Tempted Trapped and Too Late to Run novel Chapter 840

A helicopter came for them not long after and whisked them straight to the hospital.

Once they’d gotten a few shots of antivenom, the doctor finally relaxed. “If you’d come any later, there’s nothing we could’ve done. We lose people to that kind of snakebite every year. You were in the forest, weren’t you? Next time, just stay out of there.”

Clara glanced at Dylan.

He was propped up against the headboard, looking washed-out and pale. “I want to go home,” he said quietly.

Clara didn’t even hesitate. She booked the first flight she could find and got him on the plane that very day.

By the time they made it back to Palm Bay, she was running on empty. She took a hot shower, checked on Milo and Buddy, and finally headed to the master bedroom—just as Dylan was coming out of his own shower.

She crossed her arms, eyeing him for a long moment.

He tossed his towel aside and walked straight to the bed, looking like he might just collapse right there.

“Aren’t you going to dry your hair?” Clara asked, frowning.

“No,” he mumbled.

She’d been holding it together, but that did it. “Dylan, what are you doing? Really.”

She wasn’t in the mood to play along with his obvious games. The whole vacation had been for him—he’d picked the spot himself—and now he’d managed to drag them back like this. It made her feel like an idiot, like she was just dancing to his tune.

Dylan sat on the edge of the bed, eyes closed, still looking like death warmed over.

Clara’s temper flared. She marched over, but when she caught sight of the fading bruise on his cheek, she stopped herself from saying anything harsh.

“Talk to me—why the sudden need to come home? Even if you wanted to leave, couldn’t you have just told me? Did you have to go about it this way? Was this just to see me freak out? And how are you actually feeling?”

The doctor hadn’t been exaggerating. Another hour and Dylan might not have made it.

He really didn’t care about his own life at all.

When he didn’t answer, Clara grabbed the hair dryer, hauled him closer, and started drying his hair herself.

He kept his eyes closed, but leaned into her, resting his head on her shoulder.

Clara glanced at Dylan—still lying there, eyes closed—and slipped out into the hallway to make the call.

The voice on the other end was distorted, impossible to tell if it was a man or a woman. The first thing they said was, “Is this Clara?”

“It’s me. What do you want?”

The caller paused, then almost sounded like they were smiling as they spoke. “Just this—don’t let Dylan go to North America. Don’t let him near the Fergusons.”

Clara almost laughed. Was she seriously supposed to take orders from a stranger?

She opened her mouth to ask more, but the caller cut her off. “If he goes to North America, both of you will regret it. I promise.”

And just like that, the line went dead.

Clara tried calling back, wanting to ask about Seth and Eli, but no one picked up. A few minutes later, the number was disconnected.

She took a long breath, but the irritation wouldn’t go away. Something about all of this felt wrong, and she couldn’t shake the unease settling in her chest.