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He planted his legs apart and inhaled deeply, searching for the last remnants of his strength. He refused to let her walk back since she clearly didn’t have much more left in the tank. This was Trystan’s fault and getting Iris and Luna back to safety was on him and no one else.
He secured his hold around her violently shivering body and started the slow trudge back up the slippery embankment.
It was tough going—he slid back a few paces for every few feet he advanced—exhaustion soon slumped his shoulders and had his lungs bellowing.
Iris—after her initial burst of defiant energy—appeared barely aware of her surroundings, and that, combined with her obvious exhaustion and weakness, frightened Trystan.
He gritted his teeth and dug deep, fighting through the pain and fear and fatigue, finding reserves he hadn’t even known he possessed as he battled his way to the top of that damned slope to where Luna sat patiently waiting for them.
The dog leaped to her feet when he finally reached her, her tail wagging happily as she circled Trystan and Iris to sniff and lick whatever skin she could find.
Trystan allowed himself a moment to catch his breath, while his eyes searched Iris’s cold, pale face. Her eyes were shut, and she’d gone limp in his arms. The fact that she hadn’t uttered so much as a token protest while he’d battled his way up that hill told him how very out of it she was. And now, one look at her face in the sullen morning light confirmed that she’d lost consciousness.
He panicked, juggling her in his arms as he bent his leg and frantically shifted her weight partially to his knee, freeing up his hand somewhat to search her wrist for a pulse. He nearly wept in relief when he felt it strong, and little too fast, beneath his fingers.
“Thank God. Okay, sweetheart,” he murmured, as he readjusted her weight, uncaring that she couldn’t hear him. “Let’s get you home.”
The walk back to the house was interminable. Trystan nearly dropped to his knees beneath the mantle of utter exhaustion several times, but—fueled by his determination to get Iris warm and safe again—he persevered. By the time he reached the back door, Iris was beginning to stir in his arms.
“Wha—what’s happen…?”
“Ssh, relax,” he whispered soothingly, as he eased through the kitchen door and out of the rain. He stopped only to awkwardly shut the door behind them, refusing to let go of his charge while he took care of the task. The closed door instantly muffled the relentless racket of the pounding rain, and Trystan heaved a sigh of relief at the cessation of noise.
He walked her straight to his bedroom, calling Luna to follow. He impatiently kicked his way through the closed door, and went directly to the bathroom, where he gingerly deposited his precious cargo on the toilet seat before reaching for a thick, fluffy bath sheet and making short work of drying Luna with it.
“Go lie down,” he commanded the still-damp dog, and Luna instantly obeyed, retreating to his room to find her spot by the heater. Trystan immediately refocused on Iris, who appeared to be listing to one side as she seemed to float in and out of consciousness.
“Shit,” he muttered, closing the distance between himself and her in an instant. “Iris, stand up, help me get you out of these wet things, okay?”
With a combination of coaxing and minor bullying he managed to get her up, and started maneuvering her uncooperative, heavy limbs through sleeves and trouser legs, until she was clad in just a tiny pair of silky blue panties and a wispy lacy pink push-up bra that left very little to the imagination.
He glared down at the woefully inadequate pile of wet clothing at their feet. She’d been wearing only a long-sleeved T-shirt under a thicker flannel shirt and the black puffer jacket she was so fond of. Combined with a pair of now-sodden jeans. Her only remotely suitable attire for the weather was her hiking boots.
She was soaked to the bone and as he stared at her wet, goosefleshed, shivering body, he choked back a distraught sob.
He peeled off his own clothes, keeping on his boxers, and lifted her into his arms to carry her into the huge shower.
She made a weak sound of protest at his actions, showing some signs of life as she feebly batted at his hands when he set her on her feet in the glass cubicle.
“I’m sorry, but these have to come off, sweetheart. I need to get you warm, okay?” He quickly and efficiently divested her of her bra and panties, and this time she didn’t even protest. Her listlessness frightened him and his hands shook with a combination of panic and cold as he turned on the faucet, starting with a gentle, lukewarm spray and gradually turning the heat up, in an effort to avoid shocking her system.
Hypothermia was a real concern, and he rubbed her limp arms briskly before gathering her close and wrapping his arms around her still-shuddering body. His hands felt like enormous, clumsy paws as he stroked her back in rough circular motions.
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.
