Chapter 15 #2
“Mixing bowls,” I say. “Different sizes. Measuring cups and spoons. A good whisk, and a wooden spoon. Baking trays. A cake tin or two.” I let warmth seep into my voice.
Let my eyes go soft with gratitude. “A stand mixer would be amazing, but I can manage without one. Oh, and a kitchen scale. Baking is all about precision.”
Dante nods along like he’s memorizing every word. “And ingredients?”
“Flour. Sugar. Both granulated and caster. Butter, obviously. Eggs. Baking powder and bicarbonate of soda. Vanilla extract.” The list flows out of me, automatic and familiar. “Salt. Milk. Cream, if you want anything fancy.”
“Write a list and I’ll get everything,” he says. “Tomorrow. I’ll make a proper shopping trip.”
The eagerness in his voice makes something twist in my chest. He wants to please me. He wants to give me things, do things for me, make me happy.
A few days ago, that eagerness would have just confused me. Now I see it for what it is. A weakness. A crack in his armor.
A way out.
“That would be wonderful,” I say. And then, before I can talk myself out of it, I reach out and touch his arm. Just briefly. Just a brush of my fingers against his sleeve.
He goes completely still.
I can feel the muscle tense beneath the fabric. Feel the way his whole body seems to hold its breath at this tiny, insignificant contact.
I’ve never voluntarily touched him before. Not once. Every physical interaction between us has been him touching me. Him carrying me, washing my hair, feeding me soup, checking my temperature. I have always been the passive recipient.
This is something new. Something that shifts the balance between us, even if only slightly.
I pull my hand back and watch his reaction from beneath my lashes. He’s staring at the spot on his arm where my fingers were.
Holy Mary, have I fucked up already? Was that too obvious? Too blatant and crude? My heart is hammering. Oh heaven help me, I should have known I’d be no good at this.
But wait. He doesn’t look angry. Or outraged at my clumsy attempt at… what would I even call it? Flirting?
Whatever I was trying to do with my touch, he looks like he’s trying to memorize the sensation. Like I’ve given him something infinitely precious instead of a mere fleeting brush of contact.
Sweet Jesus. He’s touch-starved too. Not just kindness-starved but literally starved for human contact.
The guilt surges up again, sharp and nauseating. I’m going to use his loneliness against him. I’m going to exploit his desperate need for connection. I’m going to make him care about me and then I’m going to leave.
It’s monstrous. It’s exactly the kind of thing Declan would do.
But Declan isn’t the one trapped in a murderer’s flat with no way out. Declan isn’t the one who watched a man die and nearly froze to death, and woke up naked in a stranger’s bed. Declan gets to lounge on a beach somewhere while I pay the price for his crimes.
I don’t owe anyone my integrity. Not anymore. Not after everything that’s been taken from me.
“Should we see the living room?” I ask brightly, as if my entire worldview hasn’t just shifted on its axis.
Dante nods and leads me down the hall. I follow, careful to keep my expression neutral, curious, innocent.
The living room is exactly as depressing as I remember from my secret exploration. That horrible orange and brown sofa. The stained coffee table. The single lamp casting its sickly yellow light.
“It’s very...” I search for a word that isn’t insulting. “Minimalist.”
Dante huffs out something that might be a laugh. “It’s a dump. You can say it.”
“It’s a bit sparse,” I admit. “Have you always lived here?”
“For about ten years. I inherited the building from someone who owed me a favor.” He looks around the room with fresh eyes, like he’s seeing it through mine. “I never bothered to make it comfortable. There didn’t seem to be any point.”
Because he’s alone. Because no one ever visits. Because he’s built his entire life around isolation and violence and never thought he might want something different.
The old Dylan would have felt sorry for him. Would have seen the loneliness underneath the monster and wanted to fix it.
The new Dylan sees an opportunity.
“It has potential,” I say.
Dante looks at me like I’ve said something profound. Like I’ve offered him hope instead of a strategic lie.
“You think so?”
“With some work,” I say. “Some paint. Some furniture that wasn’t manufactured before my parents were born. Maybe some pictures on the walls.” I gesture vaguely at the blank expanse of beige. “It could be nice. Homey, even.”
He nods slowly, and I can practically see the wheels turning in his head. Ways to make the flat nicer. Ways to make me more comfortable. Ways to transform this prison into something that might feel like a home.
For both of us, he’s probably thinking. For our unconventional future together.
He has no idea that I’m plotting how to leave.
“I should get you back to bed,” he says eventually. “You shouldn’t overexert yourself.”
I am tired. The tour of the flat has taken more out of me than I’d like to admit. But I’m also buzzing with something that feels almost like energy. Almost like purpose.
I have a plan now. Not a complete one, not yet. But the seed of one. The beginning of something that might, if I nurture it carefully, grow into my escape.
Be kind to Dante. Make him need me. Make him trust me. Make him lower his guard inch by inch until the day comes when I can walk out the door and never look back.
It will take time. Weeks, maybe months. But time is the one thing I have in abundance.
“Thank you for showing me around,” I say as we walk back to the bedroom. “It was nice to get out of bed for a while.”
“Tomorrow I’ll get the baking supplies,” he promises. “And maybe some things to make the living room less...” He gestures vaguely.
“Depressing?” I offer.
That almost-laugh again. A real one this time, with actual warmth in it.
“I was going to say austere, but depressing works.”
I climb back into bed and let him fuss with the blankets. Let him adjust them around me with that careful attention he brings to everything. His hands are gentle. His eyes are soft. He looks at me like I’m something precious, something fragile, something he can’t quite believe he gets to keep.
The guilt is a physical weight in my chest. But I don’t let it show on my face.
“Rest,” Dante says softly, straightening up. “I’ll bring you lunch in a few hours.”
“Okay,” I say. And I smile at him again. Let it reach my eyes. Let him see warmth that I’m not sure I actually feel.
His breath catches. Just slightly. Just enough for me to notice.
Then he’s gone, pulling the door mostly closed behind him, leaving me alone with my thoughts and my plans and the strange, dark thing growing in the space where my innocence used to be.
I stare at the ceiling and think about what I’m about to do. The lies I’m going to tell. The trust I’m going to betray. The heart I’m going to break.
Because Dante does have a heart. That’s the terrible thing.
Underneath all the violence and the cruelty and the blood on his hands, there’s a man who just wants to be loved.
A man who has been alone so long he’s forgotten what connection feels like.
A man who looks at me like I’m the sun and he’s been living in darkness his whole life.
I’m going to use that against him. I’m going to make him love me, and then I’m going to leave.
It’s the cruelest thing I’ve ever done. The cruelest thing I’ve ever even contemplated.
But I think about Aunt Moira, probably sick with worry. I think about my bakery, probably struggling without me. I think about the life I had, the life I want back, the life Dante stole from me.
And I harden my heart.
Survival first. Guilt later.
I can hate myself when I’m free.