Chapter 8
Chapter eight
Dante
I’m standing in my kitchen and staring at the contents of my refrigerator like they hold the answers to questions I don’t know how to ask.
What do you feed someone you’ve been torturing for days? What’s the appropriate breakfast for a man you nearly killed through hypothermia?
A man who moments ago assumed you were about to rape him.
And that just might be worse than everything else I have done to him. I hate I put him through that particular kind of dread. I hate he thought that of me, even if just for a moment. But what else was he going to think, waking up naked in my bed, with me pressed up close to him.
I should have thought about how it would look. But what choice did I have? I needed to warm him up, and fast.
Now it’s just another thing on the long list of atrocities I need to make amends for.
My heavy sigh echoes in the empty kitchen. I guess my redemption arc begins with breakfast. But what do I make him? Is there an etiquette for this situation that I somehow missed during my upbringing?
The refrigerator stares back at me, offering no wisdom. Just a carton of eggs, a block of cheese that’s seen better days, some wilting lettuce, and a bottle of orange juice. The shelves are mostly empty, the lighting harsh and unforgiving.
I am, I realize with a wry twist of my lips, the walking stereotype of a bachelor.
A man who eats takeaway more often than not, who views his kitchen as a place to store whiskey rather than prepare meals.
I can’t remember the last time I cooked for anyone.
I can’t remember the last time I wanted to.
Scrambled eggs on toast it is, then. It’s pretty much all I have, and at least I know I can make them without poisoning anyone.
That would be an ironic end to this disaster.
Survive the torture, survive the hypothermia, survive the terror of thinking you were about to be sexually assaulted, then die from food poisoning.
I pull out the eggs and set them on the counter, then rummage through my cabinets for a pan. The motions are automatic, muscle memory from a thousand solitary mornings. Crack the eggs, whisk them together, add a splash of milk. Heat the pan, drop in some butter, watch it sizzle and melt.
As I cook, my mind drifts back to the bedroom. To Dylan, huddled against the headboard with blankets clutched to his chest like a shield. To the way he flinched when I moved too quickly. To the raw, broken sound of his voice when he talked about Vinnie.
The guilt hits me like a physical blow, so strong I have to grip the edge of the counter to stay upright.
I did that to him. I broke him. I took a sweet, innocent man who bakes cakes and makes anniversary presents for old ladies, and I shattered him into pieces that may never fit back together.
The eggs are starting to set. I push them around the pan with a spatula, watching the yellow curds form without really seeing them. My mind is elsewhere, trapped in a loop of self-recrimination that I can’t seem to escape.
And underneath the guilt, something else. Something I hate myself for even more.
I enjoyed holding him.
The thought makes me feel sick, but I can’t deny it. When I climbed into that bed to warm him up, when I pulled his frozen body against mine and wrapped my arms around him, something inside me settled into place. Like a key turning in a lock. Like coming home after a long journey.
He fitted into my arms so perfectly. Small and slight, and warm once the hypothermia started to fade. His hair smelled good. His breathing evened out against my chest, and for a few hours, I wasn’t alone.
It’s been so long since I held anyone. So long since I allowed myself that kind of vulnerability. In my line of work, intimacy is a liability. Connections can be exploited, loved ones can be threatened. It’s safer to be alone. Easier.
But God, I didn’t realize how much I missed it until I had Dylan in my arms.
The eggs are done. I slide them onto a plate and pop two slices of bread into the toaster. While I wait, I pour a large glass of orange juice, making sure it’s cold and fresh. He needs fluids. He needs vitamins. He needs so many things I don’t know how to give him.
The toast pops up, golden brown. I butter it quickly and arrange everything on a tray. It looks pathetic, really. A sad little breakfast for a broken man, prepared by the monster who broke him.
But it’s something. It’s a start.
I head to the laundry room next, searching through the clean clothes I haven’t bothered to put away. Most of my wardrobe is dark and practical. Black shirts, black trousers, the occasional gray sweater. Not exactly cheerful.
