Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
Dylan
Iwake to the sound of my own breathing.
It still rattles. Still catches and scrapes in my chest like something is lodged in there, something wet and heavy that doesn’t belong.
But it’s better than yesterday. Better than the day before.
The iron band that was crushing my lungs has loosened slightly, letting me take breaths that actually feel like breaths.
Progress. Small, pathetic progress, but I’ll take it.
I lie still for a moment, taking stock of my body. The fever has broken, I think. My skin no longer feels like it’s burning from the inside out. Instead I just feel weak. Wrung out. Like someone has taken everything I am and twisted it until all the strength drained away.
And filthy. Sweet Jesus, I feel absolutely filthy.
Days of fever sweat have left my skin tacky and unpleasant.
My hair is plastered to my skull in greasy clumps.
I can smell myself, a sour, sickly odor that makes my stomach turn.
I’ve always been fastidious about cleanliness.
The thought of lying here marinating in my own sweat for another minute is almost unbearable.
I turn my head and find Dante in his usual spot.
The chair beside my bed, where he’s been stationed for what feels like forever.
He’s reading something on his phone, his dark brows drawn together in concentration.
The lamplight catches the sharp angles of his face, the shadow of stubble along his jaw.
He looks tired. There are dark circles under his eyes that weren’t there before. Has he been sleeping at all?
Why do I care?
I shove the thought aside and focus on what matters. Getting clean.
“I want a shower.”
My voice comes out as a croak, barely recognizable. But Dante’s head snaps up immediately, his dark eyes finding mine with an intensity that still makes my heart stutter.
“You’re awake.” He sets his phone aside and leans forward, reaching out to press the back of his hand against my forehead. The touch is gentle, clinical, but I still flinch. I can’t help it.
He notices. Of course he notices. Something flickers across his face, too quick for me to identify, before his expression smooths back into careful neutrality.
“Your fever has come down,” he says, withdrawing his hand. “How do you feel?”
“Disgusting.” The word comes out more forcefully than I intended. “I need a shower. Please.”
The please is automatic. Ingrained by years of trying to placate people who held power over me. My mother. My father. Declan. Now Dante.
He shakes his head. “You’re too weak. You can barely sit up, let alone stand in a shower.”
“I can manage.”
“You’ll fall. Crack your head open on the tiles. And then where will we be?”
The practical objection irritates me more than it should. Because he’s right. I know he’s right. The thought of standing upright makes my head spin, and I haven’t even attempted it yet.
“I can’t stay like this.” My voice cracks with something embarrassingly close to desperation. “I feel revolting. I smell. I need to be clean.”
Dante studies me for a long moment. Those dark eyes seeing too much, as always.
“A bath,” he says finally. “I’ll run you a bath. You can sit in the water without having to stand.”
A bath. The word conjures images of vulnerability I’m not sure I can handle. Lying naked in water while this man, this monster, watches over me. At least in a shower I could stand with my back to him, maintain some illusion of privacy.
But beggars can’t be choosers. And right now I would do almost anything to feel clean again.
“Fine,” I whisper. “A bath.”
Dante nods and rises from his chair. He disappears through the bathroom door, and moments later I hear the rush of water through pipes, the hollow echo of it filling a tub.
I use the time to attempt sitting up on my own. It goes about as well as expected. My arms shake. My vision swims. By the time I manage to get myself propped against the headboard, I’m panting like I’ve run a marathon.
Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.
The sound of running water stops, and Dante reappears in the doorway. His eyes sweep over me, taking in my new position and no doubt the effort it cost me to achieve it.
“Ready?” he asks.
No. I’m not ready. I’m not ready for any of this.
But I nod anyway.
He crosses to the bed with those long, measured strides. Before I can prepare myself, he’s bending down, sliding one arm behind my back and the other under my knees.
“Put your arm around my neck,” he instructs.
I hesitate. The thought of voluntarily holding onto him, of pressing myself against the chest of the man who tortured me, goes against every screaming instinct in my body.
“Dylan.” His voice is patient. Gentle, even. “I’m not going to drop you. But I need you to hold on.”
Slowly, reluctantly, I lift my arm and loop it around his neck. His skin is warm under my fingers. I can feel the steady pulse of his heartbeat, the shift of muscle as he adjusts his grip.
Then he lifts me like I weigh nothing at all.
