Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 132649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132649 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 663(@200wpm)___ 531(@250wpm)___ 442(@300wpm)
He muffled a groan and she went still at the sound.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured and he inhaled deeply before releasing the breath slowly.
“It’s all good. I’m just…” He went silent and she waited for him to complete the sentence, but he left it hanging.
“Just what?” she asked after nearly a full minute had passed.
“Nothing. Don’t worry about it. About me. I’m fine.” His strained voice made a liar of him, but Iris’s lids were growing heavier and her brain was fogging over. She wanted to pursue the matter but she was asleep before her mind could formulate a response.
When next she awoke, Iris found herself alone in Trystan’s bed. She was sprawled on her stomach in the middle of the mattress and she yawned as she pushed herself up.
The room was dark. And something told her it was very late at night, or possibly very early in the morning. God, how long had she slept? And where was Trystan? Had her restless movements while sleeping sent him in search of a different bed? Who could blame him? She tended to hog the bed and covers because she was unused to sharing.
She reached over to the nightstand and found the switch for the lamp. Half of the room flooded with warm light, and Iris was gratified to note that one of her oversized hoodies—a lime green one—had been draped at the foot of the bed. Silently thanking Trystan for his thoughtfulness, she tugged the warm, fleecy garment over her head and padded to the bathroom.
After taking care of her immediate needs, she checked herself out in the mirror and nearly screamed at the sight. God, what had he done with her hair? It was a tangled, frizzy mess of unruly curls. It was going to take forever to detangle it.
Ugh, that was a problem for later. Right now, her stomach was actively trying to eat her spine, and she needed food. She padded to the door, which was still crookedly hanging from the hinges, and thankfully unlocked. She eyed the damage for a moment, remembering the moment he’d kicked it in.
It had been an extreme action, but—now that her memory was less hazy—Iris could recall his panic and desperation.
It had confused her, that urgency. It still did. Yes, she’d been cold, in shock, but she meant nothing to him. And he’d mentioned on several occasions that his preference would be for her to try and head back to town.
Granted, he wouldn’t have expected her to do it in pitch black, stormy weather, but she still found his level of concern surprising.
She made her way to the kitchen, shuddering when she passed the closed door to her room on the way. Nausea surged to her throat at the thought of returning to it, but she knew she’d eventually have to go back in there. Her one consolation was that it was unlikely that Trystan would lock her in again.
She heard talking before she got to the kitchen and she smiled in anticipation, certain that it was Trystan speaking to Luna… but something in his tone of voice gave her pause and she stopped just outside the door.
“What were you thinking? Why did you send her out here? Was it some twisted game? I…” There was a pause as whomever he was on the line with—and it wasn’t hard to guess it was Mr. Quinn—interrupted him. “What the fuck do you mean you thought she’d get me out my rut? You mean she was a sacrificial lamb you thought I’d have fun toying with, don’t you? That’s twisted, Quinny. I didn’t need to be shaken out of my rut… I’m not in a rut. I’m re-evaluating. And I need you to respect my space and allow me to do that in privacy. I didn’t fucking want her here. She lacks
experience and even before I knew who her father was, I told you to cancel it.”
Iris gasped, her hand going to her mouth, and Trystan abruptly stopped speaking, obviously hearing the faint sound.
Aware that the jig was up and that she’d been caught eavesdropping, Iris stepped into the kitchen where Trystan stood facing the door, his mobile phone still plastered to his ear. His eyes were wide as he stared at her, face pale, lips thinned.
“I’ll call you back,” he barked into the phone, before swiping at the screen and tossing it to the counter.
“How’re you feeling, Iris?” he asked, his voice dark and intent.
“That was Mr. Quinn, wasn’t it?” she asked, pointing a shaky finger at the phone on the counter. He tossed the device an impatient glare before closing the distance between them in a few short strides.
“How are you?” he repeated the question, cupping her face and tilting it upward to stare into her eyes.
“You knew who I was when I first arrived, didn’t you?” she demanded to know, her sluggish brain finally making sense of his words. “You told him to cancel the interview, only he didn’t, and when I showed up you were angry with him and with me. Then you accused me of being an intruder when you knew full well that I was exactly who I said I was.”