Page 68 of The Wrong Man

Wait, no. He’s not kind. He’s a murderer. A torturer. The fact that he has nice bone structure doesn’t change that.

“You don’t know that,” I say. “You don’t know me. Not really.”

“I know you make excellent scones. I know you ramble when you’re nervous and blush when you’re embarrassed. I know you’re kind to someone who doesn’t deserve your kindness.” He pauses. “I’m learning more every day.”

My face is doing that thing again. That red, splotchy, tomato-with-sunburn thing. I turn back to the eggs and concentrate very hard on not dropping any yolks.

This is manipulation, I remind myself desperately. He’s being nice because he wants something. He’s being nice because he’s keeping me prisoner and this is how you keep prisoners complacent. It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t mean anything.

And the fact that he’s attractive is irrelevant. Completely irrelevant. I’m just flustered because I’m always flustered around handsome men. It’s a character flaw, not a sign of anything deeper.

But my traitorous heart is beating too fast, and my hands are trembling for reasons that have nothing to do with fear.

I separate the last egg and set the bowl of whites aside. They need to sit at room temperature, covered loosely, for at least twenty-four hours. Tomorrow I can attempt the actual macarons.

“Tomorrow,” I say aloud. “I’ll try making them tomorrow.”

Dante nods. “I’ll be here.”

Of course he will. Where else would he be? This is his flat. His prison. His carefully controlled world, where I’m the newest and most confusing addition.

I start cleaning up the eggshells and wiping down the counter. Normal activities. Mundane activities. Things that don’t require eye contact or emotional vulnerability or processing complicated feelings about complicated men.

“Dylan.”

I freeze with a handful of eggshells hovering over the bin.

“Yes?”

“I’m glad you’re here.”

The words hit me like a physical blow. I’m glad you’re here. Said softly, sincerely, with none of the usual intensity. Just a simple statement of fact.

He’s glad I’m here. In his prison. Against my will. He’s glad.

I should be horrified. I should be angry. I should be plotting his downfall with renewed determination.

Instead, I’m just confused. And tired. And something else, something small and warm that has no business existing in a situation like this.

“I’m going to go lie down,” I say, because I don’t know what else to say. “Rest. Like you suggested. Before.”

Dante nods. “I’ll be in the living room if you need anything.”

I escape to the bedroom and close the door behind me. Then I lean against it and press my hands to my burning cheeks.

What is happening to me? What is this? Why does my chest feel tight and my head feel fuzzy, and why is my heart beating strange rhythms against my ribs?

It’s the situation. The stress. The trauma bonding or Stockholm syndrome, or whatever clinical term describes developing inappropriate feelings for your captor.

Not that I’m developing feelings. I’m definitely not developing feelings. I’m executing a plan. A strategy. A carefully calculated scheme to ensure my survival and eventual escape.

And if Dante happens to be unfairly good looking, well, that’s just biology. That’s just my stupid brain responding to symmetrical features and nice forearms the way it always does. It doesn’t mean anything.

I close my eyes. Images flash. The cookbook on the kitchen counter. The pistachio nuts and rosewater and three different types of butter.

He remembered. He listened and he remembered, and he went to multiple shops to get exactly the right things.

I slide down the door until I’m sitting on the floor, knees pulled up to my chest.