Tempted Trapped and Too Late to Run

Clara's face was pale, her hand gripping the edge of the bed so hard it looked like she might snap the wood in two.

When Dylan made his way up from downstairs, it was already close to eleven. The plans for the birthday banquet were finally settled. Thinking of Clara waiting for him in his room, he couldn't help but smile a little as he pushed open the door to his suite.

He hadn't stayed overnight at the old house in ages, and honestly, he never liked it much. Too many memories he'd rather leave buried.

He wheeled himself inside, rounded the corner-and stopped. The bed was empty.

His brows furrowed. Maybe she was just restless, wandering around. She was young, after all.

He called for the butler, his voice calm but clipped. "Where is she?"

The butler looked just as confused-he'd only just come up himself. Quickly, he went to ask the maid.

The maid didn't seem the least bit flustered. "No one told me there were special arrangements, so I put her in the last room at the end of the hall."

Dylan's eyes went cold. That's the storage room.

He fixed the maid with a glare that could cut glass.

white as a sheet, dropping to her knees

was at a loss. Even if Clara was

of line. Was this maid

"Young Master, let's check on her

eyes never left the

the weight of his silence, head bowed, unable to get a word

tense moment, Dylan finally said, voice like ice, "Pack your things. You're

it—she was being kicked out of

shock. She'd been with the Fergusons for nearly thirty years,

I watched you grow up!" she pleaded. How could he throw her out over a girl who

his wheelchair and headed for the end of

scrambled to

spent nearly all her time praying in the

maid sobbed, "please, you have to help me! Young Master wants to throw me out because of Clara. I've worked here thirty years. Even if I

folded in prayer. At the maid's words, her brow tightened. With help, she rose and stepped outside, where the maid was kneeling in the hall,

me gone. Mrs. Ferguson, forgive me, but he cares