Tempted Trapped and Too Late to Run novel Chapter 841

When Clara walked back into the master bedroom, Dylan still had his eyes closed. But she knew him too well—not a chance he was actually asleep. His mind was always a storm, and right now, it was probably running wild with thoughts he’d never admit out loud.

She repeated what the mysterious stranger had told her, then asked quietly, “Dylan, do you think this is aimed at me or at you?”

He finally opened his eyes, staring up at the ceiling, looking lost. But it wasn’t tonight’s drama that had him shaken; it was something else, something deeper he wouldn’t let her see.

“Clara, I just want to sleep,” he said, voice flat.

She came over, worry creasing her brow as she caught the emptiness in his gaze. Gently, she pressed her hand to his forehead—just to reassure herself—then let out a soft sigh.

“Don’t keep me guessing, Dylan. If something’s wrong, just say it. Don’t make me figure it out on my own.”

He was already impossible to read, and when he chose to hide things, she felt completely shut out. She was terrified of making things worse for him without even knowing it.

But if he was the type to open up easily, maybe he wouldn’t be so broken in the first place.

She took a deep breath, leaned down, and kissed him—just a gentle brush, a wordless comfort.

His hand started to reach for her, but fell back halfway.

Clara lay down next to him, her head on his shoulder, her voice soft. “You don’t like Eli and Seth either, do you?”

Otherwise, why would he suddenly say he wanted to sleep at a moment like this?

Dylan never bothered hiding his dislike for people. Just look at how obvious he was with Z.

With his eyes shut, he squeezed her hand tight. “No. I don’t like them.”

Too much of her past was tangled up with Eli and Seth—just enough to make anyone jealous.

Clara rolled over, pressing her cheek to his chest. “Why not? Or are you just not going to answer?”

“They don’t like me either,” he said quietly, eyes still closed. “They hate me. Hate me so much, they wish I’d just disappear. Only, they can’t actually make it happen.”

Clara fell silent, her brows furrowing. Something flashed through her mind, but she couldn’t grab hold of it.

Her eyes grew dark as she closed them, pulling him closer.

*

The next morning, someone from the Ferguson family’s old estate showed up—it was the butler again.

Last time, he’d come in acting all high and mighty. Today, he was humble, almost pleading.

The butler stayed kneeling, watching as Clara ignored him. He finally shouted, “Clara!”

She didn’t look back.

The master was right—Clara was nothing but trouble.

She was just as stubborn and wild as Dylan—maybe even more.

With a heavy sigh, the butler slowly got up, bowed respectfully to Dylan, and said, “Sir, I’ve said everything I can. If you go to war with your father, it’s going to destroy you both. The master is still willing to give you a chance. Don’t be so stubborn.”

Dylan sat there, not moving an inch.

Seeing there was no hope, the butler turned and left. As he reached the front door, he let out a long, weary sigh.

Clara brought breakfast out to the table, checked the bandage on Dylan’s hand to make sure it wasn’t worse, and led him to sit down with her.

Watching him eat slowly and carefully, she suddenly asked, “Did you see those two words carved on the wall?”

Was that what made him come back so suddenly?