Chapter 21
Chapter twenty-one
Dylan
Yesterday, I heard everything.
Well, not everything. But enough. More than enough.
The walls in this flat are thin, and voices carry when they’re raised. When they’re angry. When they’re threatening violence against someone who dared suggest killing the prisoner in the bedroom.
I’m standing at the kitchen counter now, staring at the bowl of aged egg whites like they hold the secrets of the universe. They don’t, obviously. They’re just eggs. But focusing on them is easier than focusing on the chaos inside my head.
Someone wanted me dead. That part isn’t surprising. I’ve known from the beginning that my continued existence is an inconvenience, a loose end that sensible criminals would tie off without a second thought.
What’s surprising is what came next.
The thud of a body hitting the wall. The low, dangerous growl of Dante’s voice, so different from anything I’ve heard from him before. You will not touch him. You will not go near him. You will not even think about him.
The words echo through my mind on repeat, a loop I can’t seem to break.
He threatened his friend. For me. He was ready to kill someone, maybe actually would have killed someone, because that someone suggested disposing of me.
I don’t know what to do with this information.
My hands are trembling as I measure out the almond flour. The recipe says to weigh everything precisely, that macarons are unforgiving of imprecision. I’m trying to be precise. I’m trying to focus on the familiar comfort of baking, the one thing in my life that has always made sense.
But nothing makes sense anymore.
“Are you sure you don’t need help?”
Dante’s voice comes from the kitchen doorway. I manage not to jump, but only barely.
“I’m fine,” I say, and my voice comes out almost normal. “Just... getting everything ready. Mise en place. That’s what the professionals call it. Having all your ingredients measured and prepared before you start. It’s French. Obviously. Because they’re French words. Which is why it’s French.”
I’m rambling. Sweet Jesus, I’m rambling worse than usual, and I can feel Dante’s eyes on me, that intense gaze that always seems to see more than I want it to.
“You seem nervous,” he observes.
Nervous. That’s one word for it. Terrified, confused, and having some sort of emotional crisis would be more accurate, but nervous works too.
“Macarons are stressful,” I say. “Very temperamental. Lots of things can go wrong. The meringue could be over-whipped or under-whipped, the batter could be over-folded or under-folded, the oven could be too hot or too cold. It’s basically a miracle when they turn out right.”
I’m not looking at him. I can’t look at him. If I look at him, I might say something stupid. Like, thank you for threatening to kill someone for me. Or why do you care so much? Or what is happening between us and why does it make my chest feel like this?
“Would you like me to leave you alone?”
The question catches me off guard. I risk a glance over my shoulder and find him hovering uncertainly in the doorway, his body language unusually hesitant.
He looks tired again, I realize. There are shadows under his eyes that weren’t there yesterday, and a tension in his shoulders that speaks to a sleepless night.
Because of me. Because of what happened with his friend. Because he’s put himself at risk to keep me alive, and now he’s dealing with the consequences.
The guilt that rises in my throat is thick and choking.
“No,” I hear myself say. “You can stay. If you want.”
Something in his expression shifts. Softens. That look again, the one I don’t know how to interpret, the one that makes my stomach do complicated things.
He moves to his usual spot at the tiny kitchen table, settling into the chair with a grace that shouldn’t be possible for someone his size. I turn back to my ingredients and try to remember how to breathe.
This is fine. This is all part of the plan. Make him care about me, make him trust me, make him slip up so I can escape. Make him fall in love with me so he unlocks the door.
Except he already cares about me. Cares enough to threaten violence against his friend. Cares enough to put himself in danger. Cares in a way that goes far beyond what my fumbling manipulation could have achieved in such a short time.
Which means either I’m much better at this than I thought, or...
Or it’s real. Whatever Dante feels for me, it’s real. Not a response to my scheming, but something genuine that grew on its own.
The thought makes me feel sick.
“The egg whites need to be room temperature,” I say, because silence is dangerous right now.
Silence leaves too much room for thinking.
“That’s why I separated them yesterday. Aged whites whip up better, something about the proteins relaxing.
I read it in the cookbook. The one you bought me.
It describes a slightly different process to the ones I’ve tried before, so I’m hopeful I might actually be able to do it this time. ”
“I remember.”
