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The personalized number plate on the front was puzzling. It read MILESH5-WP. A quick glance around at the other cars confirmed that they all had the same registration plates, with only the numbers differing. They ranged from MILESH1 to MILESH8, with one car—a bright red Mini Cooper—tagged as CHARIH1-WP.
How odd.
It niggled at something in her memory banks, but the more she worried at it the more elusive it became. She shoved it aside for now, hoping it would come to her later when she was a bit more relaxed. Although, right now, she wondered if she’d ever feel relaxed again. And warm. She doubted very much that she’d ever be warm again.
Luna got up and shook herself before ambling toward the single flight of stairs leading up to an open door. It was dark beyond that door, and Iris wondered if she should follow the dog. Surely Trystan Abbott wouldn’t be lurking around in a dark room, so it should be relatively safe up there.
An involuntary shiver wracked her body and sent her teeth chattering. And warmer… it’ll hopefully be warmer up there.
The dog was halfway up the stairs before Iris decided to follow her. It was ice cold down here, probably because it was underground. If she avoided any well-lit areas, she could well find a room to hole up in tonight and figure out what to do in the morning.
Right now, she was exhausted, frozen to the bone, as well as mentally and emotionally fried. She just needed a few hours to recharge her battery before facing the monster that was Trystan Abbott again.
She snuck up the stairs as stealthily as possible, wincing whenever one of the wooden steps creaked beneath her tread.
When she tentatively poked her head around the door at the top of the stairs, it was to find the darkened kitchen that he’d hastily shepherded her through earlier. At least it was somewhat familiar territory. Slurping sounds coming from the corner closest to the back door told her that Luna was enjoying a drink of water. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, which was only broken by ambient light coming from a standing lamp in a long hallway, she saw Luna circle in a massive wicker dog bed, before sinking down with a contented sigh. The pooch then proceeded to lick her unmentionables with noisy gusto.
Iris left her to it and looked around the kitchen once again for a clue as to where to go next. She peeked down the dimly lit hallway and could see light coming from beneath the doorway at the far end of the corridor.
Danger! Keep AWAY!
Nope, she was definitely not going anywhere near that area. To her left was another—shorter—corridor that led to a closed door. She slowly made her way toward that door, careful to avoid bumping into any obstacles.
After what felt like an eternity, she gratefully closed her hand over the doorknob.
“Fuck!” The involuntary whispered exclamation burst from her lips when the hinges creaked, the noise resonating like a thunderclap in the night. And even while she froze, she told herself there was no way he would have heard that, not with the way the wind was howling and the rain lashing outside.
The weather seemed to have worsened since she’d found her way into the house, which made her resentment mount. He had gone to bed, believing she was out there in this. What kind of conscienceless prick could sleep knowing that he’d tossed someone out into this weather without any warmth or shelter or even a fucking light?
She gritted her teeth and determinedly pushed the door even wider before stepping inside.
She had no idea where she was because she couldn’t see in the blackness. She was going to have to risk a light. She felt along the wall to her left and found the light switch fairly quickly.
The room flooded with warm light.
Oh.
It seemed to be a self-contained suite of some sort, with a kitchenette, a tiny round dining table and a living room. She could see a bedroom and bathroom through a pair of open doors on the right.
It was tastefully decorated and comfortable. While it was extremely cold in here, there were—praise Jesus!—a couple of radiator heaters stashed in a corner next to the sofa.
This was perfect, it was far enough away from him for Iris to stay undetected for a while. Though she doubted the kitchen was stocked.
She carefully and quietly shut the door behind her. She switched on one of the table lamps next to the sofa before turning off the brighter overhead light. There, that was better. At least this wouldn’t be as obvious to spot if he were to wander into the kitchen for a midnight snack or something. She would cover the threshold of the door with a towel or blanket later to block out even more light.
She shuddered again, the cold creeping into her bones. She moved the heaters to different areas in the open-plan room and put them each on their highest setting, but she knew it would take a while for them to properly heat up the place. She did a quick tour of the bedroom and bathroom. The double bed had been stripped, but fresh linens were stored in the ottoman at its foot. There were sweats in the closet. Iris could tell at a glance that they were too big for her, but she wasn’t fussy—she was just happy to have a change of clothes for now.
Iris fought back a pang of loss as she thought of her little neon pink carry-on case that had been left out in the rain. She hadn’t spared it a thought when she’d ducked into the kitchen earlier, confident that she’d retrieve it once she and Trystan Abbott had resolved their misunderstanding. But it was still out there, probably ruined by the rain, with the change of clothes in there undoubtedly destroyed as well.
Luckily, she had her passport and phone safely stowed in her puffer jacket pocket.
She fished out her phone and stared at the dead device for a second, before heading to the little kitchen, where a quick root around the drawers yielded positive results. She latched onto the coiled charger cable with a muted, triumphant cry and left her phone charging on the bedside table.
She retreated to the bathroom and shimmied out of her clothes. God, wet denim was almost impossible to get out of, but in the end—after a lot of squirming and wriggling—she managed to divest herself of the garment. The rest of her clothing soon followed, all chucked into a sodden heap on the tiled floor next to the laundry basket.
It was as she stood there, naked, nipples and flesh pebbled, with a blue tinge to her damp, pale skin, that the bathroom door—which she’d closed out of habit—slammed open with such violence it rebounded off the wall and shattered one of the lovely porcelain tiles. Iris’s fight or flight instinct deserted her completely, while she defaulted to the lesser-known freeze in utter panic instinct.
Trystan Abbott stood framed in the doorway, his bearded face a study in rage and hostility.
