Tempted Trapped and Too Late to Run

He took a couple of sips, then turned his head to the side.

She set the glass down and gently pressed her palm to his forehead for a few seconds.

No fever. That was a relief.

When she pulled her hand back, the room fell quiet again.

Clara didn't dare say anything about Z, and she didn't even want to mention going home-if he fainted again, she wouldn't know what to do.

Dylan's health had always seemed so fragile.

She sat quietly, lips pressed together, not saying a word.

His lashes were low, casting shadows over his eyes, when he suddenly mumbled,

"I want to take a shower."

"The doctor said you can't get wet," she reminded him.

He ignored her, hands already reaching for the covers to push them aside.

His back was still covered in wounds. Even the tiniest movement tugged at them. Clara panicked and grabbed his leg, holding him down.

She caught a glimpse of his face he looked even paler than before. Instantly, she blurted, "How about I help you wipe down instead? Once you're better, you can shower."

He stopped struggling, leaned back with his eyes closed, and didn't say anything. She took that as agreement.

Clara had said it without thinking. Now there was no way out.

She went to get a basin of hot water and found a clean towel, then brought them to his bedside.

Honestly, she wished Aiden were here. But he'd gone to the office.

As she wrung the towel out, she tried to psych herself up. But the more she thought about it, the more awkward she felt.

She dropped the towel in the water, hurried downstairs, and caught up with the housekeepers. "Mr. Dylan needs someone to help him wipe down. Is anyone free?"

As soon as she said it, everyone looked horrified, shaking their heads like she'd just asked them to jump off a bridge.

"Ma'am, we can't-sir never lets anyone touch him."

"Please, don't put us in that spot."

Standing there, Clara felt like she was on the outside looking in.

She took a deep breath. "Then call Aiden. Tell him to come back."

One of the housekeepers pulled out her phone and dialed. After a moment, she relayed, “Aiden's in a meeting with the execs, then he has to cover for Mr. Dylan on two international calls. He won't be home until around eleven tonight." Cóntent

All Clara's hope vanished.

She trudged back upstairs and started wringing out the towel again.

Dylan glanced at her-she was sitting by the bed, looking completely defeated. The corner of his mouth twitched, like he wanted to smile.

Clara looked up and tried to play it off, forcing a grin. "I just... I don't want to cross any boundaries."

He looked straight at her, eyes dark. "When did I ever say I was worried about that?"

She stood there, not sure how to respond.

Before she could move, he let out a soft sigh. "If you really don't want to touch me..."

Before he could finish, Clara grabbed his hand and started wiping down his arm, then the back of his hand, and his palm.

Was he for real? What did he mean, "if you don't want to touch me"? Did he actually want her to?

She remembered how, back when

Eden barged into this villa, Dylan had wrapped himself up tighter than a mummy-he'd always seemed to hate being touched, especially by women.

Was he just feeling vulnerable now that he was hurt?

She finished wiping his upper body, rinsed the towel, got a fresh basin of water, and wrung it out. Then, gently, she cupped his chin and wiped his face clean.

They were so close she could barely breathe.

The cut at the corner of his mouth still hadn't fully healed; up close, you could see the faint scar.

Clara's hand felt hot as she awkwardly wiped at his cheeks.

She rinsed the towel again. Next was his lower body. "Mr. Dylan, um... sorry, I'm going to have to "

If she kept hesitating, this would go on forever. She needed to just get it done.noveldrama

She lifted the covers, and her eyes landed on his long legs under the robe. Her cheeks burned.

She didn't even dare to lift his robe; she just closed her eyes and carefully wiped every spot she could reach, barely breathing the whole time.

Honestly, in this whole city, who else would dare get this close to Dylan?

She remembered, from back when

she'd massaged his legs, how unfairly good-looking he was. Even injured, he was all sharp lines and strong muscles-broad shoulders,

narrow waist, better than any male model she'd ever seen.

Weren't people with leg injuries supposed to lose muscle?

But with him, there wasn't a single sign of weakness.