Tempted Trapped and Too Late to Run novel Chapter 37

"Hurry up, we can't let anyone else find us."

Clara was caught off guard, her instincts kicking in as she quickly shoved Dylan into the bathroom. She cranked the shower to full blast, her eyes catching Dylan as he closed his eyes, those long lashes fluttering just a bit.

"Mr. Dylan, who are these people?"

Fearing the folks outside might overhear, she leaned in close, her breath tickling his ear. Dylan's lashes flickered sharply as he gently pushed her back. "It's probably someone from the Ferguson family."

Since Dylan had been confined to a wheelchair, he was under constant scrutiny, and his brothers were as sly as they come. Even with his stealthy movements this time, someone had sniffed him out.

Clara noticed the sweat streaming down his neck and the tension etched on his face, realizing just how potent the drug was. She was worried sick she'd get the boot for letting her boss take something so strong while he was under the weather.

She grabbed a fresh towel, soaked it in cold water, and draped it over Dylan's face. "Hang in there."

As soon as she said it, Dylan's eyes slowly opened. The harsh edge was gone, replaced by an intense fire that seemed like it could ignite everything around him. Clara felt the burn from his gaze, quickly averting her eyes as she apologized, "I'm sorry, someone else planted that drug."

She braced for anger, expecting him to lash out or send her packing, but he just asked, "Who were you going to use it on?"

The banging stopped, and the men outside seemed taken aback by what they thought was happening inside. They were convinced that the man in there couldn't be Dylan. After all, Dylan was disabled and couldn't possibly be up to such antics in a bathroom.

They couldn’t spot Dylan and soon left. Clara listened intently until the noises faded, then gradually stopped her act. She was too scared to look at Dylan. She only heard the wheels of his chair scraping on the floor, followed by the tap turning on.

He soaked the towel again, and the veins on his hands were popping, showing his sheer willpower. Clara didn’t dare open the bathroom door yet. As she awkwardly stood there, she watched Dylan, his body taut, pressing the wet towel to his face, his chest gently rising and falling.

The charged atmosphere lingered, and she could hear his labored breathing—heavy and full of restraint.