Tempted Trapped and Too Late to Run

Walter stood with his hands clasped behind his back, a knowing look in his eyes.

"Wait until you're the one in charge."

Dylan's lashes flickered. He'd never really cared about that kind of power, but he pressed his lips together and nodded. "Yeah."

Clara, sitting beside him, suddenly leaned in. "Is it dangerous?"

Dylan's hand trembled ever so slightly on the armrest of his wheelchair. No matter what version of Clara he met, she was always the sharpest in the room.

He crooked his finger at her. "Come here."

She got up, moving to his side, worry written all over her face.

He reached out and patted her gently on the head. "Let's go."

Clara shot Walter a look, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.

Dylan took her hand, and as he turned the wheelchair around, he couldn't hold back a real smile curving at his lips. "Quit glaring. It's not dangerous."

She hesitated, then followed him. "Really?"

Downstairs, the rest of the family was waiting to talk to Dylan about the birthday party plans. The chef was busy clattering around in the kitchen, and everyone else sat in the living room, the mood tense-there was a lot to figure out.

The younger folks not involved in the planning sat together on a nearby sofa, chatting quietly.

Clara started out next to Dylan, but their conversation was so complicated and formal, she quickly tuned out. Her legs itched to move, so she headed for the garden.

Dylan barely listened to the others, either. He just reminded her, "Don't talk to strangers, okay?"

Clara nodded and slipped outside through the glass sliding door. Out here, the air felt lighter, less suffocating.

She plopped down on a porch swing, rocking herself gently. After a while, a plate of neatly sliced fruit appeared on the small table beside her.

Tara was watching her, not looking away, her voice sweet and friendly. "We meet again, Clara."

Clara squeezed her eyes shut, remembering what Dylan said-don't talk to strangers.

Tara was no fool. She'd noticed something was off with Clara from the beginning, and now it was obvious.noveldrama

A flicker of mockery flashed in Tara's eyes.

So, she really is out of it. That makes things easier. Before coming home, Tara had done her homework, swapped info with Simon, and already figured out who could be useful-Megan.

She smiled. "You had an accident, didn't you? Things are a little strange for you now, but we're friends."

Clara slowly opened her eyes, sizing up the woman in front of her.

Tara radiated kindness-there was no trace of hostility.

If Tara could fool Mrs. Ferguson, tricking someone like this would be a breeze.

Just as Tara was about to say something else, the sliding door rattled open.

Dylan's voice was cold.

"What do you want with her?"

Tara was usually good at keeping things light, but when she met his eyes, a chill ran through her.

He didn't say much, but his stare was clear: stay away from Clara.

He was even more protective of

Clara now, treating her like she was made of spun glass, afraid to let her fall or even let her go.

Tara had never felt this kind of jealousy before, and for a second, it almost slipped through.

But she was still Tara. She'd survived too much to lose her cool now.

"I just saw her out here alone, so I brought her some fruit," she said easily. “Simon and the others were asking me about you inside, and I needed some fresh air."

She said it perfectly—a friendly gesture, and she didn't spill any secrets.

Clara stood, glancing between the two of them, feeling a weird discomfort bubbling up in her chest.

She walked over to Dylan and pushed him farther inside, her voice a little shaky. "you two know each other? Are you close?

It was the first time she'd ever cared about his relationships with other women.

Something she'd never even imagined herself doing.

Dylan sat quietly in his wheelchair for a few seconds before answering, soft and low, "Not really."

Tara heard those words, and her hand curled into a fist at her side, nails digging into her palm.

She didn't go back in. Instead, she watched Dylan's face through the glass.

How could the moon ever be dirtied by a little mud?