I find a soft cotton t-shirt that’s faded from too many washes and a pair of sweatpants with a drawstring waist. They’ll be too big for him, but at least they’re comfortable. At least they’re clean.
I add them to the tray and make my way back to the bedroom, my footsteps heavy on the stairs. Each step feels like walking toward a judgment I know I deserve but am not ready to face.
The bedroom door is still closed. I push it open with my elbow, the tray balanced carefully in my hands.
The bed is empty.
My heart stutters to a stop. Has he escaped? Has he somehow found a way out while I was playing house in the kitchen? Has he gone to the police, and armed officers are surrounding the building right now, and everything is about to come crashing down?
Then I notice the bathroom door. Closed. Locked, probably.
Relief washes over me, but it tastes bitter.
He’s hiding from me. Of course he is. Why would he want to stay anywhere near me?
I approach the bathroom door slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements even though he can’t see me. The tray feels heavy in my hands, weighted with more than just eggs and toast.
I set it down on the floor, right in front of the door. The clothes go on the side, folded as neatly as I can manage. Then I back away, putting as much distance between myself and the door as the room allows.
“Dylan.” I keep my voice soft. Gentle. The voice I use for frightened animals and traumatized witnesses, though I’ve had precious little practice with either. “I’ve left some clothes and breakfast by the door. Scrambled eggs and toast. Orange juice. It’s not much, but it’s what I have.”
Silence from the other side of the door. I can picture him in there, pressed against the far wall, heart racing, wondering what fresh hell I’m about to unleash.
“I’m going to stay over here,” I continue, gesturing uselessly toward the far side of the room even though he can’t see me. “On the other side of the bedroom. You can open the door and take them whenever you’re ready. I won’t come any closer.”
More silence. Then, after what feels like an eternity, the soft click of a lock disengaging.
The door opens a crack. Just a sliver, barely wide enough for a hand to fit through. A pale, freckled arm emerges, fingers grasping blindly until they find the fabric of the clothes. The arm retreats, pulling the bundle through the gap.
A moment later, the arm reappears. This time it grabs the tray, nearly overbalancing it in the process. I take an involuntary step forward, then freeze when I hear a sharp intake of breath from behind the door.
“I’m not moving,” I say quickly. “I’m staying right here.”
The arm steadies the tray and pulls it through the gap. The door slams shut. The lock clicks back into place.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
For a long moment, I just stand here, staring at the closed door. Then, slowly, I move closer. Not close enough to threaten, but close enough to be heard without raising my voice.
I lean against the wall beside the door and slide down until I’m sitting on the floor. The position feels strange, vulnerable in a way I’m not used to. I’m always standing, always ready, always on guard. Sitting on the floor like a child feels almost obscene.
But it also feels right, somehow. Like I’m lowering myself to his level. Like I’m trying to be less threatening, even though we both know what I’m capable of.
“I’m not a serial killer,” I say, and the words surprise me as much as they probably surprise him. I hadn’t planned to speak. Hadn’t planned to say any of this. But something about sitting here, separated by a door from a man I’ve wronged so terribly, makes the words come spilling out.
“I know that probably doesn’t mean much to you right now. But it’s true. What I do... it’s a job. Just a job. I’m good at it. I take a certain professional pride in being good at it. But I don’t enjoy it. Not the way some people think.”
I pause, listening. No response from the other side of the door, but I can hear the faint clink of a fork against a plate. He’s eating. Good. That’s good.
“Everyone is scared of me,” I continue, and I don’t know why I’m still talking.
These are secrets I’ve never told anyone.
Truths I’ve barely admitted to myself. But sitting here in the quiet of my bedroom, speaking to a closed door, it feels safe somehow.
Like confessing to a priest through a screen.
“Even the small handful of friends I have. I can see it in their eyes when they look at me. They respect me. They trust me, to a point. But they’re also terrified of what I could do to them if I wanted to.”
