Tempted Trapped and Too Late to Run

Blood streaked her wrists—thin, angry lines that looked almost cruel.

Dylan pulled a small tube of ointment from his suit pocket, squeezed some onto his finger, and gently smoothed it over her raw skin. His touch was careful, almost tender, but even that simple contact made her tense up. Her arm was stiff, resisting him without a word. She knew better than to argue, though; sometimes survival meant staying silent.

This wasn't what he wanted to see.

He finished tending both wrists, then headed into the bathroom to wash the ointment from his hands. When he came back, she was still on the floor, hugging her knees, eyes distant. Dylan crouched beside her, tilting her chin up so she had to look at him.

For a second, she just stared, then squeezed her eyes shut, shutting him out completely.

Without a word, Dylan scooped her off the floor and carried her to the bed. That was when Clara snapped back to herself, thrashing in his arms.

He set her down, leaned in, and pressed a soft kiss to her lips. "Sleep," he said.

Clara's heart thudded painfully. She bit her lip, forcing herself to go still. She knew her limits-if she pushed him any more, things would spiral out of control. She turned her head away, chest rising and falling with every shaky breath.

Dylan straightened up, lingering at her bedside for a moment. From outside, someone called, "Sir, Ms. Warren is here."

Dylan answered with a quiet "Okay," his eyes resting on Clara a little longer before he left.

Through the crack in the door, Clara heard Tara's voice. "Dylan, your face..."

"It's fine."

It was already after five. Tara hadn't come alone-Mrs. Ferguson was with her. Dylan, now in his wheelchair, rolled toward the elevator.

Tara didn't follow right away. She peered into the room, a dangerous glint in her eyes. Clara was back-there was no one else who could have left marks like that on Dylan.

She actually hit him.

Tara's hand curled into a tight fist, fingernails digging into her palm. The taste of blood filled her mouth, but she kept her cool. Now wasn't the time to lose her temper with Dylan.

Downstairs, Mrs. Ferguson saw the bruise on Dylan's face and shot to her feet. "What happened to your face? Who would dare lay a hand on you?!"

Dylan just took the ice pack Aiden handed him, pressing it to his cheek with a shrug. His voice was light, almost careless. "I made Clara mad. Did you need something, Mother?"

Mrs. Ferguson's expression darkened. Clara was back? Her gaze turned cold. She knew exactly why Dylan had said that he was making it clear: divorce wasn't happening.

She had no idea what that woman

had done to her son, but Clara

couldn't stay. The Fergusons couldn't risk a woman who challenged the heir's authority. word got out Dylan couldn't his own wife, how would he

If hen control

command respect?

She drew in a slow breath, remembering Tara's warning to keep calm, and forced herself to smile.noveldrama

"We're going to the temple today," she said. "I've already arranged everything with the head monk. You know how important this is to me. The last time we went together was over a decade ago, and it took ages to get an appointment."

Influence meant nothing at the

temple. The xich were always extra

devout about this sort of

thing-using their power would only make them look insincere. Mrs Ferguson had booked the visit months in advance, which was why she was here now. Contént belongs

Dylan had no reason to refuse. He turned to the housekeeper. "Tell her to come

down for dinner later. Don't let her skip a meal."

The housekeeper nodded in agreement.