. They went to fucking extremes to get to him.
After the accident one of them had literally cut himself to get into the same emergency room as Trystan. From there he’d managed to get pictures of Trystan, bloodied and unconscious, as well as Trish in the morgue. There’d been others as well, posing as doctors and nurses. One had even brought her infant daughter in with a feigned emergency.
It had been a losing battle keeping those images out of the gutter press. In the end, a few of them had inevitably oozed their way into the less reputable gossip rags. And it had been impossible to keep the pictures of Trish’s body in the car off the Internet. Trystan’s face had been blurred out because they’d known he would sue their asses, but Trish had been fair game. And her family had to live with the knowledge that images of their loved one’s dead body were littered across the web for anybody to gawk at.
So, this shit Iris was trying to pull was fucking amateur hour.
That hadn’t been terror in her eyes—she was just a more skilled actress than he’d given her credit for.
He sat up in bed with a groan, scrubbing his hands over his face, disliking the feel of his beard on his palms. He was tempted to shave the damned thing off, but the thought of fully revealing his scar prevented him from doing so.
He shouldn’t have kissed her.
What the fuck had he been thinking? He was making one ridiculous mistake after the other with this woman. She wasn’t the sweet, innocent thing she pretended to be. She was cold, calculating, her father’s daughter. No matter what stories she told about the real father who’d raised her, blood would always tell.
But she came in a refreshingly cute package, and that was proving to be his undoing. He didn’t go for cute, never had. He didn’t go for sweet or innocent either, so her act should in no way appeal to him and yet …
That mop of adorable dark brown curls, combined with her silky smooth, gold-tinged skin, a pouty mouth that resembled a deep pink rosebud on the verge of blooming, and God, those killer curves.
The memory of her generously proportioned body in that tiny pink and white bikini drove him fucking insane. He didn’t know how the hell he’d managed to keep his hands off her that day by the pool when all that tempting golden brown skin had been right there for the stroking.
He hadn’t realized that small and curvy could rev his engine like this until Iris had barreled her unwelcome way into his life.
He groaned again as he belatedly registered the erection throbbing between his thighs. Not his first since she’d shown up at his doorstep, and he very much doubted it would be his last.
He picked up his phone to check the time. Just after six-thirty in the morning. It was still pitch black out, but Trystan knew there was little point in trying to get any sleep now. He got out of bed and pulled on a pair of sweatpants, ignoring his persistent hard-on.
The rain had started up again about half an hour ago—for the first time in three days—initially just a few hard drops, but now it was a steady downpour. They’d never get that damned bridge fixed at this rate.
He padded his way barefoot and shirtless in the dark toward the kitchen, but stopped abruptly at the sight of Luna silhouetted in the dim light.
Shit, no wonder she had terrified Iris so badly that first night. In the dark she did resemble a wolf.
The dog was standing outside Iris’s room. Her tail and ears were down, and she was whining slightly.
“What’s wrong, girl?” he asked softly, coming to a stop beside his dog. He put a hand on her ruff, and was alarmed to note that she was quivering. “What’s going on?”
The dog whined and pawed at Iris’s door.
Trystan stared at the door, a feeling of deep unease unfurling in his gut.
He knocked quietly.
No answer.
Of course there’d be no answer—she was asleep.
“Iris?” he called, knocking a little louder.
No response.
She was sleeping, like he and Luna should be. It was way too early and too cold to be standing in hallways knocking and pawing at people’s doors.
He hesitated, but when Luna whimpered and scratched the wood again, he shook his head and swore silently at himself.
He’d just take a look to reassure himself, and his dog, that she was okay. She was asleep—she’d never know that he’d snuck in like some creepy stalker while she was at her most vulnerable.
He unlocked the door with a quiet snick and stepped into the room.
The first thing that struck him was the frigid cold.
“Christ Almighty,” he muttered to himself, as the iciness hit his naked skin. Why the hell was it so cold in here?
He flicked on the living room light and immediately spotted the open window.
“For fuck’s sake, Iris,” he swore underneath his breath. “How could you leave the window open in this weather?”
He hurried over to close it, and then glanced around the empty room.