The world tilts alarmingly. I squeeze my eyes shut against a wave of dizziness and tighten my grip on his neck without meaning to. He holds me closer in response, steadying me against his chest.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “Just breathe.”
I focus on breathing. In through my nose, out through my mouth. His chest rises and falls beneath my cheek in a rhythm I find myself matching unconsciously.
He carries me through the door and into the same bathroom that I stupidly tried to hide in. It’s still utterly nondescript. White tiles, a large mirror, a glass-enclosed shower in one corner. But now, against the far wall, the deep bathtub is filled with steaming water.
The air is warm and humid, carrying the faint scent of something herbal. He’s put something in the water, I realize. Some kind of bath oil or salts.
Why would he do that? Why would he care about making this comfortable for me?
I don’t understand this man. I don’t understand any of this.
He lowers me onto a wooden stool beside the tub, keeping one hand on my shoulder to steady me. The room spins gently around me, but it’s manageable. Bearable.
“Can you undress yourself?” he asks. “Or do you need help?”
The question is matter of fact. Clinical. Like a nurse asking a patient. But my cheeks still burn with humiliation.
“I can do it,” I say, even though I’m not entirely sure that’s true.
He nods and turns his back to me, facing the door. Giving me privacy. Or at least the illusion of it.
My fingers fumble with the hem of the t-shirt I’m wearing. His t-shirt, I remember. The one he gave me after I woke up naked in his bed.
It takes three attempts to get it over my head, and by the time I succeed I’m breathing hard again.
The sweatpants are worse. I have to stand to get them off, and standing is a negotiation my body doesn’t want to make. I grip the edge of the tub and haul myself upright, swaying dangerously. The fabric pools around my ankles, and I kick it away with clumsy feet.
I’m naked now. Completely exposed in the same room as the man who held me captive, who hurt me, who broke me into pieces I’m not sure can ever be put back together.
The vulnerability is overwhelming. I want to cover myself, to curl into a ball and hide.
But what would be the point? A thin layer of cotton wasn’t going to save me from anything.
If Dante wanted to hurt me, to use me, to do any of the terrible things my imagination has conjured over the past few days, clothes wouldn’t stop him.
Nothing would stop him.
The thought should terrify me. And it does, somewhere deep down. But mostly I just feel tired. Too tired to be afraid. Too tired to be anything except exactly what I am, a broken man standing naked in his captor’s bathroom, desperate for something as simple as a bath.
“I’m going to get in now,” I say, because the silence is unbearable.
Dante doesn’t turn around. “Do you need help?”
Yes. Probably. The edge of the tub looks impossibly high, and my legs are shaking badly enough that climbing over it feels like scaling a mountain.
“I can manage,” I lie.
Getting into the tub is graceless and undignified. I half fall, half lower myself into the water, sending a small wave sloshing over the side. But then the heat envelops me, and nothing else matters.
Oh. Oh, that’s good.
The water is perfect. Hot enough to soak into my aching muscles, but not so hot it burns. Whatever he put in it makes my skin feel soft, soothed. The warmth seeps into my bones, chasing away a chill I hadn’t realized I was still carrying.
A sound escapes me. Something embarrassingly close to a moan.
“Alright?” Dante asks, still facing away.
“Yes,” I breathe. “This is... yes.”
I let myself sink deeper, until the water laps at my collarbones. My body feels weightless, supported, cradled by the heat. For the first time in days, some of the tension in my muscles actually releases.
Tears prick at my eyes. Stupid. It’s just a bath. Just warm water and soap. But after everything, after the cold and the fear and the pain, this simple comfort feels like more than I deserve.
I hear movement. The soft pad of footsteps on tile. When I open my eyes, Dante is kneeling beside the tub, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
I tense immediately, drawing my knees up toward my chest. The water sloshes with my movement.
“Easy,” he says quietly. “I just want to wash your hair. If you’ll let me.”
My hair. I’d almost forgotten about my hair, lank and greasy and probably a disaster.
“Why?” The question comes out before I can stop it.
He tilts his head slightly. “Because it will make you feel better. And because you can barely lift your arms.”
Both things are true. My failed attempt at removing my shirt proved that. And the thought of actually being clean, properly clean, hair included, is desperately appealing.
