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)
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.