Page 34 of The Wrong Man
I hesitate. The thought of voluntarily holding onto him, of pressing myself against the chest of the man who tortured me, goes against every screaming instinct in my body.
“Dylan.” His voice is patient. Gentle, even. “I’m not going to drop you. But I need you to hold on.”
Slowly, reluctantly, I lift my arm and loop it around his neck. His skin is warm under my fingers. I can feel the steady pulse of his heartbeat, the shift of muscle as he adjusts his grip.
Then he lifts me like I weigh nothing at all.
The world tilts alarmingly. I squeeze my eyes shut against a wave of dizziness and tighten my grip on his neck without meaning to. He holds me closer in response, steadying me against his chest.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs. “Just breathe.”
I focus on breathing. In through my nose, out through my mouth. His chest rises and falls beneath my cheek in a rhythm I find myself matching unconsciously.
He carries me through the door and into the same bathroom that I stupidly tried to hide in. It’s still utterly nondescript. White tiles, a large mirror, a glass-enclosed shower in one corner. But now, against the far wall, the deep bathtub is filled with steaming water.
The air is warm and humid, carrying the faint scent of something herbal. He’s put something in the water, I realize. Some kind of bath oil or salts.
Why would he do that? Why would he care about making this comfortable for me?
I don’t understand this man. I don’t understand any of this.
He lowers me onto a wooden stool beside the tub, keeping one hand on my shoulder to steady me. The room spins gently around me, but it’s manageable. Bearable.
“Can you undress yourself?” he asks. “Or do you need help?”
The question is matter of fact. Clinical. Like a nurse asking a patient. But my cheeks still burn with humiliation.
“I can do it,” I say, even though I’m not entirely sure that’s true.
He nods and turns his back to me, facing the door. Giving me privacy. Or at least the illusion of it.
My fingers fumble with the hem of the t-shirt I’m wearing. His t-shirt, I remember. The one he gave me after I woke up naked in his bed.
It takes three attempts to get it over my head, and by the time I succeed I’m breathing hard again.
The sweatpants are worse. I have to stand to get them off, and standing is a negotiation my body doesn’t want to make. I grip the edge of the tub and haul myself upright, swaying dangerously. The fabric pools around my ankles, and I kick it away with clumsy feet.
I’m naked now. Completely exposed in the same room as the man who held me captive, who hurt me, who broke me into pieces I’m not sure can ever be put back together.
The vulnerability is overwhelming. I want to cover myself, to curl into a ball and hide. But what would be the point? A thin layer of cotton wasn’t going to save me from anything. If Dante wanted to hurt me, to use me, to do any of the terrible things my imagination has conjured over the past few days, clothes wouldn’t stop him.
Nothing would stop him.
The thought should terrify me. And it does, somewhere deep down. But mostly I just feel tired. Too tired to be afraid. Too tired to be anything except exactly what I am, a broken man standing naked in his captor’s bathroom, desperate for something as simple as a bath.
“I’m going to get in now,” I say, because the silence is unbearable.
Dante doesn’t turn around. “Do you need help?”
Yes. Probably. The edge of the tub looks impossibly high, and my legs are shaking badly enough that climbing over it feels like scaling a mountain.
“I can manage,” I lie.
Getting into the tub is graceless and undignified. I half fall, half lower myself into the water, sending a small wave sloshing over the side. But then the heat envelops me, and nothing else matters.
Oh. Oh, that’s good.
The water is perfect. Hot enough to soak into my aching muscles, but not so hot it burns. Whatever he put in it makes my skin feel soft, soothed. The warmth seeps into my bones, chasing away a chill I hadn’t realized I was still carrying.