But letting him touch me. Letting him put his hands on me when I’m naked and vulnerable and completely at his mercy.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says, as if reading my thoughts. “I know you don’t believe that yet. But I’m not.”
Yet. He said yet. Like he expects me to believe him eventually. Like he thinks there’s a future where I trust the man who broke me.
The arrogance of it should make me angry. Instead, I just feel hollow.
“Okay,” I whisper, because I don’t have the energy to fight. “Okay.”
He reaches for a cup sitting on the edge of the tub. I hadn’t noticed it before. He dips it into the water and raises it above my head.
“Tip your head back.”
I obey. The warm water cascades over my scalp, running down my neck, dripping from my hair into the bathwater. He does it again, and again, until my hair is thoroughly soaked.
Then I hear the click of a bottle opening. The scent of something clean and faintly herbal fills the air. His fingers touch my scalp, and I flinch before I can stop myself.
He pauses. Waits. Gives me time to adjust to the contact.
When he starts to move again, it’s slowly. Gently. Working the shampoo through my hair with careful, methodical strokes. His fingertips massage my scalp, and despite everything, despite all the reasons I should hate this, my eyes flutter closed.
It feels good. Shamefully, treacherously good.
No one has washed my hair for me since I was a young child. Since long before my parents decided I was too broken to keep, too shameful to love.
My breath hitches. Dante’s hands fall still.
“Dylan?”
“I’m fine.” The lie scrapes out of my throat. “Just... keep going.”
He doesn’t press. Just resumes his gentle ministrations, working the shampoo from my scalp to the ends of my hair. When he’s satisfied, he rinses it out with the same careful thoroughness, shielding my eyes from the suds with one cupped hand.
“There’s conditioner too,” he says. “If you want.”
I nod because I don’t trust my voice.
He works the conditioner through my hair with the same patient gentleness. His fingers catch on a tangle, and he stops immediately, working through it with careful attention rather than just pulling.
It’s too much. This tenderness, this care, from the same hands that hurt me. From the same man who made me watch while he destroyed another human being.
“Why are you doing this?” The words burst out of me, rough and broken. “Why are you being kind to me? What do you want?”
His hands fall still in my hair again. For a long moment, he doesn’t answer.
“I don’t know,” he says finally. And he sounds as confused as I feel. “I don’t know what I want. I just know I can’t...” He stops, takes a breath. “I can’t undo what I did. But I can do this. I can take care of you. It’s not enough. It will never be enough. But it’s all I have.”
The honesty in his voice cuts through something inside me. I don’t want to believe him. I don’t want to feel anything except hatred for this man.
But I’m so tired. And his hands in my hair are so gentle. And I don’t have the strength to hold onto my anger right now.
I let my eyes close again and try not to think about what any of this means.
The rest of the bath passes in silence. He rinses the conditioner from my hair, then leaves me to soak while he fetches clean clothes. I scrub myself with a flannel, washing away days of sweat and sickness. The water turns slightly grey, and I’m too tired to be embarrassed.
When I finally call out that I’m done, Dante returns with a towel large enough to wrap around me twice. He helps me stand on trembling legs and wraps me in it before I can feel exposed. Then he lifts me again, carrying me back to the bedroom like I weigh nothing at all.
He sets me on his chair by the bed and hands me the clean clothes. Another soft t-shirt. Another pair of his sweatpants. I dress clumsily while he changes the sheets, stripping away the sweat-soaked linens and replacing them with fresh ones that smell like cedarwood.
By the time I’m dressed, the bed looks even more inviting than ever. Soft and warm. A nest to sink into and stay forever.
Clean sheets. Clean body. Clean hair. It’s a heavenly combination.
I’m exhausted. The bath has drained whatever small reserve of energy I’d managed to accumulate. But I feel better. Actually, genuinely better.
Dante helps me under the covers and tucks the blankets around me with that same careful attention he’s shown all morning. Then he settles back into his chair, picking up his phone like nothing has changed.
“Thank you,” I say, and the words taste strange on my tongue. Thanking my captor. Thanking my torturer. Thanking the monster who has stolen my life and shows no sign of giving it back.
He looks at me with those dark, unreadable eyes.
“Sleep,” he says softly. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”
It should sound like a threat. It should fill me with dread. Instead, impossibly, it almost sounds like a promise.
I close my eyes and let exhaustion pull me under.