Page 36 of The Wrong Man

I nod because I don’t trust my voice.

He works the conditioner through my hair with the same patient gentleness. His fingers catch on a tangle, and he stops immediately, working through it with careful attention rather than just pulling.

It’s too much. This tenderness, this care, from the same hands that hurt me. From the same man who made me watch while he destroyed another human being.

“Why are you doing this?” The words burst out of me, rough and broken. “Why are you being kind to me? What do you want?”

His hands fall still in my hair again. For a long moment, he doesn’t answer.

“I don’t know,” he says finally. And he sounds as confused as I feel. “I don’t know what I want. I just know I can’t...” He stops, takes a breath. “I can’t undo what I did. But I can do this. I can take care of you. It’s not enough. It will never be enough. But it’s all I have.”

The honesty in his voice cuts through something inside me. I don’t want to believe him. I don’t want to feel anything except hatred for this man.

But I’m so tired. And his hands in my hair are so gentle. And I don’t have the strength to hold onto my anger right now.

I let my eyes close again and try not to think about what any of this means.

The rest of the bath passes in silence. He rinses the conditioner from my hair, then leaves me to soak while he fetches clean clothes. I scrub myself with a flannel, washing away days of sweat and sickness. The water turns slightly grey, and I’m too tired to be embarrassed.

When I finally call out that I’m done, Dante returns with a towel large enough to wrap around me twice. He helps me stand on trembling legs and wraps me in it before I can feel exposed. Then he lifts me again, carrying me back to the bedroom like I weigh nothing at all.

He sets me on his chair by the bed and hands me the clean clothes. Another soft t-shirt. Another pair of his sweatpants. I dress clumsily while he changes the sheets, stripping away the sweat-soaked linens and replacing them with fresh ones that smell like cedarwood.

By the time I’m dressed, the bed looks even more inviting than ever. Soft and warm. A nest to sink into and stay forever.

Clean sheets. Clean body. Clean hair. It’s a heavenly combination.

I’m exhausted. The bath has drained whatever small reserve of energy I’d managed to accumulate. But I feel better. Actually, genuinely better.

Dante helps me under the covers and tucks the blankets around me with that same careful attention he’s shown all morning. Then he settles back into his chair, picking up his phone like nothing has changed.

“Thank you,” I say, and the words taste strange on my tongue. Thanking my captor. Thanking my torturer. Thanking the monster who has stolen my life and shows no sign of giving it back.

He looks at me with those dark, unreadable eyes.

“Sleep,” he says softly. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”

It should sound like a threat. It should fill me with dread. Instead, impossibly, it almost sounds like a promise.

I close my eyes and let exhaustion pull me under.

Chapter twelve

Dante

The call comes in the morning.

I’m in the kitchen, making porridge because Liam said Dylan needs bland, easy to digest food while his body recovers. The oats are bubbling gently on the stove, and I’m adding a drizzle of honey when my phone vibrates against the counter.

Nicolo’s name flashes on the screen.

My stomach tightens. I’ve been avoiding this. Avoiding all of it. For days now I’ve existed in a strange bubble, my entire world shrunk down to this apartment and the man recovering in my bed. The outside world, with all its demands and expectations, has felt very far away.

But the outside world doesn’t stay away forever. Not in my line of work.

I answer on the third ring. “Yes?”

“Dante.” Nicolo’s voice is carefully neutral. “We have a situation. Dario needs you.”