Something about the eerie stillness wasn’t right. Even if Iris was asleep in the bedroom, it was just too oppressively silent in here.
“Iris?” He could hear panic creeping into his voice as he made his way to the bedroom. The door wasn’t closed, and it didn’t take him long to realize that she wasn’t in bed. He hurried to the bathroom, but that room was dark and empty as well.
“Shit, shit… oh fuck, Iris. What did you do?” He surged back to the window and yanked it back up to peer out into the absolute darkness out there.
He was aware of his breath coming in short, panicky gulps as he desperately stared into the blackness hoping to spot her. He’d never expected her to call his bluff. Not in weather like this. He recalled his flippant invitation that she try to hoof it back to town if she really didn’t want to stay in a locked room.
Well, apparently, she’d decided that risking her life out in this mess was better than staying locked up in this room.
And he’d driven her to it. Driven her out in this weather, in the dark, because he wouldn’t listen to her, wouldn’t believe that her extreme terror of being trapped was so huge, so irrational, that she would do literally anything to escape it.
When had she left? How long had she been out in this? The rain had started only half an hour ago but before that it had been relatively calm, even the wind had died down.
Trystan ran to his room and yanked on his clothes and boots.
She didn’t have any waterproof clothes. She’d be soaked by now. And cold. She’d be so cold. He couldn’t stand the thought of it.
His breath came in desperate gasps as he made his way to the back door. He had to believe she’d head back to her car and follow the road from there. Because it was the only logical course of action for her to take. The route was familiar and she would know the general direction back to town. But in the dark, she could trip, get disoriented, turned around. She could find herself lost in the blink of an eye.
And even if she did somehow manage to head in the right direction, that fucking river was impassible. She’d never be able to safely cross it.
He dragged on his oil slicker and grabbed his heavy-duty flashlight.
Luna had been following him on his mad dash through the house, and she whined in disapproval when he told her to stay. He eyed the unhappy dog for a moment.
“Would you be able to find her if I can’t, girl?” he asked. “Can you find our Iris?”
The dog chuffed softly. She had never really shown any kind of aptitude for scent games, but she might well be his best chance of finding Iris fast.
Mind made up, he put on her collar and leash, and they both headed out into the rapidly building storm.
“Iris!” His voice was instantly swallowed up by the dull roar of the rain and wind. But it didn’t stop him from calling her name every few meters in the hopes that somehow she would hear him.
Luna had been pulling at the leash since the moment they’d left the yard, and Trystan let her lead, hoping against hope that she was actually taking him toward Iris and not chasing some small animal.
The dog was heading in the direction of Iris’s car, which gave him hope. The rain was getting so bad he could barely see five feet in front of him, and he worried that they could walk right past her and not catch so much as a glimpse of her.
“Iris!”
He would never forgive himself if something happened to her. She could die out here. Get lost never to be found again. He couldn’t live with that.
They’d been walking for nearly half an hour and the pre-dawn sky was starting to lighten. It was, thankfully, becoming easier to see. Luna abruptly veered away from the path that would take them to the car and headed in the direction of the river instead.
The river which had been little more than a stream when Trystan had first arrived, but was now a raging, roiling, furious force of nature.
Trystan heard it before he saw it, the whooshing roar of the turbulent waters. But when he took the turn that would bring the river in sight, his blood froze in his veins.
There she stood, right on the verge of that murky, gray, fast-moving, angry beast. God, she looked so tiny standing there, a fragile little thing wearing too few layers, and a jacket that was nowhere near waterproof enough for this weather.
She was too close to the water—the bank was muddy, unstable—all it would take was one misstep to send her tumbling into that mess of tree trunks, branches, and other debris. She would be swallowed up, and she would disappear immediately and be forever lost.
All that vibrant energy. That wide, beautiful, slightly naughty smile, that delightful high-pitched giggle, the irreverent sense of humor. Her annoying, insatiable curiosity. Her talent, her beauty, her pure, bright light—it would all be snuffed out in one terrible instant.
“Iris, please!” he shouted, his voice hoarse with fear. “Get back!”
