Chapter 2
Chapter two
Dylan
Where am I?
My head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton wool, and there’s something soft beneath my cheek. But I’m definitely lying on something that is far harder than my bed. Which is odd.
I blink slowly, trying to focus.
Why is there a devilishly handsome man peering down at me? He is the incarnation of tall, dark, and handsome. Complete with smoldering eyes that would make any sensible person weak at the knees.
Holy Mary! I’ve fainted in public again, haven’t I? This is mortifying. My cheeks burn with embarrassment even as my brain begins to catch up with the rest of me.
Oh no. I remember now. Not public. Definitely not public. This is much, much worse than public.
The memories come flooding back in a rush that makes my stomach lurch.
The concrete walls. The tools laid out like surgical instruments.
The chair. The opera music that made everything seem like a horror film.
And the man currently staring down at me with those smoldering eyes.
.. he was about to do unspeakable things to me with those pliers.
I sit up with a gasp, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I was lying on the floor, but there’s something soft where my head was. A pillow. An actual pillow.
My kidnapper gave me a pillow.
I look up at him, blinking in confusion. He’s crouched beside me, close enough that I can smell his cologne. Something expensive with notes of cedar that makes my treacherous brain think entirely inappropriate thoughts about how good he smells.
“Does this mean you believe me?” I say brightly, and immediately want to kick myself. Who sounds cheerful when asking if their torturer believes they’re innocent? Only me, apparently.
He frowns, and I notice he has a small scar through his left eyebrow that only makes him more devastatingly attractive. Which is deeply unfair, really. Shouldn’t terrifying kidnappers look grotesque?
“No,” he says, his voice low and rough in a way that sends shivers down my spine. “It means I didn’t want you dying prematurely, so I needed to check you weren’t having a medical episode.”
Oh. Right. Of course it’s not because he believes me. That would be too much to hope for.
He reaches down and pulls me to my feet with surprising gentleness, his hands warm and steady on my arms. For just a moment, I’m pressed close enough to him to feel the solid strength of his chest, and my brain completely short-circuits.
This is not the time to be noticing how broad his shoulders are, Dylan. Focus.
He guides me back to the chair, and I go willingly because what choice do I have? But when he starts retying the restraints, I notice he’s not pulling them nearly as tight as before. I can actually move my wrists a little, and the circulation in my hands doesn’t immediately cut off.
“I really am Dylan,” I say as he works. “I know you don’t believe me, but it’s true.
I’m not Declan. I would never steal anything, especially not a tiara worth twelve million euros.
Not that having twelve million euros wouldn’t be nice.
Do you know how many baking supplies I could buy with twelve million euros?
Sweet Jesus, I could probably buy every bakery in London. ”
He doesn’t respond, just continues securing my ankles to the chair legs with the same careful efficiency. His fingers brush against my skin, and instantly remind me of how long it’s been since I’ve felt the touch of another human being.
“I really do run a small bakery,” I continue, because talking helps keep the panic at bay.
“Knead Me, in Borough Market. We specialize in traditional Irish bakes with a modern twist. My aunt taught me everything I know. She’s the one who took me in when my parents.
..” I trail off, because that’s still a painful subject even after all these years.
Even though I’ve already blurted this all out to him.
“When your parents what?” he asks, and I’m surprised by the genuine curiosity in his voice.
“When they disowned me for being gay,” I say quietly. “They shipped me off to London the day after my sixteenth birthday. Told everyone I’d gone to boarding school. But really they just wanted me gone.”
He straightens up, finished with the restraints, and looks down with those dark, unreadable eyes. “And you’ve been here ever since?”
“Yes. With my Aunt Moira. She’s wonderful.
She left that life behind years before I did, said she was tired of the violence and the fear.
She taught me to bake, helped me set up the bakery, never made me feel like I was a burden or a disappointment.
” My voice gets smaller. “She’s probably wondering where I am. I was supposed to call her tonight.”
The thought of Aunt Moira worrying about me makes tears prick at my eyes. She’s the only family I have left who actually cares about me, and she must be sick with worry by now.
“Tell me about yesterday,” he says, settling into a chair across from me. “From the beginning. I want to hear your story.”
Yesterday. God, was it only yesterday that my life was normal? It feels like a lifetime ago.
“I was at the bakery,” I begin, my voice shaking slightly.
“Tuesday is always quiet, and Sean and Teagan can cope with serving customers, so I spent most of the day working on Mrs. Murphy’s anniversary cake.
She wanted three tiers with sugar flowers, and the roses were giving me trouble.
I must have redone them six times before I got them right. ”
He leans back in his chair, watching me with those dark eyes that seem to see everything. “Go on.”
“I stayed late to finish the decorating. It was nearly nine o’clock when I finally locked up.
” My heart starts to thump loudly in my ears.
I can feel my panic building. “They grabbed me when I still had my key in the lock, and they put a cloth over my mouth. At first, I thought it was some of Declan’s associates and I was terrified.
Then I heard Italian accents just before I passed out and I was relieved. ”
His eyebrows rise slightly. “Relieved.”
“I know it sounds mad, but Declan’s people... they’re vicious. I thought anyone else would be less dangerous.” I swallow hard, studying his face for any sign of what he’s thinking. “I was wrong, wasn’t I?”
He doesn’t answer, just continues watching me with that unnerving intensity. The silence stretches between us, broken only by the distant hum of machinery and my own rapid breathing.
I try to shift in the chair, testing the restraints again.
They’re definitely looser than before, but not loose enough to slip free.
My wrists can move a little, but the zip ties are still secure.
If I could just... but no. Even if I got my hands free, where would I go? I don’t even know where we are.
