Chapter 27
Chapter twenty-seven
Dante
Iwake up with Dylan in my arms.
For a long moment, I don’t move. Don’t breathe. Don’t do anything that might shatter this fragile, impossible thing that is happening right now.
He is curled against my chest, one hand tucked under his chin, the other resting on my stomach.
His hair is a mess of strawberry-blond waves, sticking up in every direction, and his lips are slightly parted in sleep.
He looks peaceful. Soft. So unbearably beautiful that something aches deep in my chest.
I have never woken up next to someone like this.
There have been encounters, of course. Brief and transactional, with people who didn’t know what I am, and simply wanted my body, my physical form.
But those were always conducted in the dark, in anonymous places, with a mutual understanding that neither party would stay until morning.
I never wanted them to stay. Never wanted to see their faces in the harsh light of day, never wanted to deal with the awkward aftermath of intimacy with a stranger.
This is different. This is Dylan, warm and alive and pressed against me like he belongs here. Like my arms are the safest place in the world.
The irony of that is not lost on me. I am the furthest thing from safe. I am the monster that parents warn their children about, the nightmare that lurks in the shadows, the man who makes people beg for death in soundproofed rooms.
And yet here he is. Sleeping peacefully in my bed like I am someone worth trusting.
I allow myself one small indulgence. I brush a strand of hair away from his forehead, letting my fingers trail lightly across his skin. He makes a soft sound and burrows closer, his nose pressing against my collarbone.
My heart does something complicated. Something that feels suspiciously like it is breaking and healing all at once.
I could stay here forever. I could lie in this bed with this man in my arms and pretend the outside world does not exist. Pretend I am someone else entirely, someone worthy of the gift he has given me.
But the outside world does exist. And I am exactly who I have always been.
Dylan stirs against me, making a small noise of protest as consciousness begins to claim him.
I move backward and watch his face as awareness filters in.
The flutter of his eyelashes. The slight furrow between his brows.
The way his body tenses for just a fraction of a second before he remembers where he is.
Then his eyes open, and he looks up at me, and the tension melts away into something softer.
My own tension drains away as I see no sign of the fear I was bracing myself for. Dylan O’Shea is no longer terrified of me.
“Morning,” he mumbles, voice rough with sleep.
“Good morning.”
He blinks a few times, as if trying to determine whether this is real or some particularly vivid dream. Then a flush creeps up his cheeks, and I know he is remembering last night in explicit detail.
“That happened,” he says.
“It did.”
“We really...” He trails off, gesturing vaguely between us.
“Yes.”
The flush deepens. He buries his face against my chest, and I feel his groan vibrate through my skin.
“Oh God. I cannot believe I did that. Any of that. All of that.”
A sound escapes me. Something rusty and unfamiliar that might be a laugh.
“I can assure you, you did. Quite enthusiastically.”
He groans again, but when he lifts his head, there is a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. A small, shy thing that makes my chest feel too tight.
“You are not supposed to tease me about it.”
“I’m not teasing. I’m stating facts.”
“You are teasing.” He pokes me in the ribs, and I catch his hand before he can do it again. Our fingers intertwine without either of us consciously deciding to make it happen. “This is very strange.”
“What is?”
“This.” He nods his head at our joined hands, at the tangled sheets, at the general state of intimate proximity we find ourselves in. “Waking up together. Talking. Being... normal.”
Normal. As if anything about this situation could ever be described as normal.
“Would you prefer I go back to keeping you tied to a chair?”
It’s meant as a joke. An incredibly poor one, admittedly. Dylan’s smile flickers, and I realize too late that some wounds are too fresh to prod at, even gently. Some things should never be joked about. Ever.
“Sorry,” I say. “That was...”
“It’s fine.” But his voice has gone a little flat. He extracts his hand from mine and sits up, the sheet pooling around his waist. “I should probably eat something.”
The easy intimacy of moments ago has evaporated. I want to reach for him, pull him back, find a way to recapture whatever we had before I ruined it with my careless words. But I don’t know how. I have never known how to be soft with people. It is not a skill that was ever required of me.
“I could make breakfast,” he offers, not quite meeting my eyes. “We have eggs.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I want to.” He finally looks at me, and there is something complicated in his expression. Something I cannot quite read. “I need to do something with my hands. Otherwise I am going to start thinking too much, and that never ends well.”
I understand that impulse better than he knows.
He climbs out of bed, and I watch him pull on the shirt I discarded last night. It hangs to mid-thigh on him, too big in the shoulders, the sleeves falling past his wrists. He looks small in it. Young. Vulnerable in a way that makes something protective and dangerous stir in my chest.
He pads out of the bedroom without looking back, and I am left alone with the cooling sheets and the lingering scent of him on my pillow.
What am I doing?
The question has been circling my mind for days now, but it feels more urgent this morning.
More impossible to ignore. Last night changed things.
Last night took whatever strange connection was building between us and turned it into something physical, something undeniable, something I cannot pretend away.
I wanted him. I still want him. And that wanting is going to destroy us both.
I get up, find pajama bottoms and pull them on, then make my way to the kitchen. Dylan is cracking eggs into a bowl, his movements quick and efficient, completely absorbed in the task.
I lean against the doorframe and watch him.
