Page 105 of The Wrong Man

And then I am alone.

Alone in the flat where I am prisoner and lover and victim and something else I cannot name. Alone with my spiraling thoughts and my empty mug of tea.

I curl tighter into myself and stare at the door he didn’t open.

He left without saying goodbye. Without checking on me. Without any of the small gestures that have come to mean so much.

Part of me understands. He is giving me space. He left to do his work instead of bringing his work here. He thinks his presence would make things worse. He is probably right.

But another part of me, the selfish, needy part that I am trying so hard to ignore, wanted him to knock. Wanted him to crack the door open and ask if I was okay. Wanted him to choose me over whatever violence awaits him.

He didn’t. Of course he didn’t. Because at the end of the day, that is who he is. A man who answers when the family calls. A man who puts duty before desire. A man who cannot escape his own nature any more than I can escape my trauma.

We are both trapped. Both broken. Both stumbling through this impossible situation without a map or a compass or any hope of finding our way out.

Maybe that’s why I feel so drawn to him. Not despite what he is, but because of it. Because he understands damage in a way that no one else ever has. Because he looks at my broken pieces and doesn’t flinch.

Or maybe I am just making excuses. Romanticizing my captivity to make it bearable. Telling myself pretty lies because the ugly truth is too heavy to carry.

I don’t know anymore. I don’t know anything anymore.

The flat is silent around me. Empty. The absence of Dante’s presence is a physical thing, pressing against my skin.

I close my eyes and wait for him to come back.

It’s the only thing I can do.

Chapter thirty

Dylan

The flat is too quiet.

The tea Dante left outside the door has long since been finished. The McVities dark chocolate digestives he gave me are now just a wrapper. His gifts were small gestures that felt meaningful at the time but now just feel like evidence of everything we can’t seem to say to each other.

I should get up. Should do something productive with my day. But what is the point? I am trapped here. A prisoner in a soulless flat with a comfortable bed and a man who buys me baking supplies but cannot bring himself to knock on a door.

The front door crashes open.

The sound is so violent, so unexpected, that for a moment I think I have imagined it. But then there are footsteps, heavy and fast, and voices I don’t recognize, and my body is moving before my brain catches up.

I scramble out of bed, heart pounding, looking wildly around for somewhere to hide, something to use as a weapon. But there is nothing. The bedroom door doesn’t have a lock. And even if it did, what good would it do against the men I can hear tearing through the flat?

The bedroom door bursts open. Kicked with brute force even though it wasn’t locked.

Three men. Big, rough-looking, with the kind of faces that have seen violence and enjoyed it. Behind them, stepping through the wreckage of the doorframe like he owns the place, is a face I know all too well.

Declan.

My twin brother looks exactly the same as he did three years ago. Same sharp jaw, same cold eyes, same cruel twist to his mouth. He is wearing an expensive coat and shoes that exude status, and he surveys Dante’s bedroom with the casual disdain of someone who considers himself above his surroundings.

“Well, isn’t this place just charming,” he says, and his voice sends ice down my spine.

I can’t speak. Can’t move. I am fifteen years old again, trapped and terrified and completely at his mercy.

“Grab him,” Declan orders, and the men move forward.

I try to fight. I throw a punch that connects with someone’s jaw, kick out at another man’s knee, even manage to sink my teeth into a hand that gets too close to my face. But there are three of them and one of me, and they are professionals while I am a baker who faints at the sight of blood.