Tempted Trapped and Too Late to Run novel Chapter 640

When Dylan came back to Palm Bay, he still smelled like the early morning—fresh, a little wild, as if he’d brought the outside in with him.

The moment he stepped into the foyer, a servant hurried over.

“Did she eat dinner last night?” Dylan asked, cutting straight to the point.

“She ate a little,” the servant replied.

It was barely six in the morning. Upstairs, Clara was still in bed.

Dylan shrugged off his coat and handed it over, keeping a bunch of flowers in his arms, their petals still dotted with dew. He started up the stairs, then paused and called back, “Bring a vase to the master bedroom.”

He pushed open the bedroom door, bouquet in hand. The bed covers were pulled up into a small mound—Clara, curled up tight. Just seeing her like that made something in his chest go soft.

The servant arrived with the vase. Dylan arranged the flowers, set them on the nightstand, and slipped into the bathroom to wash up.

Clara had heard the quiet whir of his wheelchair long before he came in. Truth was, she hadn’t slept at all. She just lay there with her eyes shut, listening, pretending.

After a few minutes, Dylan returned. He lifted the edge of the comforter, clearly intending to climb in. But the second she felt the blanket shift, Clara’s eyes snapped open. She sat up fast, yanking the entire blanket with her, wrapping it protectively around herself.

Dylan paused, meeting her eyes.

She stared back, guarded, tense. Then she slid off the bed and stood by the wall, putting distance between them.

The room filled with the sweet scent of flowers, but Clara just frowned, walked over, and pushed the window open for fresh air.

Unbothered, Dylan pulled the blanket back, sat on the bed, and opened his laptop, already diving into work.

Clara pressed her lips together, said nothing, and walked straight to the bedroom door. But when she opened it, someone was waiting outside, blocking her path.

She took a deep, frustrated breath and turned back, her patience gone.

“Dylan, what do you want from me, really?”

Before, when she’d been stuck here, at least she could wander around the main house. Now, except for meals, she was locked in his bedroom. Anyone would lose their mind.

He kept typing, pretending not to hear her.

Clara couldn’t take it. She marched over and slammed his laptop shut.

There were still red marks on her wrist from last night, peeking out from under her sleeve.

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