He Waited She Wilted (Ottilie and Yorath) novel Chapter 102

Yorath yanked the bathroom door open and stepped inside.

Assuming it was Ottilie bringing his clothes, Yves reached an arm out from behind the shower curtain.

When a few seconds passed and no clothes were placed in his hand, he pulled his arm back.

He poked his head out from behind the curtain.

And found Yorath standing less than three feet away.

Yorath tilted his head slightly, removing his gold-rimmed glasses.

His usually refined, scholarly demeanor dissolved, replaced by something sharp and razor-thin.

His narrow, assessing eyes were devoid of any warmth.

A suffocating, violent aura seemed to bleed off Yorath, filling the small confines of the bathroom.

Sensing the immediate danger, Yves barely had time to react before Yorath took a step forward.

That single step closed the distance between them completely.

Startled, Yves stumbled back and fell hard onto the shower floor.

The curtain parted slightly.

Sprawled naked on the wet tiles, Yves leaned back on his hands, completely unable to scramble to his feet.

Through the gap in the curtain, all he could see was Yorath's impeccably tailored figure—tall, imposing, and radiating an overwhelming sense of untouchable distance.

It was the disdain of a king looking at a peasant.

Yorath's pale hand reached through the slit in the curtain and ripped it back.

The hot water from the showerhead continued to run.

The bathroom was thick with steam, making the air suffocating and heavy.

The sheer, oppressive terror finally snapped Yves out of his daze.

He offered a strained, bitter smile. "Mr. Fordham. Could I trouble you for a hand up?"

Yorath stepped directly into the shower stall. His pristine leather shoes hit the pooling water, sending an icy splash over Yves's bare skin.

The water was warm, but it felt freezing against his body.

Yves suppressed a shiver and forced himself to keep speaking. "I apologize that you had to see me in such an indecent state. We ran into a kid outside who spilled our drinks all over us. Summer clothes are a bit too thin to walk around soaked in, so we just came up here to wash up and change."

He knew Ottilie was an unmarried woman; rumors of her getting a hotel room with a man could ruin her reputation.

He had to make the situation perfectly clear to an outsider.

Yorath didn't move. His body remained rigidly tense as his piercing gaze dragged inch by inch from Yves's face down to his lower abdomen.

When Yves finally emerged fully dressed, he was met with the bizarre sight of Yorath doing laundry.

His polite composure nearly cracked.

"Mr. Fordham... please, don't trouble yourself. I can do it."

Yorath didn't even look up. "You helped Tilly, which means you helped me. It's only right that I thank you."

He scrubbed it a few more times—whether it was actually clean or not was debatable—before wringing it out and handing it to the receptionist, who was still hovering nervously by the door.

She had been standing there with her phone clutched to her chest, ready to call the police in case a murder broke out.

Seeing Yorath hand her the shirt, she immediately took it with both hands.

As long as nobody was getting killed, she was more than happy to do some laundry.

"Please have this dried and delivered to Mr. Walden's home," Yorath instructed. He glanced at Yves. "Your address?"

Yves stepped forward and gave the receptionist his address and phone number.

"It's getting late," Yorath said. "I'll take you both home."

"I drove," Yves replied quickly. "There's no need to trouble you, Mr. Fordham."

"Then I'll take Ottilie home," Yorath declared.