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He led her back to the room and sat her down on the edge of the bed.
“Feeling better? Warmer?”
Her gaze was cast downward and she didn’t seem to hear him.
“Iris?” He sat down beside her and used his thumb and forefinger to tilt her head upward. She still wouldn’t meet his eyes, her pretty eyes—pupils blown—focused on the wall behind him.
He’d intended to make her a hot drink, warm up her insides now that the immediate danger of hypothermia had passed, but that wide, unfixed gaze alarmed him.
“Iris, look at me, c’mon,” he coaxed. She was slow to react but her eyes eventually swung toward him and he heaved a sigh of relief. “Are you still cold?”
“Sleepy,” she muttered from between lips that barely moved.
“I know, sugar,” he whispered. “Let’s get you to bed.”
He got up and tugged her to her feet. He pulled back the covers and ushered her into the bed. He wasted a few precious seconds to don a pair of boxer briefs, and climbed in behind her to spoon against her much smaller body.
She didn’t protest because she was out as soon as her head hit her pillow, while Trystan was left awake with his own tumultuous thoughts.
He switched off the bedside lamp, and thankfully his block-out curtains managed to keep out the gray morning light.
He listened to the rain, gentler now, but ever-present. How long had she been out there? The thought of her stumbling her way around in the dark, wet, cold brought a fresh surge of nauseating guilt and remorse. If she’d lost her footing, taken a wrong turn…
Jesus, it didn’t bear contemplation. And yet, he couldn’t stop his mind from going there. And he shuddered as he considered the fact that she could have slipped, fallen, and disappeared into that river, and he would never have known. Never have found her. She would be gone.
The worst of it was Trystan had never harbored any real concern that she would snoop around or find any personal information to turn against him. It wasn’t even his house, for God’s sake! He had no personal effects lying around. He’d kept her in that room out of sheer perverse stubbornness. He’d imprisoned her to teach her a lesson, punishing her for the sins of her father—and every other pap of similar ilk. And most egregious of all, he’d locked her away because he’d relished his punishing self-imposed isolation, and had resented Iris because of how much he’d begun to enjoy her company and her refreshing irreverence. And also because he’d known that the more time he spent with her, the less likely he was to keep his hands to himself. It had felt safer to keep her tucked away, out of sight—even though she was never really out of mind.
He sighed heavily, his arms tightening around her small body. Her head wrap was coming loose and he reluctantly moved one arm from her waist to tug the towel off and toss it to the floor. Her hair—soft and fragrant—had exploded into a mass of adorable curls, and he allowed himself an undeserved moment of sheer indulgence as he buried his face in that soft cloud and inhaled her addictive scent deep into his lungs.
He held it for a beat before exhaling softly, trying to release all his fear and tension in that single breath. It didn’t quite work, but he felt calmer, more centered.
Iris was okay. She was safe, alive… warm. Trystan didn’t deserve to take comfort and feel peace at her presence in his bed, but—call him a selfish fucking bastard if you wanted—he did. He had a lot to make up for, but she was here, in his arms, and Trystan would fight the devil himself to keep her there.
eleven
Iris opened her eyes to an unfamiliar wall. It was gloomy, but despite the poor light she could tell that the wall was dark blue and not the creamy off-white to which she’d become accustomed these last few days.
She should have felt refreshed after what had to have been her first real sleep since her arrival but instead she felt exhausted… and anxious.
Although the anxiety was nothing new, not when every day brought with it seeping dread and building panic at the stark reality of being trapped in a room where the walls felt like they were closing in more and more every day.
But today’s anxiety felt different, and as she became aware of the heavy male body spooned behind her, she began to get an inclination as to where the dread and anxiety stemmed from.
She was confused. This man—who was giving off enough heat to power a furnace—was pressed so close to her, it was hard to figure out where he ended and she began. His bent knee was thrust between her thighs and his other leg was thrown across hers. One of his long arms was under her neck, while the other was draped over her waist, his hand pressed between her—naked—breasts.
Yes, she was naked . And he was very close to naked. Hard to miss that fact with the amount of hot, bare flesh plastered against her back.
Oh, and he had an erection. The fabric of whatever underwear he was wearing did very little to conceal that fact. He wasn’t grinding it against her or anything like that, but it was tapping insistently—almost politely—against the small of her back.
Please ma’am, would you let me in?
The absurd notion had her snorting and she felt him tense behind her.
“Iris.” The instantly familiar voice was gravelly with sleep and despite the placating tone in that single word, Iris went still as a statue. Even her breathing stalled.
Of course she’d known that it was Trystan Abbott in bed with her. Who the hell else could it have been? But the confirmation still shook her.
What the hell was going on here?
