Tempted Trapped and Too Late to Run

Clara clutched the strap of her backpack, staring out the window without saying a word.

From where he sat, Dylan could only see the side of her face-small, delicate, and even prettier than usual with her hair pulled up into a high ponytail.

He lowered his gaze, hiding the storm in his eyes. "Stop making a scene."

Just come home with him.

Out of nowhere, Clara's voice was steady. "Let me out."

Dylan's expression went ice-cold, but then he gave a short, humorless laugh. "Sure."

She blinked, not quite believing it, and slowly turned to look at him.

He was giving her that look again-the same twisted, intense stare as before, like he might drag everything around him straight into darkness.

Did he really mean to let her go?

But then the lock on the car door clicked open.

Clara tightened her grip on her backpack, and couldn't help glancing back at him.

Dylan sat in his wheelchair, head down, pale fingers resting quietly in his lap. "Go on," he said.

Clara took a deep breath, didn't say another word, and jumped out. The second her feet hit the pavement, she took off running.

Inside the car, Dylan leaned back, lost somewhere in his thoughts.

But it didn't take long before a group of men in black caught up to Clara and dragged her back. She stood outside the car, face flushed with anger and humiliation.

She wanted to scream at him, but the words stuck in her throat.

He turned to her with a lazy smile. "Why aren't you running now?"

A chill shot through Clara's heart. She felt like a helpless mouse, toyed with by a cat that was way too elegant to be this cruel.

She pressed her lips together, finally getting it.

Dylan never meant to let her go. He just wanted her to know that if he wanted to, he could bring her back any time. The last few days of freedom-those were just a tease. She hadn't even realized it.

The men in black shoved her back into the car and slammed the door behind her.

The locks clicked again, and the car started rolling toward the Capital. Clara's anger burned hotter and hotter.

She just couldn't figure Dylan out-his heart was with Tara, but he still had to keep her trapped here. Did he honestly get some kind of sick pleasure from messing with other people's lives?

"Dylan, do you actually enjoy this?"

He'd given her hope, only to crush it himself. Did he really just want her to understand that in his

was nothing but a power world, she

She was practically shaking with rage, but Dylan just smirked. "Why wouldn't I?"

That was it. That was the spark that set her off. Without even thinking, she raised her hand and slapped him, hard.

He didn't even try to dodge.

The slap echoed in the small space, leaving five bright red fingerprints on his pale cheek.

His skin was flawless, almost unreal-like he'd stepped out of a painting, all smooth lines and porcelain white.

Now, the handprint looked painfully out of place.

Even Clara had to look away, her fingers curling tight, her face red with anger.

Dylan just lifted his hand, touched the blood at the corner of his mouth, and stared at it without a word.

A strange ache twisted in Clara's

chest. She hadn't wanted it to

this far, but this version of Dyhet

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honestly terrifying.

The air in the car felt heavy, suffocating. She struggled to catch her breath and turned away.

Suddenly, a strong hand wrapped around her wrist and yanked her closer.

She didn't even have time to react before his lips crashed down on hers.

It wasn't a gentle kiss—it was wild, desperate, almost angry.

It felt like he was trying to pull both of them down into his darkness.

She tried to slap him again, but he grabbed his tie, ripped it off, and bound her wrists together.