Chapter 17 #2
Dante returns and picks up the glass with careful precision. He positions it over the dough like he’s defusing a bomb, brow furrowed in concentration.
“Straight down?” he confirms.
“Straight down. Firm pressure. Then twist.”
He presses. The glass sinks through the dough. He twists, lifts, and produces a scone that’s only slightly misshapen.
The look of pride on his face is completely disproportionate to the achievement. It’s like watching a child show off a finger painting. This man who has done unspeakable things, looking delighted because he cut a circle out of dough.
It’s absurd. It’s ridiculous.
It’s also, against all reason, slightly adorable.
No. Not adorable. Murderers are not adorable. I am not finding my captor adorable. That would be Stockholm syndrome, and I am absolutely not developing Stockholm syndrome. I have a plan. I am in control.
I’m in control.
I’m definitely in control.
“That’s good,” I say, and my voice only wobbles a little. “Try another one.”
We work together for the next few minutes, taking turns with the glass. Dante’s technique improves with each attempt. By the time we’ve cut all the scones, his circles are almost as neat as mine.
“This one’s smaller,” he says, frowning at the final scone made from re-rolled scraps.
“It’s the runt of the litter. Every batch has one.”
“It looks lonely.”
I stare at him. He’s gazing at the misshapen scone with what appears to be genuine concern. For a piece of dough. A piece of dough that’s about to go in the oven and be eaten.
“It’s a scone,” I say slowly. “It doesn’t have feelings.”
“I know that.” But he’s still frowning at it. “Can I have that one? When they’re done?”
“You can have whichever one you want. You bought all the ingredients.”
Something flickers across his face. That soft expression again, the one I don’t know how to interpret. Then it’s gone, and he’s back to his usual unreadable self.
“I’ll take the lonely one,” he says. “We misfits should stick together.”
The words land somewhere unexpected in my chest. I busy myself with transferring the scones to the baking tray, pretending I didn’t hear them.
The oven has been preheating while we worked. I slide the tray in and straighten up, wiping my floury hands on a tea towel.
“Twelve to fifteen minutes,” I announce. “Depending on how this oven runs. I’ll keep an eye on them.”
“What do we do while we wait?”
It’s an innocent question. Practical. But something about the way he asks it, something about the quiet intimacy of this tiny kitchen with flour on the counter and the warm smell of baking starting to fill the air, makes my heart rate tick up.
“We clean,” I say firmly. “A good baker always cleans as they go.”
I turn to the sink before he can see my face. Before he can see whatever expression is currently betraying my sensible, strategic brain.
We wash up together. Him at the sink, me drying and putting away. Our elbows bump occasionally in the cramped space. Each accidental touch sends a small shock through my system that I steadfastly ignore.
This is fine. This is good. This is exactly what I wanted. Domestic intimacy. Shared tasks. Building the foundation of trust that will eventually lead to my escape.
So why do I feel like I’m the one being caught in a trap?
I squish my thoughts down and focus on the practical tasks at hand. We finish tidying the kitchen, and then I check on the oven.
The scones are perfect.
Golden brown on top, light and fluffy inside, with that distinctive crack around the middle that says they’ve risen properly. I pull them from the oven with a flourish that I hope looks confident rather than desperately relieved.
“They smell incredible,” Dante says, and there’s something almost reverent in his voice.
“They need to cool for a few minutes. Then we can eat.”
We end up on that horrible orange sofa again, plates balanced on our knees, the scones arranged between us with butter and jam and the double cream that isn’t quite clotted cream but will have to do.
“You have to split them with your hands,” I instruct. “Not a knife. A knife compresses the crumb.”
Dante follows my demonstration, pulling his scone apart with careful fingers. Steam rises from the break, and I watch his face as he takes in the texture.
“Butter first,” I continue. “Don’t be shy with it. Then cream, then jam. Some people do jam then cream, but those people are heathens and not to be trusted.”
That rusty almost-laugh again. The sound does something strange to my insides.
I watch him assemble his scone with intense concentration, then take his first bite. His eyes close. A small sound escapes him, something that might be a groan of pleasure.
My face flames. I look away quickly and busy myself with my own scone.
“This is...” He pauses, seemingly searching for words. “I’ve never had anything like this.”
“It’s just a scone.” My voice comes out embarrassingly high. “You’re lucky I didn’t inflict a macaron on you. I’ve mastered most baking but macarons elude me. Although I’ve only attempted once, the hollow shells were a disaster…”
I trail off and gulp loudly. Now that was an epic ramble. “Umm… so, yeah, I’ve dazzled you with my best recipe, but it’s just a scone.”
“No. It’s not just anything.” He opens his eyes and looks at me, and there’s something in his expression that makes my breath catch. “You made this. With your hands. Out of flour and butter.”
“That is generally how baking works, yes.”
“I’ve never...” He stops. Swallows. “No one has ever made anything for me before.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. No one has ever made anything for him. This man who has lived alone for years in this sad flat with his horrible sofa and his empty cupboards. No one baking him treats. No one cooking him dinner. No one caring enough to create something just for him.
It’s pathetic. It’s tragic.
It’s also, I remind myself firmly, not my problem. He kidnapped me. He tortured me. He’s holding me prisoner. I don’t owe him sympathy.
But the sympathy rises anyway, unwanted and inconvenient.
“Well,” I say, aiming for brisk and landing somewhere closer to gentle, “now someone has. So you’d better appreciate it.”
“I do.” His voice is low. Intense. “I appreciate it more than you know.”
We stare at each other for a moment that stretches too long. My heart is doing something concerning in my chest. My plan feels very far away, like something that happened to someone else.
Then Dante reaches for another scone, and the moment breaks.
“You’re taking the runt,” I observe as he picks up the smallest, most misshapen one.
“I said I would.”
“There are better ones.”
“This one needs me.”
It’s such a strange thing to say. Such a strangely sweet thing. I don’t know what to do with it, so I just watch him split the little scone and load it with cream and jam.
He catches me watching and raises an eyebrow. “What?”
“Nothing.” I look away quickly. “Just making sure you’re doing it right.”
“Am I?”
“Adequate.” But I’m fighting a smile, and I think he can tell.
We eat in silence after that. Or mostly silence. Dante makes small sounds of appreciation that are frankly indecent, and I try very hard not to react to them. I focus on my own scone, on the familiar flavors, on the strange surreal comfort of sitting here eating something I made with my own hands.
This is working, I tell myself. The plan is working. He’s softening toward me. Trusting me more. Every shared moment is a step closer to freedom.
But somewhere underneath that thought, in a place I don’t want to examine too closely, something else is stirring. Something that has nothing to do with plans or strategies or escape.
Something that notices how the tension in his shoulders has eased. Something that catalogs the small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Something that feels warm when he reaches for the runt scone and says it needs him.
It’s nothing.
It really is nothing.
It has to be nothing.
Because if it’s something, then I’m in far more trouble than I realized.