She didn’t—couldn’t—hear him above the noise of the river. She shifted from foot to foot and even from this distance he could see her anxiety.
She wanted to cross—she was clearly desperate to cross—and he worried that the same illogical fear that had sent her fleeing into the darkness and the storm would drive her to attempt it.
“Iris, baby, please, step back. Oh God…” The last emerged on a terrified whimper. If she decided to go, he’d never get to her in time. Horror and fear, like living panicked things, clawed at his throat, setting off his gag reflex.
Images of Trish Nesbitt’s cold, bloodied, and lifeless face moments after the accident that had claimed her life flashed through his head.
Not Iris. Never iris. He couldn’t fucking stand it.
“Luna. Sit. Stay.” He didn’t check to see if the dog obeyed, but he was confident her training would kick in and she would sit and wait for them.
He zigzagged down the embankment, half-stumbling, half-running and losing his balance in the mud several times to land on his hands and knees. Each time, he pushed himself back up and continued resolutely forward. He was desperate to reach her, and get her back to warmth and safety.
It felt like forever, during which he prayed to every god he could think of to keep her safe for him. Just until he could reach her and take over the job from them.
He sobbed in relief when he finally got near enough to close his hands around her elbows and wrench her back from the river.
He felt her body tensing in shock at his unexpected touch and—once he’d dragged her a safe distance from the water’s edge—he whirled her around and closed his arms around her trembling body.
He couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything more than hold her close, one hand tightly fisted in her wet curls, and the other clamped around her waist.
“You’re okay, you’re okay,” he gasped when he finally found his voice. “I’ve got you. You’re okay, Iris.”
She was shaking violently, her small hands fisted against his chest. He lifted his head to peer into her pale, terrified face.
“Trystan. N-No! Please. I can’t… I can’t go back. Please don’t make me go back—” The abject terror in her eyes broke him. How had he not seen this before? How could he have been so blind and indifferent to such absolute, raw fear.
“It’s okay, sweet.” His voice was hoarse with emotion, and shaking in reaction to her severe distress. His hand left her hair to palm her cheek and she flinched away from him, which just about tore his heart from his chest. “You don’t have to be afraid, okay? I swear to God, Iris, you never have to be afraid again. I promise you that. But we have to go back. We need to get you home and warm, okay? We’ll talk later.”
He wasn’t sure she could hear him above the noise from the river and the rain, and even if she had heard him, he wasn’t entirely certain she was able to understand him right now. She looked like she was in shock, her mental and emotional state altered. He doubted very much she was able to form a coherent thought.
Trystan was consumed by the urgent need to get her out of the rain, warm, dry, safe… her well-being was inextricably linked to his right now.
She pushed at his chest, straining her body toward the river.
“I have to go. Please, let me go. I have to leave. I’ll go to town, I’ll be fine.”
That she actively fought him in her desperation to cross that deadly river, rather than return to a locked room, spoke volumes. There was no faking this level of fear. Trystan had effectively been torturing this sweet, vibrant woman every time he’d turned the key in that door. And he wasn’t sure how to cope with that knowledge. He didn’t know if he’d ever be able to forgive himself for that.
He lifted her struggling body into his arms. She was weak with cold and offered little real resistance, yet Trystan staggered beneath her slight weight, as the long, panicked walk in the driving rain and the urgent stumbling sprint down the embankment to reach her caught up with him.
He planted his legs apart and inhaled deeply, searching for the last remnants of his strength. He refused to let her walk back since she clearly didn’t have much more left in the tank. This was Trystan’s fault and getting Iris and Luna back to safety was on him and no one else.
He secured his hold around her violently shivering body and started the slow trudge back up the slippery embankment.
It was tough going—he slid back a few paces for every few feet he advanced—exhaustion soon slumped his shoulders and had his lungs bellowing.
Iris—after her initial burst of defiant energy—appeared barely aware of her surroundings, and that, combined with her obvious exhaustion and weakness, frightened Trystan.
He gritted his teeth and dug deep, fighting through the pain and fear and fatigue, finding reserves he hadn’t even known he possessed as he battled his way to the top of that damned slope to where Luna sat patiently waiting for them.
