Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 132649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
He remained silent for a long while and she was just wondering if he was still there, when he spoke, “I prefer not to waste my time.”
“Fine, you don’t have to believe me, I’m happy to leave. Please, just open this door.” Her voice was soft and pleading. “As soon as I’ve arranged a tow truck for my rental car, I’ll leave and never darken your door again.”
“Easier said than done, lady. The storm won’t let up till tomorrow. You’re lucky as hell you crossed the bridge from town before the rain started because the river broke its banks and swept the bridge and most of the road away. There are also felled trees blocking the roads. We’re cut off for at least two weeks until they’re able to fix the roads and repair the bridge. Repairs can only start after the storm passes and they’re forecasting two more cutoff low-pressure fronts following in quick succession after this one. So, two weeks is an optimistic prediction.”
“W-what?” Iris’s voice shook as she considered her situation. To be stuck here—with him—for two weeks or more, was a horrific possibility. And—dear God—what if he chose to keep her locked up that entire time? Iris wasn’t sure she’d stay sane if he did.
He was so fucking hateful she doubted he’d even share his food with her. Would he just leave her in this room to slowly starve to death? And when they finally came looking for her, would he justify his actions as self-defense?
So sorry, Your Honor, but she was an intruder. I feared for my life and privacy. I couldn’t feed her because it meant opening the door and possibly exposing myself to her toxic presence.
“I don’t want to die,” she whimpered quietly.
“What?” She could hear the consternation in his voice and wondered if she’d misunderstood the implications of the news he’d just imparted.
“Are you going to keep me locked in this room until the roads are cleared?” It was hard to keep the nausea at bay at the mere thought of being trapped within these restrictive walls.
Silence.
“I-I need my bags.”
More silence.
“I need my medication.”
“What medication?” His voice was gruff and teeming with suspicion.
“Anti-anxiety medication.” She offered the personal information reluctantly, but he needed to understand the urgency. She didn’t take it often, but kept the prescription filled just in case.
This situation definitely qualified as stressful, and if she was going to remain locked in here, she was going to need her meds.
“I have some in my jacket pocket,” she explained. “I transferred them from my handbag—I didn’t want to weigh myself down with too many things from the car—but the rest is in my big suitcase in the car.”
“Anti-anxiety meds? What triggers the anxiety?” he asked. The question sounded like it was torn from him by a thousand hellhounds.
“Stress,” she emphasized. “You know, like the stress that comes from being unjustifiably imprisoned when you suffer from a fear of being locked in?”
“That so?” He didn’t sound at all sympathetic, or convinced. “What else?’
“Hunger—by the way there’s no food in here.”
“I see. Any other triggers?”
PMS—the fluctuating hormones could send her spiraling some months, while during others she would be perfectly fine—but she wasn’t about to disclose that information to Grumpasaurus sex—uhm—rex over there.
“This conversation is about to be a trigger if we don’t change the subject,” she muttered under her breath. She didn’t often speak of her anxiety—she lived an active, normal life in spite of it. But she did need her meds in case of flare-ups. And she definitely needed it for what she recognized was going to be a very challenging few days, possibly weeks, in this man’s company.
“Look, it doesn’t matter what triggers the anxiety. With my meds I can keep it at bay.”
She could almost feel the air from his loud, exasperated sigh through the door.
The lock turned in the door and it swung outward before she had a chance to react. Two seconds later, she was staring up at the tall, brooding, bearded Trystan Abbott, who was glowering down at her huddled form on the floor.
She wasn’t sure—because of the bushy beard—but she was almost certain his lips thinned at the sight of her.
“You’re a weird fucking chick,” he said almost to himself, before turning away from her to haul her big, bright, pink hard-shelled suitcase into the room. He lifted it clear over her head and dropped it on the floor by the kitchen counter.
Iris scrambled to her feet and stared at the open door, poised for flight, before his harsh voice stopped her in her tracks.
“You can run, sure, but you’ll find yourself out in the storm again, with no way back to the nearest town. And rest assured, once you’re out there, you won’t be allowed back in here. So, what’s it to be? You can make a run for it—and believe me, that’s my personal favorite option—and wander around, in the rain and howling wind, with hundred-year-old trees being torn up all around you, flash floods, and mudslides, until maybe you make it to town alive. Or stay here in this room and out of my fucking way until the police can finally reach us and arrest your ass.”