This is dangerous. All of it. The way he looks in my kitchen, in my clothes, making breakfast like this is his home.
The way my chest feels warm just from watching him work.
The way I am already dreading the moment he leaves this room, leaves my sight, leaves the small bubble of domesticity we have somehow created.
I am not built for this. I am built for violence and fear and the cold satisfaction of a job well done. I am built to hurt people, not to care for them. Not to want them safe and happy and close.
Dylan glances over his shoulder and catches me staring.
“You could help instead of lurking,” he says. “There should be coffee somewhere.”
“I was not lurking.”
“You were absolutely lurking. Very menacingly. I felt threatened.”
Despite everything, despite the tension still lingering from my stupid joke, a smile tugs at my mouth.
“You didn’t look threatened.”
“I am an excellent actor.” He turns back to his eggs. “Coffee. Now. I refuse to have a conversation about last night without caffeine.”
A conversation about last night. My stomach tightens with something that might be anticipation or might be dread.
I move to the coffeemaker and start the familiar process of grinding beans and measuring water. The machine hums to life, filling the small kitchen with the rich scent of brewing coffee.
“I’m not going to make this weird,” Dylan says, his back still to me. He is whisking the eggs now, quick efficient strokes. “What happened, happened. We are both adults. We can be mature about it.”
“Mature,” I repeat.
“Yes. Mature. As in, we don’t need to overanalyze or have some big dramatic conversation about what it means.”
“What does it mean?”
He pauses mid-whisk. “I just said we weren’t going to overanalyze.”
“I’m not overanalyzing. I am asking a simple question.”
“There is nothing simple about that question and you know it.”
He has a point. I pour coffee into two mugs and bring one to him, setting it on the counter within reach. He mutters a thanks without looking at me.
The eggs go into a heated pan. He turns down the flame and begins stirring them slowly, scraping them gently across the bottom in the French style he mentioned once before.
“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” he says quietly. “It can just be... what it was. Two people, stuck in an impossible situation, finding comfort in each other.”
“Is that what you want it to be?”
“I don’t know what I want it to be.” He still will not look at me.
“I don’t know what I want any of this to be.
You kidnapped me, Dante. You tortured me.
And now I am standing in your kitchen making you eggs and trying not to think about the fact that last night was.
..” He stops. Swallows. “It doesn’t matter what last night was. It doesn’t change what you are.”
The words land like blows. Precise and painful and entirely deserved.
“No,” I agree. “It doesn’t.”
“So we just... carry on. Like normal. Whatever normal means in this situation.”
“If that’s what you want.”
“It is.” But his voice wavers on the words. “It has to be.”
The eggs are done. He plates them with mechanical precision, adds toast that I didn’t even notice him making, and carries both plates to the small table. We sit across from each other, knees bumping underneath, neither of us reaching for our forks.
“This is awkward,” Dylan says.
“Yes.”
“I hate it.”
“So do I.”
He looks up at me then, and there is something raw in his expression. Something vulnerable that he is trying very hard to hide.
“I don’t regret it,” he says quietly. “Last night. I know I probably should. I know it complicates everything. But I don’t regret it.”
My chest feels too tight. “Neither do I.”
“That doesn’t mean I know what to do next.”
“Neither do I.”
A ghost of a smile crosses his face. “We are both very lost, aren’t we?”
“It would seem so.”
He picks up his fork and takes a bite of eggs. Chews. Swallows. The simple domesticity of it feels surreal, given the weight of the conversation we just had.
“These are good,” I say, because the silence is becoming unbearable and I don’t know what else to offer.
“They are adequate.” But he looks pleased. “The trick is low heat and constant stirring. Most people rush it and end up with rubber.”
We eat. The eggs are more than adequate. The coffee is strong and bitter, exactly how I like it. Outside, the sounds of the city filter in, muffled and distant.
It feels almost normal. Almost peaceful. Like we are just two people sharing breakfast, with nothing complicated or impossible hanging between us.
But we are not just two people. We are captor and captive, monster and victim, two broken things that have somehow collided and do not know how to pull apart.
Dylan finishes his eggs and pushes the plate away. He wraps his hands around his coffee mug and stares into the dark liquid like it holds answers.
“I should shower,” he says. “And probably put on real clothes.”
“Probably.”
Neither of us moves.
“Thank you,” he says suddenly. “For the coffee. And for not making this weirder than it already is.”
“I’m fairly certain I made it weird.”
“Yes, well.” That ghost of a smile again. “I expect nothing less from you at this point.”
He stands, and I think he is going to walk away. Going to retreat to the bathroom and put walls back up and pretend none of this is happening. But instead, he pauses beside my chair.
His hand comes up to rest on my shoulder. Light. Uncertain. Like he is not quite sure he is allowed to touch me in the daylight.
“I meant what I said. About not regretting it.”
Before I can respond, he is gone. The bathroom door clicks shut a moment later, and I am left alone with cold eggs and cooling coffee and the phantom warmth of his hand on my skin.
I stare at the empty doorway for a long time.
He said he didn’t want last night to mean anything, but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t believe himself. But that doesn’t mean I know what we are doing. Or know where this is going.
Nevermind that I don’t know how to protect him from the world, or from myself.
But for the first time in my life, I want to figure it out. All of it.
And that terrifies me more than anything.