Chapter 39
Chapter thirty-nine
Dylan
Three weeks later.
The wildebeest are crossing a river.
On the enormous television screen, hundreds of them plunge into churning brown water, their eyes rolling with terror as crocodiles slide beneath the surface. The narrator’s voice is calm, almost soothing, as he explains that many of them won’t make it to the other side.
I’m not really watching. I’m staring at the screen without seeing it, my thoughts caught in the same endless spiral they’ve been trapped in for days.
Dante is beside me on the sofa, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him. His hand rests on my ankle, thumb tracing idle patterns on my skin. It’s such a small thing. Such an ordinary, domestic gesture. Three weeks ago, I would have melted into it.
Now it just makes me feel sick.
Because I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve him. And every moment I spend accepting his love without telling him the truth is another lie, another betrayal, another brick in the wall of deception I’ve built between us.
The seduction plan.
I’ve started to think about it constantly.
It’s the first thing on my mind when I wake up and the last thing I think about before I fall into restless sleep.
It follows me to the bakery, where Dante stands beside me, learning to knead dough with the same intense focus he used to bring to hurting people.
It whispers in my ear when he kisses me good morning, when he pulls me close at night, when he looks at me with those dark eyes full of something that might be love.
You don’t deserve this, it says. He doesn’t know who you really are.
On the screen, a wildebeest goes under. The narrator explains that this is simply nature taking its course. Survival of the fittest. The strong make it across. The weak become food for crocodiles.
I was weak once. Trapped and terrified in Dante’s lair, certain I was going to die. And then I realized he was lonely. Touched-starved.
And I saw an opportunity.
I remember the moment so clearly. Standing in that tiny kitchen, him offering to buy baking equipment, me thanking him and watching in astonishment as his dark eyes softened.
Then that night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if I could go through with it. I couldn’t fight my way out. I couldn’t run. But maybe, just maybe, I could make Dante want me enough to let his guard down. Make myself valuable. Seduce my way to freedom.
It was a good plan. A smart plan. The kind of plan that a survivor makes when they’re out of options.
The macarons weren’t just baking. They were strategy.
I knew Dante was watching me. I knew he liked watching me.
So I made sure to give him something worth watching.
The careful movements, the quiet concentration, the flour dusting my cheekbones.
I’m pretty sure that all of it was calculated.
All of it designed to make him see me as something other than a victim.
The whisky wasn’t just companionship. It was manipulation. I asked him questions about himself, drew him out, made him feel seen. I laughed at the right moments, and went quiet at the right moments, and let him glimpse my vulnerability in carefully controlled doses.
And it worked. God help me, it worked. I saw the way he started looking at me. The way his hands lingered when he touched me. The way his walls began to crack, letting me slip through into something soft and unprotected underneath.
I was going to use all of it against him. Make him fall for me, then run the first chance I got.
Except somewhere along the way, I fell too.
I don’t know when it happened. The timeline is all jumbled in my head.
Maybe it was when he came home with the baking equipment and I realized he’d been paying attention to what I actually needed.
Maybe it was before that, when he held me through the fever, his hand in my hair, his voice rough with something that sounded like fear.
Maybe it was when he almost killed Carlo for threatening me, and I understood for the first time that his violence could be a shield instead of a weapon.
Maybe it was all real from the very start, and I was just too scared to admit it.
But it doesn’t matter when it became real. What matters is that it started as a lie. And Dante doesn’t know.
On the television, the surviving wildebeest drag themselves onto the far bank. The narrator congratulates them on their successful crossing. I feel like I’m still in the river, crocodiles circling, the current pulling me under.
Dante’s hand tightens on my ankle.
“You’re not watching,” he says.
“What?” I blink, pulling myself back to the present.
“The documentary. You’ve been staring through it for the past twenty minutes.” His dark eyes study my face, seeing too much as always. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Just tired.”
It’s the same lie I’ve been telling for weeks.
I’m tired. I’m nervous about the bakery.
I’m still processing everything that happened.
Dante accepts it each time, but I can see he doesn’t believe me.
He’s too observant for that. He knows something is wrong.
He’s just waiting for me to tell him what.
And I can’t. I can’t tell him. Because if I do, I’ll lose him.