The dog leaped to her feet when he finally reached her, her tail wagging happily as she circled Trystan and Iris to sniff and lick whatever skin she could find.
Trystan allowed himself a moment to catch his breath, while his eyes searched Iris’s cold, pale face. Her eyes were shut, and she’d gone limp in his arms. The fact that she hadn’t uttered so much as a token protest while he’d battled his way up that hill told him how very out of it she was. And now, one look at her face in the sullen morning light confirmed that she’d lost consciousness.
He panicked, juggling her in his arms as he bent his leg and frantically shifted her weight partially to his knee, freeing up his hand somewhat to search her wrist for a pulse. He nearly wept in relief when he felt it strong, and little too fast, beneath his fingers.
“Thank God. Okay, sweetheart,” he murmured, as he readjusted her weight, uncaring that she couldn’t hear him. “Let’s get you home.”
The walkback to the house was interminable. Trystan nearly dropped to his knees beneath the mantle of utter exhaustion several times, but—fueled by his determination to get Iris warm and safe again—he persevered. By the time he reached the back door, Iris was beginning to stir in his arms.
“Wha—what’s happen…?”
“Ssh, relax,” he whispered soothingly, as he eased through the kitchen door and out of the rain. He stopped only to awkwardly shut the door behind them, refusing to let go of his charge while he took care of the task. The closed door instantly muffled the relentless racket of the pounding rain, and Trystan heaved a sigh of relief at the cessation of noise.
He walked her straight to his bedroom, calling Luna to follow. He impatiently kicked his way through the closed door, and went directly to the bathroom, where he gingerly deposited his precious cargo on the toilet seat before reaching for a thick, fluffy bath sheet and making short work of drying Luna with it.
“Go lie down,” he commanded the still-damp dog, and Luna instantly obeyed, retreating to his room to find her spot by the heater. Trystan immediately refocused on Iris, who appeared to be listing to one side as she seemed to float in and out of consciousness.
“Shit,” he muttered, closing the distance between himself and her in an instant. “Iris, stand up, help me get you out of these wet things, okay?”
With a combination of coaxing and minor bullying he managed to get her up, and started maneuvering her uncooperative, heavy limbs through sleeves and trouser legs, until she was clad in just a tiny pair of silky blue panties and a wispy lacy pink push-up bra that left very little to the imagination.
He glared down at the woefully inadequate pile of wet clothing at their feet. She’d been wearing only a long-sleeved T-shirt under a thicker flannel shirt and the black puffer jacket she was so fond of. Combined with a pair of now-sodden jeans. Her only remotely suitable attire for the weather was her hiking boots.
She was soaked to the bone and as he stared at her wet, goosefleshed, shivering body, he choked back a distraught sob.
He peeled off his own clothes, keeping on his boxers, and lifted her into his arms to carry her into the huge shower.
She made a weak sound of protest at his actions, showing some signs of life as she feebly batted at his hands when he set her on her feet in the glass cubicle.
“I’m sorry, but these have to come off, sweetheart. I need to get you warm, okay?” He quickly and efficiently divested her of her bra and panties, and this time she didn’t even protest. Her listlessness frightened him and his hands shook with a combination of panic and cold as he turned on the faucet, starting with a gentle, lukewarm spray and gradually turning the heat up, in an effort to avoid shocking her system.
Hypothermia was a real concern, and he rubbed her limp arms briskly before gathering her close and wrapping his arms around her still-shuddering body. His hands felt like enormous, clumsy paws as he stroked her back in rough circular motions.
Her trembling gradually subsided and he felt the warmth start to creep back into her skin. Her small, pert breasts with their dark cold-hardened nipples were pressed against his chest, but there was nothing remotely sexual about this embrace.
Her vulnerability set off every protective instinct Trystan had. She seemed so fucking fragile that Trystan was finally willing to battle the very demons that had driven him to this cold, isolated place, if it meant keeping her safe. Those same demons had turned him into a monster who couldn’t recognize genuine fear in someone else when he saw it.
