Page 21 of The Wrong Man

I’m crying now. Ugly, hysterical tears that I can’t control. My whole body is shaking with the force of my sobs, and I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything except beg.

The arms around me vanish. The warmth against my back disappears as the mattress shifts violently. I hear rapid footsteps.

I scramble upright, grabbing the blankets and pulling them up to my chin as if they can somehow protect me. As if anything can protect me from this man.

When I manage to blink the tears from my eyes enough to see, he is standing on the other side of the room. He’s backed away from the bed like I’m the dangerous one. Like I’m the threat.

He’s wearing boxers. Just boxers. His chest is bare, all hard muscle and olive skin, and under any other circumstances I might appreciate the view. But right now all I can see is the man who made another human being scream for hours before finally, mercifully, making the screaming stop.

His cheeks are flushed. He looks... flustered. Uncomfortable. Almost embarrassed.

“I wasn’t going to...” He stops, swallows hard. His hands clench and unclench at his sides, like he doesn’t know what to do with them. “I’m not a...”

He trails off, running a hand through his dark hair in obvious agitation. His jaw works silently for a moment before he finally forces the words out.

“I’m many things,” he says, his voice rough and strained. “But I’m not that.”

I stare at him, clutching the blankets like a lifeline. My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears, and the tears are still streaming down my face, but I’ve stopped making sounds. I don’t trust my voice. I don’t trust anything about this situation.

“You had hypothermia.” His voice is quieter now. Gentler. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Severe hypothermia. You were dying. I was warming you up. That’s all I was doing.”

He takes a breath, squares his shoulders, and meets my eyes with what looks like considerable effort.

“You have my word on that, Dylan.”

The sincerity in his voice makes something twist in my chest. But I can’t trust it. Can’t trust him. This is the man who locked me in a pitch-black room and left me there for hours. The man who put me under a freezing shower and left me there to die of the cold. The man who made me watch while he... I can still hear the screaming. I think I will always hear the screaming. For the rest of my days, however many or few those might be, I will hear that man begging for mercy that never came.

I can’t trust the monster who did that. No matter how gentle his voice is now. No matter how sincere he seems.

But then a thought cuts through the fog of terror and trauma.

“Wait.” My voice comes out as a croak, barely recognizable as my own. I swipe at my wet cheeks with the back of one trembling hand. “Did you just call me Dylan?”

He nods slowly, his dark eyes never leaving my face.

Hope flickers in my chest. Dangerous, fragile hope that I’m terrified to feel.

“Does this mean...” I have to pause and wet my lips, my mouth suddenly dry. “Do you believe me?”

Another nod.

“Your brother left me a video message,” he says quietly, and something dark passes across his features as he says it. A tightening around his eyes, a tension in his jaw.

Declan. Declan contacted him. Declan knows that this man has me. The hope in my chest grows brighter, warmer. Declan and I have never been close, but we’re still family. We’re still twins. Surely that has to count for something. Surely he wouldn’t leave me here to rot in some monster’s lair.

“Is Declan coming to get me?” The question comes out small and childlike. Pathetic, really. But I can’t help it. My fingers twist in the blankets, knuckles going white with the force of my grip.

He shakes his head, and the movement seems almost reluctant. Like he wishes he had a different answer to give.

The hope dies as quickly as it was born. Of course Declan isn’t coming. Of course he isn’t. When has Declan ever done anything for anyone but himself? When has he ever cared about anyone else’s wellbeing? He knows I’m here. He knows what is happening to me. And he decided that the only effort I was worth was a video call.

I swallow hard, forcing down the fresh wave of tears that threatens to overwhelm me. My throat aches with the effort of holding them back.

“Did he...” I have to stop and swallow again, my voice threatening to break. “Did he say anything? About me?” There is no need to clarify who I’m pathetically asking about.

His jaw tightens visibly. Something dark flashes in his eyes, and his hands curl into fists at his sides before he consciously relaxes them. “Nothing worth repeating.”

That tells me everything I need to know. Declan’s idea of helping me didn’t just end with a video call. He said something cruel. Something that made even this monster angry on my behalf.