She tried to take the spoon. Her fingers were too cold and stiff to bend right. Dorran dipped the spoon into the soup and lifted it to her lips.
Being fed by a stranger was one of the most surreal experiences of Clare’s life. But Dorran was patient. He didn’t complain about how long it took her to eat. When she dared glance up at his face, he looked almost serene.
Finally, when the bowl was empty, he laid her back down on the fireside rug and draped the blanket over her. Clare heard him moving through the room, carrying the bowl away and cleaning out the boots.
She no longer knew what to think. When she’d first woken up in Dorran’s house, it had been all too easy to imagine he was some kind of monster. But if he were a cruel man, he’d had plenty of chances to hurt her. He hadn’t taken advantage of any of them.
Bethany would have wanted her to keep her guard up. Beth had always been the cautious, nervous one out of them. She wouldn’t let Clare go swimming unless a lifeguard was on duty. She never stayed out past ten at night. Every single one of Clare’s childhood fevers and stomach bugs had sent them to the hospital waiting room.
Beth would want Clare to be careful, to be reserved about what she said around the man, to reject any friendliness, and to keep looking for a chance to escape. But that was Beth’s way of thinking.
Clare tried to clear it from her mind and reassess the situation. She was frightened. That was probably unavoidable, considering where she’d woken up. She tried to ground herself, to find some kind of rational bearing. The man had been kind to her so far. Except for the cuts, which she still couldn’t explain, there was no sign that she’d been abused.
And as long as she was trapped in the house, she was wholly reliant on the stranger. For food, for water, for everything. She had to take a chance and trust him. With the storm as bad as it was, she didn’t have much of a choice.
The fire’s heat gradually worked through her cold external layers and dried the dampness on her dressing gown. The soup warmed her from the inside. Her aches returned as the numbness faded, but Clare was almost grateful for them. They made her feel human.
She rolled over to warm her back and startled. Dorran sat in one of the two wingback chairs by the fire, within arm’s reach, watching her. She hadn’t expected him to be so close. Before she could moderate the words, they’d already left her. “Have you been staring at me this whole time?”
He looked taken aback. “I can face the other way if you prefer.”
“No… sorry.” She attempted to sit and groaned from the effort.
“Try not to move too much.” He continued to watch her, but at least he was keeping his distance. “You lost enough blood to need a transfusion. You should rest until we can get you to a hospital.”
He was talking about a hospital. That was a positive sign. Still, Clare didn’t like lying on the floor. It made her feel vulnerable, as though she were something less than human. She eyed the second wingback chair. It was covered in an elegant green fabric, and the cushions looked soft. It was only a few feet away, and she would feel like more of an equal in it.
She lurched up, staggered, and would have fallen if Dorran hadn’t caught her arm.
“What did I just say?” He sounded frustrated, and Clare flinched. Even so, he helped carry her weight as he eased her into the chair.
Clare collapsed back, breathing more heavily than the task warranted, and checked that the dressing gown was still wrapped tightly around her. It was. “You don’t have to stay here,” she said. “I don’t need to be watched all the time.”
“You walked into a blizzard.” He slid back into his own chair then sighed and used his thumbs to rub the bridge of his nose. “I am sorry. I do not mean to snap.”
The apology surprised her. Clare wrapped her arms around herself, watching him carefully. He looked tired. His black hair was dishevelled from the melted snow.
Is he a sadist who kidnapped you? Or a man who saved your life?
He’d told the truth about the phones being dead. He’d also told the truth about the house being inside Banksy Forest—as far as she could tell, at least. So maybe he’d told the truth about the crash. Her arm tightened over the bandages on her stomach. She swallowed and took a risk. “Thank you.”
He blinked at her, and she broke eye contact. “For saving me. And helping me. Both times.”
“You’re… welcome.” Dorran sounded surprised. He stood and crossed the room. When he returned, he carried a glass of water and two tablets. He placed them on the small round table between their chairs. “For the pain.”
The tablets were unmarked. The cautious voice inside Clare’s head—the voice that sounded like Bethany—told her not to touch them. But Clare was trying to make a conscious effort not to be so brittle. She tipped the tablets into her mouth and washed them down.
Dorran picked up his mug and returned his attention to the fireplace. Bright embers lay scattered around the wood being consumed. It must have been burning for hours. The heat rolling off it was delicious, and Clare found herself leaning forwards in her chair. But she also couldn’t stop herself from glancing at the man sitting opposite her. His face was full of strong angles, as though he had been carved out of stone. She still couldn’t get a read on him.
It felt surreal. They were sitting together, enjoying the fire’s heat as though it were something they did every night, as though they had known each other for years. It left her feeling unsteady. She couldn’t stand the silence. “Do you own this house?”
“No. My family, the Morthornes, do.” His eyebrows twitched down very slightly when he said the word family.
Clare kept her guard up for any kind of negative reaction. “It’s a big place. Very… uh…”
“Pretentious?” He made a faint noise in the back of his throat, something that might have been a laugh. “Don’t worry. I will not argue on that count.”
Clare would have used more generous language, but Dorran was giving her a glimpse of his personality, and she followed it. “It must be an old building.”
“Yes. Winterbourne has not changed much in the past century. My family…” He hesitated. “They are fond of tradition.”
“But you aren’t?”
“Some of it is just inconvenient, such as my name, Dorran, after a forebearer. It is constantly misspelled.”
Clare clutched at the common ground. “People keep trying to put an i into my name.”
“What is it?”
She blinked, not comprehending.
He stared back. “Your name. You never told me.”
“Oh! Uh, Clare.”
“Clare without an i.”
“That’s it.”
This time, when he smiled, it looked real, and it didn’t immediately vanish.
Clare matched his grin and pulled her unhurt leg up to tuck under herself. “You were telling me about your family. How many are in it?”
He tilted his head back. “My mother, Madeline, two aunts and an uncle, six cousins, three second cousins, two nieces, and two nephews. We are not a small family.”
“So many…” Clare’s own clan was restricted to her sister and her aunt. She tried to imagine a family reunion with that many people attending. She didn’t think she could physically fit them into her house without them standing on each other. “How do you remember all of their names?”