Tempted Trapped and Too Late to Run novel Chapter 688

Clara pushed herself to her feet, swallowing nervously. “Someone gave it to me,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Dylan stared at the photo for a long moment. Without a word, he pulled out his lighter and flicked it on.

As the flame flared, Clara reached out, trying to stop him, but he just looked at her and asked, “Who gave it to you? When did this happen?”

Something about him tonight sent a chill through her. She took a step back, heart pounding.

The fire crept higher, almost burning his fingers, but he didn’t even flinch. He just watched her. “Answer me.”

Clara pressed her lips together and looked down. “I don’t know who. A few days ago.”

He let out a dry, humorless laugh and flicked the smoldering remains away. “A few days ago?”

So she’d been hiding it all this time. No wonder she’d seemed distracted lately, like something was weighing on her. It was because of this.

Even in her sleep, she called out someone else’s name.

So that’s what it was.

Losing her memory couldn’t erase it.

Growing up didn’t help either.

It was like that person was carved into her bones, and Dylan realized, no matter what he did, he could never cut him out.

Seeing how much this hurt him made Clara’s chest ache. She didn’t even really know why she’d hidden the photo in the first place.

“Babe, please, don’t be mad.” She tried to comfort him, but he just stared into the distance.

Lightning ripped through the night sky, bright enough to split the darkness wide open.

He remembered her words—all the sarcasm, the bitterness, the way she looked at him with disgust.

And the thing that hurt most: “Why couldn’t it have been you instead?”

You can try to hide things, but in the end, it all just falls apart.

“Dylan…” Clara’s voice trembled. She stepped closer, cupping his face in her hands. “I didn’t mean to hide it. I just… I was scared you’d be upset.”

Her fingertips brushed his lips. They were ice cold.

The chill made her shudder, and she pulled her hand back.

“Clara, if you gave me another chance, I’d still kill him.”

He sounded so different, as if he didn’t even recognize himself.

His voice got quieter, thick with self-doubt. “You never did.”

Clara gripped the towel, lost for words, not sure how things had spiraled so fast.

She wrapped her arms around him, standing on tiptoe to kiss him.

He turned his head away, angry and hurt.

Clara kissed him anyway, messy and desperate, her lips trailing down to his collarbone.

There were marks on his skin from that night—a little scabbed over, but deep. They’d never really go away.

She had one, too, on her shoulder. He’d been rough, but even then, he couldn’t bring himself to truly hurt her. Hers would probably fade in a few months.

Clara kissed the scar on his skin again and again. That’s when she felt something wet and cool on her cheek.

She thought it was just water from his hair. She wiped it away and tasted it.

Salty.