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He scrubbed a hand over his face and retreated, slamming the door in his wake.
She jumped at the harsh sound and then—when the door locked—she sobbed. A quiet, despairing, hopeless sound.
Chapter Ten
Sleep eluded him.
Trystan tossed and turned all night, haunted by the memory of Iris’s face. She hadn’t touched the leftover curry he’d taken to her room after his failed attempt to reach Quinny.
She’d barely seemed to register his presence in her room, remaining curled up in that defensive little ball on the sofa. He’d tried to convince himself that it wasn’t his problem, that she wasn’t his problem. If she didn’t want to eat, then he didn’t—shouldn’t—fucking care…
Only, something about the way she’d sat there, silently rocking herself in what he assumed was an attempt at self-soothing had made him want to scoop her up and cradle her in his lap.
Another part of him had resented her histrionics. She was being dramatic, she had plenty of space, plenty of diversions, she was fine. It wasn’t a tiny, dark supply room, for fuck’s sake. Even though he’d asked about the bullying, Trystan recognized that she must have shared that story in an attempt to manipulate him into giving her, her way. But Trystan had been burned too many times by the paparazzi. They went to fucking extremes to get to him.
After the accident one of them had literally cut himself to get into the same emergency room as Trystan. From there he’d managed to get pictures of Trystan, bloodied and unconscious, as well as Trish in the morgue. There’d been others as well, posing as doctors and nurses. One had even brought her infant daughter in with a feigned emergency.
It had been a losing battle keeping those images out of the gutter press. In the end, a few of them had inevitably oozed their way into the less reputable gossip rags. And it had been impossible to keep the pictures of Trish’s body in the car off the Internet. Trystan’s face had been blurred out because they’d known he would sue their asses, but Trish had been fair game. And her family had to live with the knowledge that images of their loved one’s dead body were littered across the web for anybody to gawk at.
So, this shit Iris was trying to pull was fucking amateur hour.
That hadn’t been terror in her eyes—she was just a more skilled actress than he’d given her credit for.
He sat up in bed with a groan, scrubbing his hands over his face, disliking the feel of his beard on his palms. He was tempted to shave the damned thing off, but the thought of fully revealing his scar prevented him from doing so.
He shouldn’t have kissed her.
What the fuck had he been thinking? He was making one ridiculous mistake after the other with this woman. She wasn’t the sweet, innocent thing she pretended to be. She was cold, calculating, her father’s daughter. No matter what stories she told about the real father who’d raised her, blood would always tell.
But she came in a refreshingly cute package, and that was proving to be his undoing. He didn’t go for cute, never had. He didn’t go for sweet or innocent either, so her act should in no way appeal to him and yet …
That mop of adorable dark brown curls, combined with her silky smooth, gold-tinged skin, a pouty mouth that resembled a deep pink rosebud on the verge of blooming, and God, those killer curves.
The memory of her generously proportioned body in that tiny pink and white bikini drove him fucking insane. He didn’t know how the hell he’d managed to keep his hands off her that day by the pool when all that tempting golden brown skin had been right there for the stroking.
He hadn’t realized that small and curvy could rev his engine like this until Iris had barreled her unwelcome way into his life.
He groaned again as he belatedly registered the erection throbbing between his thighs. Not his first since she’d shown up at his doorstep, and he very much doubted it would be his last.
He picked up his phone to check the time. Just after six-thirty in the morning. It was still pitch black out, but Trystan knew there was little point in trying to get any sleep now. He got out of bed and pulled on a pair of sweatpants, ignoring his persistent hard-on.
The rain had started up again about half an hour ago—for the first time in three days—initially just a few hard drops, but now it was a steady downpour. They’d never get that damned bridge fixed at this rate.
He padded his way barefoot and shirtless in the dark toward the kitchen, but stopped abruptly at the sight of Luna silhouetted in the dim light.
Shit, no wonder she had terrified Iris so badly that first night. In the dark she did resemble a wolf.
The dog was standing outside Iris’s room. Her tail and ears were down, and she was whining slightly.
“What’s wrong, girl?” he asked softly, coming to a stop beside his dog. He put a hand on her ruff, and was alarmed to note that she was quivering. “What’s going on?”
The dog whined and pawed at Iris’s door.
Trystan stared at the door, a feeling of deep unease unfurling in his gut.
He knocked quietly.
No answer.
