Chapter 24
Chapter twenty-four
Dante
Dylan asked if Ginni was my boy.
The words have been echoing through my mind all morning, ricocheting off the inside of my skull like a bullet that won’t stop. My boy. As if I would ever... as if Ginni could ever...
But that’s not what’s consuming me. What’s consuming me is why Dylan asked. The tension in his voice. The way he couldn’t quite meet my eyes. The flush that crept up his cheeks when he blurted it out.
He was jealous.
Dylan was jealous of Ginni.
I’m standing in the kitchen, supposedly making more coffee, but really just staring at the kettle and replaying that conversation for the hundredth time.
The way his face changed when I said Ginni was pretty.
The barely concealed relief when I explained about Carlo.
The way he shoved toast in his mouth to stop himself from rambling after I confirmed I’m attracted to men.
He was jealous. He was relieved. Which means he cares. Which means...
I don’t let myself finish that thought. It’s too dangerous. Too hopeful. Too likely to shatter me if I’m wrong.
“Do you think the macarons are ready?”
Dylan’s voice startles me out of my spiral. I turn to find him hovering in the kitchen doorway, looking uncertain. He’s still wearing my clothes because I keep forgetting to buy him his own and I disposed of his soaking wet ones because I couldn’t cope with the guilt they invoked.
But the soft blue jumper brings out the color of his eyes and looks far better on him than it ever did on me, so maybe my forgetfulness and cowardice aren’t such bad things.
“They should be,” I manage. “They’ve been setting overnight.” I don’t know why he is asking me, he’s the expert.
“Right. Yes. The flavors need time to meld. That’s what the cookbook said.” He’s fidgeting with the hem of the jumper, not quite looking at me. “Should we... I mean, do you want to try them? Together?”
Together. Such a simple word. Such an enormous offer.
“I’d like that,” I say.
We move around each other in the small kitchen, that familiar dance we’ve developed over the past week. Dylan retrieves the container of macarons from the fridge while I pour coffee into two mismatched mugs. Our elbows brush as we pass. Neither of us pulls away.
The macarons are beautiful. Perfect little circles of pale green, sandwiched together with a delicate filling. They look like something from a Parisian patisserie, professional and precise.
“I can’t believe they actually worked,” Dylan murmurs, staring at them with something like wonder. “I’ve never managed to get them right before. The shells always cracked or went hollow or didn’t develop feet. But these...”
“These are perfect,” I finish for him.
He looks up at me, and there’s something vulnerable in his expression. Something that makes me want to wrap him in my arms and never let go.
“You don’t know that yet. You haven’t tasted them.”
“I know.”
The words come out softer than I intended. More intimate. Dylan’s cheeks flush pink, and he looks away quickly, busying himself with arranging the macarons on a plate.
We take our coffee and the plate to the living room, settling onto the horrible orange sofa. Close, but not touching. The space between us feels charged, electric with possibility.
“You first,” Dylan says, pushing the plate toward me. “I’m too nervous.”
I pick up one of the delicate cookies and examine it. The shell is smooth and unblemished, the color a soft pistachio green. It smells faintly of rosewater and almonds.
Dylan is watching me with an intensity that borders on painful. His hands are clasped tightly in his lap, knuckles white.
I take a bite.
The shell cracks perfectly, giving way to a soft, chewy interior. The flavors bloom across my tongue. Pistachio, sweet and nutty. Rosewater, delicate and floral. A hint of vanilla underneath, tying everything together.
It’s exquisite. The best thing I’ve ever tasted.
“Well?” Dylan’s voice is barely above a whisper.
I look at him. Really look at him. This man who bakes like an artist, who rambles when he’s nervous, who cried over successful macarons and asked if I was attracted to men over breakfast toast.
“Perfect,” I say. “Absolutely perfect.”
The smile that breaks across his face is like the sun coming out. Bright and warm and so genuinely happy that something cracks open in my chest.
He made these. With the ingredients I bought him, in the kitchen I’ve started to think of as ours rather than mine. He put care and effort and love into creating something beautiful, and then he chose to share them with me.
When was the last time anyone shared something they created with me? Before Dylan, I couldn’t have answered that question. Now I have scones and macarons and the memory of flour-dusted cheeks and nervous rambling and a touch on my arm that I felt for hours afterward.