Of course he remembers. He remembers everything. Every throwaway comment, every casual mention of something I like or want or need. He files it all away and then acts on it, buying cookbooks and pistachio nuts and three different types of butter because he wasn’t sure which brand I preferred.
When did this happen? When did my captor become someone who pays attention to my preferences? Someone who cares about my comfort? Someone who looks at me like I’m something special?
I pour the egg whites into the bowl of the stand mixer and start it on low. The whisk attachment begins its slow rotation, and I watch the clear liquid start to foam.
“You have to add the sugar gradually,” I explain, reaching for the caster sugar. “A little at a time, while the whites are whipping. If you add it all at once, you’ll deflate the meringue.”
“How do you know when it’s ready?”
Dante’s voice is closer than I expected. I turn and find him standing beside me, watching the mixer with genuine curiosity. He’s rolled up his sleeves again, and I absolutely do not notice the way his forearms look in the morning light.
I don’t. I refuse.
“Stiff peaks,” I say, and my voice only wavers a little.
“You lift the whisk and the meringue should stand up straight. Not droop. Glossy and smooth. Like... like shaving cream, I suppose. Not that I use much shaving cream. I don’t have much facial hair.
It’s the Irish genes. We’re not a hairy people.
Generally speaking. I mean, some Irish people are hairy, I’m sure, but. ..”
Stop talking, Dylan. For the love of all that is holy, stop talking. And definitely, absolutely do not think about the fact you just said stiff peaks.
Dante makes that sound again. That almost-laugh, rusty and unused but unmistakably amused. Despite everything, despite the chaos in my head and the guilt in my chest and the complete uncertainty of my situation, I feel a small spark of warmth at having caused it.
This is bad. This is very, very bad.
I turn back to the mixer and focus on adding sugar in a slow, steady stream. The meringue is starting to take shape, white and billowy and beautiful.
“My grandmother used to bake,” Dante says quietly.
I nearly drop the sugar bowl. That’s the first time he’s voluntarily shared something personal. Something about his past, his family, his life before he became... whatever he is now.
“Did she?” I keep my voice casual, neutral. Like this is a normal conversation between normal people, not a prisoner desperately cataloguing every scrap of information about his captor.
“Traditional Italian things. Biscotti, panettone at Christmas. She would spend days preparing for holidays. The whole kitchen would smell like anise and almonds.”
His voice has gone soft. Distant. He’s not really here anymore, I realize. He’s somewhere in the past, somewhere that smells like baking and feels like home.
“She sounds lovely,” I say carefully.
“She was efficient.” A pause. “She was also strict. And cold. And she believed that love was a weakness that could be exploited.”
The words land heavy in the quiet kitchen. I don’t know how to respond. Don’t know what to do with this sudden glimpse into the making of a monster.
“She raised you?” I ask, because I can’t help myself.
“After my parents died. I was seven.”
Seven years old, orphaned and handed over to a cold, strict grandmother who taught him that love was weakness. Seven years old, and already learning to build walls around his heart.
Something aches in my chest. Something that feels dangerously like sympathy.
No. Not sympathy. I can’t afford sympathy. He tortured me. He murdered someone in front of me. He’s holding me prisoner. Whatever sad backstory he has doesn’t change what he is now.
But it might explain it. And understanding is the first step to... to what? Forgiveness? Connection?
Escape. Understanding is the first step to escape. If I understand him, I can manipulate him. That’s what I need to remember.
The meringue has reached stiff peaks, glossy and perfect. I turn off the mixer and lift the whisk to check, watching the white peaks stand at attention like little soldiers.
Stiff peaks. Holy Mary, mother of god, stop my filthy mind. The meringue is ready. Ready. That’s the word I’m going with. I’m deleting the other term from my vocabulary.
“Now comes the scary part,” I say, steering us back to safer territory. “Folding in the dry ingredients. This is where most people mess up. You have to be gentle but thorough. Deflate the meringue just enough to get the right consistency, but not so much that it goes flat.”
I’ve already sifted the almond flour and powdered sugar together. I tip them into the bowl and start to fold with a rubber spatula, using the technique Aunt Moira taught me years ago. Cut down the center, sweep around the edge, turn the bowl. Repeat.