Chapter Eighteen
Ian frowned as Lizzie fidgeted, then flinched and turned to him. Her brows were furrowed, and her eyes crinkled as if she was bracing for some sort of pain. He slowed the car and brushed the back of his hand down the side of her face. “Lizzie.”
“Ian,” she gasped and straightened.
“I’m right here.”
She ran her hand through her hair and sighed.
“Nightmare?”
“I just kept dreaming of the man who attacked us at the motel.”
“You’re safe now.” He looked out of the windshield. “We’re here.”
She followed his gaze and stared at the large mansion in front of them. “Wow.”
He grinned. That was what he thought when he first came here with his father. The huge house that looked like a castle. The house’s Victorian-medieval architectural style, pointy roofs, and unpolished reddis
