“Don’t eat me,” Jordan said, though he kind of wouldn’t mind having something to chew on, too. Something—anything—to fill up his mouth and make him forget about putting food into it. He wondered if it would be too weird to suck on Damiano’s fingers.
Damiano gave a soft snort into his neck. “I usually hear the opposite.”
Jordan laughed. “I bet you do. But seriously, I hope the biting doesn’t mean you’re discovering your dormant cannibalistic tendencies.”
“All humans are capable of cannibalism in extreme circumstances,” Damiano said, moving his mouth lower and biting the juncture between his neck and shoulder. “Luckily for you, I’m not that desperate yet.”
“What happens when you get that desperate?”
“You’ll have to wait and find out,” Damiano said.
Jordan smiled.
Nonsensical conversations like that had one big downside: they eroded the boundaries between them even more and made Jordan feel like he could tell Damiano even the most nonsensical things—and humanized Damiano. It made him feel like Damiano wouldn’t lie to him. He could no longer see him as the psychopath people said he was. It seemed like nonsense.
“Do you really not love anyone?” Jordan asked on the sixth or seventh day of their captivity—it was hard to tell for sure how much time had passed when one day bled into the next and Damiano was the only thing in his world.
“I don’t,” Damiano said, his breath brushing against Jordan’s cheek. His answer sounded half-assed, as if it wasn’t the topic he was interested in and he wanted to move on to something else.
“That seems… lonely.”
Damiano didn’t say anything.
“Don’t you believe in love?” Jordan said. He wasn’t sure why he was pushing. He told himself he was just bored and conversation was the only way to pass the time, but the truth was, he burned to know more about this man, understand what had shaped him and made him tick.
Damiano was silent for so long Jordan thought he was ignoring him or had fallen asleep.
That was why he was so startled when Damiano actually answered him. “I do believe in love,” he said, his tone flat. “That it exists. And happens to other people.”
Jordan winced. He had no idea what to say.
“Did you ever meet Raffaele’s father?” Damiano said.
“No,” Jordan replied honestly. He knew Nate hadn’t met him, either. “Raffaele told me he wasn’t a faithful husband. Is that why you are so cynical about love?”
Damiano chuckled. “No. Marco wasn’t faithful to Raffaele’s mother because he didn’t give a damn about her. He was madly in love with my mother. He loved her so much that he kept me around, the filthy bastardo and product of her rape, because I was still her son, even if she hated me enough to kill herself. I was what was left of her, so he tolerated having me around, despite me being the living reminder of what happened to her.”
Oh.
Jordan’s gut clenched in sympathy. How would it feel to grow up in such an unloving environment, knowing that he was the reason for his mother’s suicide and being hated by the man raising you?
He stroked Damiano’s hair gently. “Is that why you keep people at a distance? You don’t want what happened to your mother and Marco to happen to you and your loved ones?”
Damiano didn’t answer.
But Jordan didn’t need him to. He knew this man well enough by now to know that his silence was pretty much a confirmation. And it broke his heart a little.
“Do you still have no idea who kidnapped us?” Jordan asked, changing the subject. He didn’t like how compassionate he was feeling toward this man. Jordan wasn’t sure how objective his observations were when his rational thinking was so compromised. It was possible that he was just projecting.
“I have some idea,” Damiano said into his ear.
Shivering, Jordan turned his head and pressed their cheeks together, not even minding the way Damiano’s scruff prickled his face. He’d never had much facial hair himself, shaving just once a week. “Yeah? Who?”
Damiano took a moment to reply. “We should find out soon enough,” he said. “They gave up on torturing me for a reason.”
Jordan frowned. “You were—are—still too injured to keep torturing.”
A soft snort. “I doubt they care about it. If they stopped, that means they’re changing their tactics soon. Maybe they are waiting for me to recover enough to try new and more inventive methods of torture—or they were simply told to wait until their boss arrives, who will make the decision once he’s here. The second option is more likely. Whether they’ll torture me some more or kill me, their boss would want to be here personally for that. He wouldn’t want to miss the opportunity to at least gloat before he gives up on getting my money and kills me.”
Jordan pressed his lips together, his stomach churning heavily. He wasn’t sure what disturbed him more: what Damiano was saying or the dry, careless tone of voice he used. “Aren’t you scared at all?” he said, threading his fingers through Damiano’s hair.