Dylan grabs a macaron and takes a bite, his eyes closing in relief as he tastes it.
“Oh thank God,” he breathes. “They’re actually good. I was so worried. Macarons are temperamental, and the humidity in this flat isn’t ideal, and I wasn’t sure about the oven temperature, and...”
“Dylan.”
He stops mid-ramble, looking at me with wide eyes.
“They’re perfect,” I repeat. “You’re perfect.”
The words slip out before I can stop them. Too honest. Too revealing. I watch Dylan’s face cycle through surprise, confusion, and something else. Something that looks almost like hope.
“I’m not,” he says quietly. “I’m really not.”
“You are to me.”
The silence that follows is heavy with everything we’re not saying. I want to reach out and touch him. Want to brush that strand of hair off his forehead, cup his face in my hands, show him exactly how perfect I think he is.
But I can’t. He’s my prisoner. Whatever is growing between us, I have no right to act on it. No right to want what I want.
Dylan breaks the moment by reaching for another macaron, and I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
We eat in companionable silence, working our way through the plate. The coffee grows cold. The morning light shifts across the floor. And I find myself wishing this moment could last forever.
I’ve been thinking about the future.
It’s a dangerous habit, one I’ve never indulged in before. My life has always been about the present. The current job, the current target, the current necessity. Planning ahead meant weakness, meant giving fate something to take away from me.
But now I can’t seem to stop.
I think about what Carlo said. About the family finding out, about loose ends being tied, about the danger we’re both in. I think about Dylan’s aunt, waiting for him to come home. I think about the bakery he built with his own hands, and I wonder how long it will last without him.
I think about what it would take to give him back his life. I can’t give him his bakery, the family would never permit that loose end. But I might be able to give him his freedom.
Faking his death would be the cleanest option. A body, burned beyond recognition. Dental records that match. A tragic accident, a closed case, a grieving aunt who never knows her nephew is actually alive.
Alive and where? With me? On the run, always looking over our shoulders, never able to settle anywhere for long?
Or I could let him go. Really let him go. Stage his death, give him money and new documents, send him somewhere far away where the family would never find him.
Somewhere far away from me.
The thought makes something twist painfully in my chest.
I don’t want to let him go. The possessive, obsessive part of me that has claimed Dylan as mine, rebels against the very idea. He’s mine. I found him, I kept him, I’ve started to lo...
I stop the thought before it can fully form.
He’s mine, but I can’t keep him prisoner forever. Can’t build a future on captivity and fear. If I want Dylan to stay, truly stay, it has to be his choice.
And I have no idea if he would choose me.
This morning, when he asked about Ginni, when he asked if I was attracted to men... there was something in his eyes. Something that made my heart race with hope. But hope is dangerous. Hope can make you see things that aren’t there.
Maybe he was just curious. Maybe he was just making conversation. Maybe the jealousy I thought I saw was nothing more than general discomfort with the situation.
Or maybe, just maybe, he feels something too.
I won’t know unless I take a risk. Unless I offer something real and see how he responds.
The thought terrifies me more than any job ever has.
The day passes slowly.
Dylan bakes again. Today it’s a simple Victoria sponge, nothing fancy, but the flat fills with the warm smell of vanilla and butter and I find myself drifting back to the kitchen just to watch him work.
He’s comfortable here now. Moves through the space with confidence, reaching for ingredients without having to search, adjusting the oven temperature with practiced ease.
It’s become his kitchen as much as mine.
Maybe more than mine, since I never used it for anything but reheating takeaway before he came.
“You’re staring,” Dylan says without turning around.
“I know.”
He glances over his shoulder, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “It’s distracting.”
“Should I leave?”
“No.” The word comes out quickly. Too quickly, maybe, because his cheeks flush and he turns back to his mixing bowl. “No, it’s fine. I don’t mind. I mean, it’s your kitchen. Your flat. You can stand wherever you want.”
I don’t point out that he just said I was distracting him. Don’t point out the contradiction between “it’s distracting” and “I don’t mind.” I just stay where I am, leaning against the doorframe, watching him fold batter with practiced precision.
“My aunt used to watch me bake,” he says after a while. “She’d sit at the kitchen table with a cup of tea and just... be there. She said she liked the company. Said it was peaceful, watching someone create something.”
“It is peaceful,” I agree.