Tempted Trapped and Too Late to Run

Clara shot upright in bed, gulping in air, her forehead damp with sweat.

Her eyes were unfocused as she looked at him. "What?"

Dylan's hands hovered stiffly over his laptop, veins standing out, but his face gave nothing away-calm, almost distant.

"What did you dream about?"

She frowned, digging for the memory, but all she could grab was a heavy,

uncomfortable feeling pressing down on her chest.

Without thinking, she wrapped her arms around Dylan's.

"Babe, can we not sleep here tomorrow night? I really don't like this place."

She slipped into her old, familiar way of whining-Clara had always been good at that, ever since she was little.

She was always so sweet and obedient, stubborn but adorable, a little clueless, a lot innocent.

Clara watched his face, searching for a hint of warmth, scooting closer to press a few soft kisses to the corner of his lips.

"Please?" she murmured.

He didn't say a word, just closed his laptop slowly.

Suddenly, Clara felt a chill radiating off him-cold, almost sharp. She loosened her hold on his arm, uneasy.

He set the laptop aside, folded up the tray table, then glanced at her. "Are you scared of me?"

She dropped her head and stayed quiet. She had no idea what had set him off. Then, out of nowhere, he cupped her face in his hands, staring at her.

sadness in her eyes, leftovers from her dream that

never really saw him-not even a reflection. But in

he thought, he'd never be able to open

He'd tried everything.

eyes widened, searching his face. "What's wrong,

of her face, his voice

together, hesitated, then

kissed his eyelids, then the

at him,

Still mad?

dropped her head, kissing his jaw, then down

apple bobbed. He reached over

maybe he'd let it go. She was just about to move away when he spoke

"Mark me."

soft,

you know how? Right where you kissed me. Make it deep, so it

really sure what he

he tugged at her loose shirt, pulling it

and bit down, hard enough to

out, just froze for a second

like he wanted to brand her, to leave

his

was pretty sure he'd drawn blood, and there'd

was what he meant

then

perfect spot-when he wore a shirt, it would

his bite, she didn't hold

harder, just because