“You’re thinking,” he says suddenly, and I jump.
“What?”
“You’re thinking about escape plans. I can see it in your eyes.
” His voice is conversational, almost amused, but there’s an edge to it that makes my skin crawl.
“Let me save you some time. You are never going to escape. You are only leaving here when I say so. And I’m the one who decides if that’s alive or in a bag. ”
The casual way he says it, like he’s commenting on the weather, sends ice through my veins. This man has done this before. Many times.
“I wasn’t...” I start to protest, but he holds up a hand.
“Don’t lie to me, Declan.”
The way he says my brother’s name makes me nearly throw up.
This can’t be happening. It can’t. Being mistaken for Declan?
Taking the blame for one of his many shitty actions?
This is the stuff of nightmares, and I can’t believe the possibility of it never crossed my mind.
Although, that’s probably a good thing because if it had, I never would have been able to sleep. Ever.
“I’ve been doing this for a long time. I know what people look like when they’re plotting.” My torturer says calmly.
“I’m not plotting anything. I just want to go home.” The words come out smaller than I intended.
He tilts his head, studying me like I’m some sort of fascinating specimen. “Home to your bakery. Your aunt. Your ordinary life.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about the tiara.”
My stomach heaves. “I already told you, I don’t know anything about any tiara.”
“Humor me.” He leans forward in his chair, elbows resting on his knees. The movement brings him closer, and I catch another hint of his cologne. “Walk me through Monday night. Every detail.”
“Monday night?” I try to think. “I... I was at home. It was my day off. I watched The Great British Bake Off and went to bed early because I had to be up at five for the bread.”
Something flickers across his face. So quick I almost miss it. Doubt? Uncertainty? But then his expression hardens again.
“You’re sure about that.”
“Yes, I’m sure. It was the semi-final episode.
Paul Hollywood was being particularly brutal.
” I’m rambling now, desperate to fill the silence.
“I made notes about a technique Mary Berry mentioned for tempering chocolate, and I fell asleep on the sofa with my notebook on my chest. Sean found me there the next morning when he came to pick me up.”
He’s very still now, listening to every word. I can practically hear my heart hammering in the quiet room.
“Sean,” he says.
“My assistant. He...” I trail off as I realize I’m giving him information about people who matter to me. People he could hurt.
“You care about Sean.”
It’s not a question, and I should try to pretend I don’t give a fuck about Sean, but I nod anyway. “He’s a good person. He works hard. He doesn’t deserve to be dragged into whatever this is.”
“No one deserves to be dragged into this,” he says, and for a moment, something raw and almost vulnerable crosses his handsome face. But it’s gone so quickly I wonder if I imagined it.
He stands abruptly and walks over to his table of tools. My blood turns to ice as he picks up a small, sharp blade and tests the edge with his thumb.
“Please,” I whisper. “I’ve told you everything I know.”
“Have you?” He turns back to me, the knife held loosely in his hand. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re either a pretty little liar, or...”
“Or what?” I gulp, while some part of me is far too excited that he called me pretty.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he walks slowly around my chair, and I can feel his presence behind me like a physical weight. The knife gleams in the harsh light.
“Do you know what this is?” he asks, his voice close to my ear now.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “A knife.”
He huffs out a sound of surprise, tinged with amusement, and I feel his breath on the back of my neck.
“It’s a Japanese Petty Knife. It’s very sharp. Designed for precision work.” He says calmly, fully composed once more.
His breath is still warm against my neck, and despite everything, my body starts to respond to his proximity in ways that make me feel sick with shame.
“I can cut you in ways that would take hours to kill you. Days, if I’m careful.”
A sob catches in my throat. “Please don’t.”
“I don’t want to.” The admission seems to surprise him as much as it does me. He steps back, and I hear him set the knife down on the metal table with a soft clink.
When I open my eyes, he’s standing across the room, running a hand through his dark hair. For the first time since I’ve been here, he looks... unsettled. Conflicted.
“You’re not what I expected,” he says quietly.
“What did you expect?”
“Someone harder. Someone who belonged in this world.” He gestures vaguely at the concrete walls, the tools, the chair I’m tied to. “Not someone who claims to watch baking shows and make notes about chocolate tempering.”
Hope flickers in my chest. “Because I’m telling the truth. I’m not Declan. I’m not a thief. I’m just...”
“Just Dylan.” He looks at me with those dark, unreadable eyes. “The baker from Borough Market who makes anniversary cakes and falls asleep watching television.”
“Yes.”
He’s quiet for a long moment, and I can see something warring behind his expression. Professional certainty battling against growing doubt.
“I need to make some calls,” he says abruptly, already moving toward the door.
“Wait,” I call out, desperation making my voice crack. “What happens to me?”
He pauses in the doorway, his hand on the handle. When he looks back at me, his expression is unreadable again, but I can see the tension in his shoulders.
“That depends,” he says quietly, “on what I find out.”
And then he’s gone, leaving me alone with my thundering heart and the terrible certainty that my life hangs in the balance of whatever he discovers.
The silence presses in around me, thick and suffocating. I pull against the restraints again, testing them more urgently now. The zip ties cut into my wrists, but I can feel them give slightly. Maybe if I keep working at them...
But even if I get free, then what? I don’t know where I am, don’t know how many other people might be here, don’t know if there are locks or alarms or worse things waiting between me and freedom. Trying to escape is a terrible idea, it will only get me into more trouble.
So I close my eyes and try to imagine I’m back in my kitchen, with flour dusting my apron and the radio playing softly in the background. But even in my imagination, I can’t quite block out the fear that’s growing larger with every passing moment.
What if he never believes me? What if I never get to go home?
What if this is how my story ends?