Page 73 of The Wrong Man
Dylan appears at the end of the hallway. He’s still wearing my clothes, a soft gray jumper that’s too big for him and makes him look smaller than he is. His strawberry-blond hair is mussed from lying down, and there’s a crease on his cheek from the pillow.
He’s beautiful. He’s so beautiful it makes my chest hurt.
“I heard voices,” he says hesitantly. “Is everything alright?”
Everything is very much not alright. Everything is falling apart around me because I’ve gone and developed feelings for my prisoner and I don’t know how to stop and I’m not sure I want to.
“Fine,” I say. “Just a friend. Business matter.”
Dylan nods, but his eyes are searching my face with an intensity that suggests he doesn’t quite believe me. Those hazel eyes that see too much, that notice things I wish they wouldn’t.
“You look upset,” he says softly.
“I’m not upset.”
“You’re shaking.”
I look down at my hands. He’s right. They’re still trembling, the aftereffects of adrenaline and emotion I can’t control.
“It’s nothing,” I say. “Just... a difficult conversation.”
Dylan takes a step closer. Then another. He’s watching me like I’m something fragile, something that might shatter if handled wrong. The irony of that isn’t lost on me.
“Do you want me to make tea?” he asks. “I could make tea. Or something to eat. There’s still some ingredients left from yesterday.”
He’s offering to take care of me. This man I’ve tortured and imprisoned and traumatized, and he’s offering to make me tea because I look upset.
Something in my chest cracks open. Something I’ve been holding tightly closed for longer than I can remember.
“Tea would be nice,” I hear myself say.
Dylan’s face lights up. A small thing, barely perceptible, but I see it. That tiny flash of pleasure at being useful, at being wanted, at having something to contribute.
He moves past me toward the kitchen, and I follow because I can’t seem to do anything else. I watch him fill the kettle and set it to boil, watch him move through the small space with growing confidence.
Carlo’s words echo in my head. You’ve got it bad. Worse than I did, maybe.
He’s right. He’s absolutely right.
And I have no idea what I’m going to do about it.
Chapter twenty-one
Dylan
Yesterday, I heard everything.
Well, not everything. But enough. More than enough.
The walls in this flat are thin, and voices carry when they’re raised. When they’re angry. When they’re threatening violence against someone who dared suggest killing the prisoner in the bedroom.
I’m standing at the kitchen counter now, staring at the bowl of aged egg whites like they hold the secrets of the universe. They don’t, obviously. They’re just eggs. But focusing on them is easier than focusing on the chaos inside my head.
Someone wanted me dead. That part isn’t surprising. I’ve known from the beginning that my continued existence is an inconvenience, a loose end that sensible criminals would tie off without a second thought.
What’s surprising is what came next.
The thud of a body hitting the wall. The low, dangerous growl of Dante’s voice, so different from anything I’ve heard from him before. You will not touch him. You will not go near him. You will not even think about him.
