Chapter 9 #2
“I don’t know your name,” I hear myself say. The words come out before I can stop them, floating up from somewhere beneath the fog of fever. “The man... Vinnie... he called you something, but I can’t remember.”
He pauses with the spoon halfway to my mouth, something unreadable flickering in his dark eyes. For a long moment he doesn’t answer, and I wonder if I’ve crossed some line I wasn’t supposed to cross.
“Dante,” he says quietly. “My name is Dante.”
Dante. The name settles into my mind, heavy with meaning I’m too sick to parse. A poet who wrote about hell. About descending through circles of torment and emerging on the other side. How fitting for the man who dragged me through my own personal inferno.
“I’m going to feed you some soup now,” he continues, and his voice has that gentle quality again, like he’s talking to a frightened child. “You need to eat. Your body needs fuel to fight the infection.”
I should protest. I should refuse to let him spoon feed me like an infant. I should be scared, should be angry, should be something other than this hollow, exhausted shell.
But I’m too ill to fight. Too ill to feel much of anything except awful.
I open my mouth and let him slide the spoon between my lips.
The soup is warm and salty, not too hot. He’s tested the temperature, I realize. Made sure it wouldn’t burn me. The thought is strange, disorienting. Why would a monster who tortured me for days care if his soup was too hot?
He feeds me slowly, patiently, giving me time to swallow between each spoonful. His movements are careful, precise, the spoon never dripping, never spilling. He holds a napkin beneath my chin to catch any stray drops, dabbing at my lips when necessary.
It’s almost tender. Almost caring.
I study his face while he works, searching for some sign of deception.
Some hint that this is all another game, another manipulation designed to break me in new and creative ways.
But all I see is concentration. Focus. The intense attention of someone determined to complete a task to the best of their ability.
He catches me staring and pauses with the spoon hovering between us.
“What?” he asks, and there’s something almost defensive in his tone.
“I’m trying to understand you,” I admit. My voice is stronger now, the soup warming me from the inside. “Yesterday you made me watch while you...” I can’t finish the sentence. The memory rises up, vivid and terrible, and I have to close my eyes against it.
“I know.” His voice is rough. Heavy with something that might be shame.
“And today you’re feeding me soup.”
He doesn’t respond immediately. Just looks at me with those dark, unreadable eyes, the spoon still suspended in mid air between us.
“People contain multitudes,” he says finally. “Isn’t that what they say?”
“I don’t think that’s supposed to apply to torture.”
Something that might be a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “No. I suppose it isn’t.”
He brings the spoon to my lips again, and I accept it without thinking. The soup really is good. Simple, but exactly what my aching body needs.
“How long was I asleep?” I ask between bites.
“Several hours. Your fever spiked around midnight. I was...” He pauses, seeming to consider his words carefully. “Concerned.”
The admission hangs in the air between us. I don’t know how to respond to it, so I just open my mouth for the next spoonful of soup.
We continue in silence for a while. The quiet is strange but not uncomfortable. Just the soft clink of the spoon against the bowl, the sound of my swallowing, the distant hum of heating vents somewhere in the building.
About halfway through the bowl, my stomach starts to rebel. I turn my head away from the approaching spoon, pressing my lips together.
“No more,” I manage. “I can’t.”
He doesn’t push. Just sets the bowl aside and reaches for the napkin, dabbing gently at my mouth to clean away any traces of soup. The gesture is so careful, so oddly intimate, that I feel tears prick at the corners of my eyes.
I blink them back. I will not cry. Not again. Not in front of him.
He sets the napkin aside and reaches for my pillow, adjusting it beneath my head, plumping it to better support my neck. His hands are surprisingly gentle as they arrange the blankets around me, tucking them in at the edges, making sure I’m covered and warm.
Each touch sends a confusing jolt through my fever-addled body. Part of me wants to flinch away. Part of me wants to lean into the warmth of his hands. I don’t understand my own reactions anymore.
“The cloth,” I say, because I need to say something to break the strange tension building between us. “On my forehead. You’ve been...”
“Cooling you down,” he confirms. “Your temperature was dangerously high. I’ve been changing the compress every twenty minutes.”
Twenty minutes. Which means he’s been sitting here, watching over me, tending to me, for hours. The thought makes something complicated twist in my chest.
“Why?” The question comes out barely louder than a whisper.
He reaches for the cloth on my forehead, dipping it in a bowl of water I hadn’t noticed before. He wrings it out carefully and folds it into a neat rectangle before laying it back across my brow. The cool fabric feels like heaven against my heated skin.
“Because you’re sick,” he says simply.
“That’s not what I meant.”
His hands still. He looks at me, really looks at me, and for just a moment I see something raw and unguarded in his eyes. Something that looks almost like longing.
Then it’s gone, shuttered away behind that mask of careful control.
“Try to sleep,” he says, settling back in his chair. “Your body needs rest to heal.”
I should argue. Should demand to know what he’s planning, what’s going to happen to me, whether this strange gentleness is just another form of control. But my eyelids are already drooping, my body sinking deeper into the mattress, my thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind.
“Are you going to sit there watching me all day?” The question slips out, barely more than a mumble.
There’s a pause. Then his voice, low and rough, rumbling through the darkness that’s already closing in around me.
“Yes.”
It should be creepy. It should terrify me. The monster who broke me, sitting vigil at my bedside, watching me sleep.
But somehow, in my fever-addled state, it almost feels like safety.
That’s my last thought before sleep claims me again.