I tip my head back against the wall and stare at the ceiling. There’s a small crack in the plaster that I’ve been meaning to fix for months. Somehow, I never get around to it.
“It’s a lonely profession,” I say quietly. “Lonelier than I ever expected when I started. But I didn’t know what else to do. This is what I’m good at. This is all I’m good at.”
More silence. More clinking of fork against plate. I take a strange comfort in the sound. It means he’s still there. Still alive. Still eating the pathetic breakfast I made him.
“In all my years of doing this,” I say, and my voice catches slightly on the words, “I’ve never hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it. Until you.”
The clinking stops.
I close my eyes and press on, even though every word feels like pulling teeth.
“I’m sorry. I know that doesn’t mean anything. I know words can’t fix what I did. But I’m going to make it up to you. Somehow. I don’t know how yet, but I will.”
The silence stretches out, thick and heavy. I strain my ears for any sound from the bathroom, any indication of what he’s thinking, what he’s feeling. But there’s nothing. Just the quiet hum of the ventilation system and the distant sounds of traffic from outside.
I should stop talking. I should leave him alone, give him space, stop forcing my presence on him when he clearly wants nothing to do with me.
But I can’t seem to shut up.
“This place could be nice,” I say, and I’m not sure where the words are coming from. “I know it doesn’t look like much. An industrial unit on a trading estate isn’t exactly homey. But the space is good. I’ve just never bothered to do anything with it.”
I look around the bedroom, seeing it through fresh eyes. The bare walls. The functional furniture. The complete absence of anything personal or warm.
“I never had a reason to make it nice,” I continue softly. “Never had anyone to make it nice for. But now...”
I trail off, lost in a fantasy so absurd I can barely believe my own mind is conjuring it.
Dylan, smiling at me across a dinner table.
Dylan, curled up on a comfortable and pretty sofa that doesn’t exist yet, reading a book while I sit nearby.
Dylan, turning this cold, sterile space into something that actually feels like a home.
Dylan, looking at me with something other than terror in those beautiful hazel eyes.
I shake my head sharply, horrified at myself. What the fuck am I doing? What the fuck am I thinking? The man is my prisoner, my victim, someone I tortured and traumatized and nearly killed. And I’m sitting here daydreaming about domestic bliss like some lovestruck teenager.
There’s something seriously wrong with me.
“You’re going to keep me as a pet?”
The whisper is so soft I almost miss it. Dylan’s voice, thin and reedy, filtering through the crack under the bathroom door.
I blink, caught off guard by the question. A pet. Is that what this is? Is that what I’m proposing?
The thought of having someone around, someone who already knows everything I am and everything I’ve done, settles into my chest with unexpected weight.
I didn’t realize how lonely I was until this moment.
Didn’t realize how desperately I craved connection, companionship, the simple presence of another human being in my empty life.
“I guess,” I answer, and my voice comes out gruffer than I intended. I’ve never been good with people. Never been good at being nice to them, at saying the right things, at making them feel comfortable. I haven’t had the practice.
A small sound comes from behind the door. A whimper, maybe. Or a sob. The sound of someone whose last hope has just been extinguished.
My heart cracks down the middle.
I want to break down the door. I want to gather him in my arms and promise him that everything will be okay. I want to fix this, fix him, fix the unfixable mess I’ve made of both our lives.
But I can’t. I can’t do any of those things. All I can do is sit here on the cold floor outside a bathroom door and listen to the sound of a broken man trying not to cry.
The situation is fucked. Completely, irreparably fucked. There’s no good outcome here, no happy ending waiting around the corner. I’ve destroyed something precious, and no amount of scrambled eggs or soft words is going to put it back together.
But I’m going to try anyway.
Dylan is going to be as comfortable as I can make him. He’s going to have good food and clean clothes and a warm bed. He’s going to have books to read and things to do and whatever else he needs to make this bearable.
And I’m not going to be alone anymore.