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)
She stared at him blankly, not sure why he was telling her that. She wasn’t stopping him from making his calls.
“Iris, I’ll need you to return to your room,” he elaborated, and her heart sank to the soles of her feet. She’d been having such a great time; they’d been getting along so well—he’d felt almost like a friend—that she hadn’t for a second contemplated the reality that he’d go back to being her jailer once he was done entertaining himself with her.
“I could stay in the kitchen with Luna,” she suggested, misery lending a wobble to her voice.
Why was he doing this to her? Somehow this felt worse than before.
Yesterday and the days before, despite their companionable—mostly silent—walks, she hadn’t enjoyed his company as much and therefore hadn’t fooled herself into believing that maybe he was starting to like and trust her. He’d remained at an emotional distance and she’d been okay with that. It kept her from liking and trusting him.
He’d been an adversary, an enemy, and that had made his actions understandable.
But this… this was cruel.
“Are you going to lock the door?” she asked him, lifting her chin and straightening her shoulders in an effort to hide her panic from him.
“I have to. But I promise you, I’m just down the hall. You’re not alone. Tomorrow we’ll walk Luna together. Would you like that?”
She hated the achingly gentle tone of voice he was using, hated how he was speaking to her like she was a child in need of coddling. Hated that he had no clue, not one single fucking idea of how bad things got for her in that room. He thought she was exaggerating, that she was being childish, that she was making up some ridiculous excuse to avoid being imprisoned in her room. How could he still believe that after what she’d revealed about being locked in the supply room?
His hand was in the small of her back and he was exerting only the slightest of pressure—not shoving, not nudging—to get her to walk. Her feet moved. Leaden, reluctant, but they moved… carrying her back to that awful place.
The walk back felt interminable but was over in the blink of an eye. Before she knew it, she was standing in the room, staring at him, as he loomed in the doorway—a large, dark and threatening figure—with the light from the hallway streaming in behind him.
She stood there on shaking legs, her eyes pleading with him when her voice failed.
“I’ll bring your dinner later,” he said.
I’m not hungry, the words wouldn’t emerge from her locked throat.
“Iris,” he whispered, his voice sounding as despairing as she felt. “Stop looking at me like that, I can’t…”
He shook his head, swallowing down whatever he’d been about to say.
He stepped into the room and cupped her face with his hands.
“I’ll be back soon, okay?” He dropped his forehead to hers and—in a move that finally shocked her out of her numbness—dropped a hard, almost angry, kiss on her lips.
She gasped, and when her lips parted, his tongue slid into her mouth—just a brief foray—leaving a trail of slick fire in its wake.
The kiss was over before it even properly began and he stepped back an instant later.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—” He swallowed thickly and shook his head in frustration, while she continued to stare at him in mute shock. “Christ, this is such a fucking mess.”
He scrubbed a hand over his face and retreated, slamming the door in his wake.
She jumped at the harsh sound and then—when the door locked—she sobbed. A quiet, despairing, hopeless sound.
Chapter Ten
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.