Tempted Trapped and Too Late to Run
Chapter 72

When Clara woke up, the sunlight streaming through the window hit her eyes like a spotlight. Everything around her felt unfamiliar, wrapped in understated

elegance. She sat up in bed, gingerly touching her forehead, feeling the ache beneath the bandage wrapped around it.

The bedroom was spacious, every corner whispering luxury. Suddenly, the memory of the last face she saw before passing out hit her-Dylan. Sure enough, there he was at the door, still in his wheelchair, carefully balancing a bowl of oatmeal as he wheeled over and placed it on the bedside table.

"Feeling better?" he asked, his voice calm yet concerned.

It was hard not to feel a rush of gratitude. Just last night, she thought she might not make it. "Yeah. Is your leg okay?" Even though her memory was foggy, she remembered him kicking a man away, risking his own recovery. If anything happened to his leg, she'd feel guilty forever.

"It's fine," he reassured her, lifting the bowl and handing it to her.

Clara felt a mix of surprise and gratitude as she took it with both hands. Dylan turned away, his tone composed. "Take it easy today. You don't need to go to work."

Looking at the light outside, she realized it was already the next day. The thought of last night's trouble, all thanks to Jade, darkened her mood. She wasn't one to let herself be pushed around.

"Thank you," she said, sipping the oatmeal and glimpsing him, settling into the sofa.

Today, he wasn't wearing his usual dark suit but lighter, more relaxed clothes, shedding his usual aloofness for a softer look. Clara quickly finished her oatmeal and got out of bed.

"I think I learned how to give massages once. Would you like me to massage your leg?" she offered. After all, he had risked his injury to help her and even brought her to his home. Despite her lingering apprehension, she couldn't deny feeling grateful.

Dylan looked up from a book he was holding, giving her a brief glance. He was an enigma. In a suit, he seemed so distant, but here at home, he was almost magnetic.

No wonder so many girls in the city harbored secret crushes on him.

"Sure," he agreed.

With his permission, Clara grabbed a small stool and sat beside him, gently placing her hands on his leg to start the massage. She wasn't lying about knowing how to massage. Even with the gaps in her memory, she felt she had learned it seriously, though the reason why eluded her.

Massaging could get a bit intimate. Her fingers slowly worked their way up, getting close to the top of his thigh. After a few moments, Dylan set his book aside.

Suddenly, he caught her wrist, and she looked up, puzzled. His gaze was steady, though his thumb brushed her wrist lightly. Clara's face turned crimson, and she awkwardly tried to pull her hand back.

"Does your massage really need to go that far?" he asked with a hint of amusement in his voice.

Feeling a bit embarrassed, Clara quickly explained, "Massaging this area helps achieve the overall therapeutic effect."

Dylan let go of her hand, leaning sideways and resting his head on his hand, his eyes fixed on her. Clara had never seen this side of him before; he was a world away from the cold persona she knew. At that moment, he was pure temptation.

Her cheeks grew warmer, and she avoided his gaze, focusing on the massage, careful not to venture too high. After a while, she heard him chuckle softly.

Clara wished she could disappear; she knew her face must look ridiculous. Feeling a little flustered, she pulled her hands back.

"I'm done," she said, trying to sound more confident than she felt.