Page 133 of The Wrong Man

“I’m not sure I know how to be part of a normal life,” I admit. “I’ve never had one. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

Dylan smiles, soft and fond. “Neither did I, when I first came to London. I had to figure it out as I went along.” He reaches up to touch my face. “We’ll figure it out together.”

Together. The word settles into my heart and makes itself at home.

I think about what that would look like. Waking up next to Dylan every morning. Walking to the bakery together, learning the rhythms of his world. Being known not as Dante the butcher, Dante the monster, but as Dylan’s partner. Dylan’s person.

It terrifies me. And it’s everything I want.

“Together,” I agree. “I’d like that.”

Dylan’s smile widens into something radiant. He leans up to kiss me, soft and sweet and full of promise.

“I should warn you,” he murmurs against my lips, “I’m going to make you learn to bake. You can’t be part of a bakery and not know how to make a decent loaf of bread.”

“I’ll try my best, but you’ll probably regret that rule.”

“More than likely!” he agrees.

He’s laughing now, that bright sound I thought I might never hear again. “But I love you anyway.”

“I love you too.” I pull him closer, tucking him against my chest. “Get some sleep. We have the rest of our lives to figure out the details.”

Dylan settles against me with a contented sigh. Within minutes, his breathing evens out, his body going slack with exhaustion.

I stay awake a while longer, watching the city lights and listening to Dylan breathe. Thinking about everything that’s happened and everything that’s still to come.

A month ago, I was a monster. A weapon. A man who had never loved anyone and never expected to.

Now I’m lying in a penthouse with a baker in my arms, planning a future I never imagined I could have.

It’s terrifying. It’s wonderful. It’s far more than I deserve.

But I’m going to spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of it.

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.