Chapter 32
32:
“Just drive.” Dylan’s voice cut through the silence like a blade. The driver obeyed without pause, and the car tore away from the scene, swallowing distance in seconds.
Christina slumped against Dylan, her body limp. He shifted to brace her, showing no resistance or discomfort.
His mind, however, was racing—every turn of the wheels a countdown. He needed her safe. He needed her stable. The road was no ally. It was jagged and cruel, each pothole a fresh threat.
Dylan instinctively adjusted her in his arms, nestling her closer, forming a barrier.
But then, the vehicle lurched.
Caught off guard, Dylan had no time to react. Christina, still unconscious, had no control over her limp body. The jolt caused her to fall against him, her soft lips brushing against the side of his neck.
The contact was fleeting, barely there. But it scorched. Like static under his skin, it froze him for a breathless second. But he didn’t shift; instead, he just pulled her in tighter.
Christina remained motionless, her body warm and pliant against him, utterly unaware of the moment that had just passed.
She didn’t see the way Dylan’s usually composed face flushed a deep, unmistakable red—or how the tips of his ears burned with heat.
Dylan’s pulse thundered in his chest, a strange flutter of emotion rising like a wave he couldn’t name. He inhaled slowly, deeply, willing his heart to steady.
But when he looked down at her, asleep and vulnerable in his arms, his heart raced again. She was breathtaking. Delicate yet defined, with a beauty that didn’t beg for attention—it simply existed, undeniable and effortless. But beyond the surface, he sensed it: the grit beneath the grace, the quiet fire behind her gentle features. This wasn’t a woman who broke easily.
Her elegant collarbones and the graceful curve of her neck only added to the quiet allure.
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But Dylan’s admiration quickly curdled into something darker as his thoughts drifted to her ex-husband. That bastard. How could anyone look at her and treat her like nothing?
Dylan scoffed silently. Her ex-husband was either a fool or blind—or both. Yet, he found himself feeling thankful. Because if her ex had truly seen her worth and cherished her the way she deserved, Dylan might never have had the chance to know her like this. Perhaps the only good thing her ex ever did was let her go.
With that thought, Dylan’s arms tightened around Christina. He held her as if she were something rare and irreplaceable—because to him, she was.
His gaze softened, the frost in his eyes melting into something far gentler. Her ex-husband failed to cherish her, but he wouldn’t. Not now. Not ever.
The next morning, golden sunlight filtered through the curtains, bathing the room in a soft, honeyed glow.
Christina stirred beneath the sheets, sighing as she shifted and rolled over into the warmth.
Sleep still clung to her like a blanket—until something tugged at her instincts. Something was wrong. Different.
Her eyes flew open, sharp and alert. She scanned the unfamiliar space with practiced precision, every muscle on edge. This wasn’t her room.
In an instant, her mind flipped through the chaos of the night before—the abduction. But after she was kidnapped, she recalled seeing Dylan. He was there to save her. Was this his place?
Her gaze dropped to her wrist. The raw skin had been cleaned and treated, a bandage neatly wrapped with care. A faint scent of herbs lingered—a cooling balm she vaguely recognized.
She sat up, gently tugging back the blanket to inspect her ankle. There it was again: a pristine white bandage wrapped around what had barely been more than a scrape.
A soft smile touched her lips before she could stop it. All this effort for something so small.
It was barely a scratch, yet Dylan had taken the time to clean it, medicate it, and wrap it with care—like it actually mattered.
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.
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