Page 33 of The Wrong Man

I turn my head and find Dante in his usual spot. The chair beside my bed, where he’s been stationed for what feels like forever. He’s reading something on his phone, his dark brows drawn together in concentration. The lamplight catches the sharp angles of his face, the shadow of stubble along his jaw.

He looks tired. There are dark circles under his eyes that weren’t there before. Has he been sleeping at all?

Why do I care?

I shove the thought aside and focus on what matters. Getting clean.

“I want a shower.”

My voice comes out as a croak, barely recognizable. But Dante’s head snaps up immediately, his dark eyes finding mine with an intensity that still makes my heart stutter.

“You’re awake.” He sets his phone aside and leans forward, reaching out to press the back of his hand against my forehead. The touch is gentle, clinical, but I still flinch. I can’t help it.

He notices. Of course he notices. Something flickers across his face, too quick for me to identify, before his expression smooths back into careful neutrality.

“Your fever has come down,” he says, withdrawing his hand. “How do you feel?”

“Disgusting.” The word comes out more forcefully than I intended. “I need a shower. Please.”

The please is automatic. Ingrained by years of trying to placate people who held power over me. My mother. My father. Declan. Now Dante.

He shakes his head. “You’re too weak. You can barely sit up, let alone stand in a shower.”

“I can manage.”

“You’ll fall. Crack your head open on the tiles. And then where will we be?”

The practical objection irritates me more than it should. Because he’s right. I know he’s right. The thought of standing upright makes my head spin, and I haven’t even attempted it yet.

“I can’t stay like this.” My voice cracks with something embarrassingly close to desperation. “I feel revolting. I smell. I need to be clean.”

Dante studies me for a long moment. Those dark eyes seeing too much, as always.

“A bath,” he says finally. “I’ll run you a bath. You can sit in the water without having to stand.”

A bath. The word conjures images of vulnerability I’m not sure I can handle. Lying naked in water while this man, this monster, watches over me. At least in a shower I could stand with my back to him, maintain some illusion of privacy.

But beggars can’t be choosers. And right now I would do almost anything to feel clean again.

“Fine,” I whisper. “A bath.”

Dante nods and rises from his chair. He disappears through the bathroom door, and moments later I hear the rush of water through pipes, the hollow echo of it filling a tub.

I use the time to attempt sitting up on my own. It goes about as well as expected. My arms shake. My vision swims. By the time I manage to get myself propped against the headboard, I’m panting like I’ve run a marathon.

Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic.

The sound of running water stops, and Dante reappears in the doorway. His eyes sweep over me, taking in my new position and no doubt the effort it cost me to achieve it.

“Ready?” he asks.

No. I’m not ready. I’m not ready for any of this.

But I nod anyway.

He crosses to the bed with those long, measured strides. Before I can prepare myself, he’s bending down, sliding one arm behind my back and the other under my knees.

“Put your arm around my neck,” he instructs.