Page 62 of The Wrong Man

But I’ve long known that about myself. So I just stand here, watching, my breath carefully controlled so as not to disturb him. The silence wraps around us both like a blanket. Intimate. Almost sacred.

When did this happen? When did checking on a prisoner become something else entirely? When did practical concern transform into whatever this is, this ache in my chest, this need to be near him even when he’s unconscious?

I try to trace it back, to find the moment when everything shifted. Was it when he fainted at the mere sight of my pliers, proving himself too soft for the world I thought he belonged to? Was it when I discovered the truth, when Declan’s video message shattered my certainty and left me drowning in guilt? Was it when I climbed into bed beside his frozen body and held him through the night, feeling his heart beat against my chest?

Or was it later? Was it the first time he said thank you and meant it? The first time he didn’t flinch when our hands brushed? The first time he smiled at me like I was a person instead of a monster?

I don’t know. I can’t pinpoint it. All I know is that something has taken root inside me, something I don’t have a name for, something that grows stronger every day.

He shifts in his sleep, murmuring something I can’t make out. For a moment I freeze, certain he’s about to wake and find me looming over his bed like some creature from a nightmare. But he just sighs and settles deeper into the pillows, his expression smoothing back into peaceful oblivion.

My lungs remember how to work.

I should leave. I know I should leave. Standing here watching him sleep is not normal behavior. It’s not the behavior of a man trying to make amends for past wrongs. It’s the behavior of something else entirely. Something darker. Something that wants and hungers and refuses to let go.

I’ve watched him sleep before, when he was ill and every breath came with a rattle. I watched him for hours. In fact, it’s possible I’ve seen far more of Dylan unconscious than awake.

But this is different, I know it is. I know better. This is creepy. Stalker behavior. I should go. Walk away and allow the poor man to sleep in peace.

But I don’t leave. I can’t seem to make my feet move toward the door.

Instead, I find myself cataloging details like evidence. The exact shade of his hair in the moonlight. The fan of his lashes against his cheeks. The small freckle just below his left ear that I’ve never noticed before. The way his fingers curl against the pillow, relaxed and trusting.

Trusting. He’s trusting enough to sleep deeply with me in the next room. The man who tortured him, who made him watch unspeakable things, who held his life in careless hands. And he sleeps like a child, unguarded, vulnerable.

Something twists in my chest. Possession, maybe. Or protectiveness. Or something between the two that has no name.

I think about the justifications I’ve been telling myself. That I’m keeping him because I can’t let him go. Because he knows too much. Because releasing him would be dangerous for us both. All true, all logical, all perfectly reasonable explanations for why Dylan O’Shea is still sleeping in my bed instead of returning to his bakery and his aunt, and his normal life.

But standing here in the dark, watching him breathe, I can no longer pretend those are the real reasons.

The truth is simpler. Uglier. More honest than I’ve allowed myself to be.

I want to keep him.

Not because I have to. Not because circumstances demand it. But because the thought of him leaving, of him existing somewhere I’m not, of him going back to a life that doesn’t include me, makes something violent and desperate claw at my insides.

He’s become an obsession. That’s the word for it. I’ve had obsessions before. Work that consumed me, targets that occupied my every thought, problems that wouldn’t let me rest until they were solved. I know what it feels like to be possessed by a singular focus, to have your mind colonized by something outside yourself.

This is like that. This constant circling back to thoughts of Dylan. This need to be near him, to watch over him, to know that he’s safe and comfortable and present. This ache that only eases when I’m in the same room as him.

I’ve traded one obsession for another. That’s all this is. The work that used to fill my empty hours has been replaced by something new. Someone new. A puzzle I can’t solve, a mystery I can’t unravel, a person I can’t stop thinking about.

It’s not healthy. I know it’s not healthy. Obsession never is.

But knowing that doesn’t change anything. Doesn’t make the feeling smaller. Doesn’t loosen the grip it has on my chest.

Dylan murmurs again in his sleep. This time I catch a word. Moira. His aunt’s name. He’s dreaming about her. About the woman who raised him, who taught him to bake, who gave him a home.

Guilt surges through me, hot and acidic. He misses her. Of course he misses her. He’s been ripped away from everyone and everything he loves, trapped in a flat with the man who nearly killed him, and he’s probably dreaming about the life he’ll never get back.

I should let him go. The thought rises unbidden, and I crush it immediately.

I can’t. Even if I wanted to, which I don’t, I couldn’t. He knows too much. Releasing him would sign both our death warrants. The family doesn’t leave loose ends, and I’ve already bent too many rules by keeping him alive this long.

But those justifications feel hollow now. Paper-thin excuses laid over something much darker and more selfish.

The truth is I don’t want to let him go. The truth is the thought of it makes me feel physically ill. The truth is I would rather burn down everything I’ve built than watch him walk away.