But if I don’t, I’ll lose myself.
The guilt is eating me alive. I’ve lost weight. My hands shake when I’m not paying attention. I lie awake at night with Dante’s arm around me, feeling like a fraud, a con artist, a liar who somehow stumbled into love and doesn’t deserve to keep it.
Dante reaches over and takes my hand. Casual. Easy. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
And something inside me just breaks.
“I have to tell you something.”
The words come out thin and strange. Dante goes still beside me, his hand tightening on mine.
“What is it?”
I pull my hand away. I can’t touch him while I say this. Can’t let him comfort me when he doesn’t know what I’ve done.
“You’re going to hate me.” My voice cracks on the words. “But I can’t keep lying to you. I can’t build a life with you on a foundation of lies. You deserve to know who I really am.”
“Dylan.” His voice is careful, controlled. “Whatever it is, just tell me.”
I take a breath. On the screen, a new herd of wildebeest is gathering at the river’s edge, preparing for their own crossing. I wonder how many of them will make it.
“I knew you were lonely,” I begin, the words scraping past the tightness in my throat.
Dante is very still. Watching me with those dark, unreadable eyes.
“And I saw an opportunity.” The tears are starting now. I can’t stop them. “I was so scared, Dante. I was trapped, and I didn’t know if you were going to get fed up with keeping me alive and kill me, and I thought if I could make you want me, maybe I could survive. Maybe I could escape.”
I force myself to keep going. To get it all out before I lose my nerve.
“I had a plan. I was going to seduce you. Make you fall for me. Use your feelings to manipulate you into letting your guard down, and then run the first chance I got.”
The wildebeest begin their crossing. The crocodiles begin to circle.
“The baking,” I continue, my voice breaking. “The macarons. It wasn’t just because I was bored. It was strategy.”
I’m sobbing now. Ugly, heaving sobs that make it hard to speak.
“The whisky. The conversations. The way I started touching you, letting you touch me. All of it was calculated. All of it was part of the plan. I was manipulating you, Dante. I was using your loneliness, your attraction to me, your capacity for love that you didn’t even know you had. I was using all of it against you.”
I force myself to look at him. His expression is unreadable. Blank in a way that terrifies me.
“But then I realized it had become real.” I take a shuddering breath.
“I don’t know when. Maybe when you bought me the baking equipment.
Maybe when you held me through the fever.
Maybe when you almost killed Carlo because you thought he was threatening me.
Maybe it was real from the very start and I was lying to myself the whole time. ”
The tears are streaming down my face. I can’t wipe them away fast enough.
“I’m sorry.” My voice is wrecked, barely recognizable. “I’m so sorry. I understand if you can’t forgive me. I understand if you want me to leave. But I couldn’t keep lying to you.”
On the television, a wildebeest goes under. The narrator’s calm voice explains that this is simply the cost of survival.
Silence.
I wait for the explosion. The cold fury. The door slamming shut behind him as he walks out of my life forever.
Instead, I feel his hands on my face.
Gentle. So impossibly gentle.
“Dylan,” he says quietly. “Look at me.”
I force myself to meet his eyes. Brace for the rejection I know is coming.
But his expression isn’t cold. It isn’t angry. It’s pure softness in a way I’ve only seen a handful of times, usually in the dark, usually when he thinks I’m asleep.
“You were a prisoner,” Dante says. “My prisoner. I kidnapped you. Tortured you. Held you captive for weeks. You did what you had to do to survive.” His thumbs brush the tears from my cheeks. “There is nothing to forgive.”
“But I manipulated you. I used your feelings...”
“You used the tools you had available.” His voice is steady, certain. “That’s not manipulation. That’s survival. Do you think I don’t understand desperation? Do you think I’ve never done things I’m not proud of to stay alive?”
“But the beginning... it wasn’t real...”
“When did it become real?” he asks softly.
I shake my head helplessly. “I don’t know. I’ve been trying to figure that out for weeks.”
“Then let me ask a different question.” His hands are still on my face, holding me like I’m something precious. “Is it real now?”
“Yes.” The word comes out fierce, desperate. “Yes, it’s real. I love you, Dante. I love you so much it terrifies me.”