Day after day he’d locked her in that fucking room, ignoring her pleas, blind to her terror and ignorant to her building desperation. Always so fucking convinced of his blamelessness, and so dismissive of her attempts to explain what she was feeling.
When her trembling finally stopped, he turned off the shower.
“Don’t move,” he whispered, not sure if she heard or understood him. He stepped out to grab several towels from the warming rack. He was back with her seconds later and enfolded a large bath sheet around her small body.
He stepped out of his wet shorts as unobtrusively as he could, keeping his movements slow and deliberate, not wanting to alarm her or have her question his intentions. He wrapped a smaller towel around his waist in no time, and used the last towel he’d grabbed to clumsily wrap her hair.
“I’m sorry, this probably won’t dry the way you want it to,” he said, keeping his voice low, calm, and gentle, in an effort to keep her from panicking, even though she barely seemed aware of her surroundings “But I don’t think you should sleep with a wet head, especially not after the ordeal you’ve just been through, so I want to get your hair as dry as possible.”
Her silent acquiescence to everything he was doing was alarming him. Earlier he could dismiss it as shock and cold—now her passivity was starting to really concern him.
He led her back to the room and sat her down on the edge of the bed.
“Feeling better? Warmer?”
Her gaze was cast downward and she didn’t seem to hear him.
“Iris?” He sat down beside her and used his thumb and forefinger to nudge her head upward. She still wouldn’t meet his gaze, her pretty eyes—pupils blown—focused on the wall behind him.
He’d intended to make her a hot drink, warm up her insides now that the immediate danger of hypothermia had passed, but that wide, unfixed stare alarmed him.
“Iris, look at me, c’mon,” he coaxed. She was slow to react but her eyes eventually swung toward him and he heaved a sigh of relief. “Are you still cold?”
“Sleepy,” she muttered from between lips that barely moved.
“I know, baby,” he whispered. “Let’s get you to bed.”
He got up and tugged her to her feet and pulled back the covers to usher her into the bed. He wasted a few precious seconds to don a pair of boxer briefs, and climbed in behind her to spoon against her much smaller body.
She didn’t protest because she was out as soon as her head hit her pillow, while Trystan was left awake with his own tumultuous thoughts.
He switched off the bedside lamp, and thankfully his block-out curtains managed to keep out the gray morning light.
He listened to the rain, gentler now, but ever-present. How long had she been out there? The thought of her stumbling her way around in the dark, wet, and cold brought a fresh surge of nauseating guilt and remorse. If she’d lost her footing, taken a wrong turn…
Jesus, it didn’t bear contemplation. And yet, he couldn’t stop his mind from going there. And he shuddered as he considered the fact that she could have slipped, fallen, and disappeared into that river, and he would never have known. Never have found her. She would be gone.
The worst of it was Trystan had never harbored any real concern that she would snoop around or find any personal information to turn against him. It wasn’t even his house, for God’s sake! He had no personal effects lying around. He’d kept her in that room out of sheer perverse stubbornness. He’d imprisoned her to teach her a lesson, punishing her for the sins of her father—and every other pap of similar ilk. And most egregious of all, he’d locked her away because he’d relished his punishing self-imposed isolation, and had resented Iris because of how much he’d begun to enjoy her company and her refreshing irreverence. And also because he’d known that the more time he spent with her, the less likely he was to keep his hands to himself. It had felt safer to keep her tucked away, out of sight—even though she was never really out of mind.
He sighed heavily, his arms tightening around her small body. Her head wrap was coming loose and he reluctantly moved one arm from her waist to tug the towel off and toss it to the floor. Her hair—soft and fragrant—had exploded into a mass of adorable curls, and he allowed himself an undeserved moment of sheer indulgence as he buried his face in that soft cloud and inhaled her addictive scent deep into his lungs.
He held it for a beat before exhaling softly, trying to release all his fear and tension in that single breath. It didn’t quite work, but he felt calmer, more centered.
Iris was okay. She was safe, alive… warm. Trystan didn’t deserve to take comfort and feel peace at her presence in his bed, but—call him a selfish fucking bastard if you wanted—he did. He had a lot to make up for, but she was here, in his arms, and Trystan would fight the devil himself to keep her there.