Dante doesn't smile. "Luca, I don't pay you to tell me when I'm being insane. I pay you to make sure my insanity works."
"Fair enough."
My hands grip the banister so tight my knuckles go white.
I think he's going to marry someone.
A sharp, ugly feeling twists my insides.
Jealousy.
Which is ridiculous. I have no claim on him. He pulled me out of hell, gave me a bed, held me while I cried—but none of that gives me the right to feel anything about his life or who he marries.
Except I do.
God, I do.
I imagine him holding someone else the way he held me last night. Kissing someone else's forehead. Whispering promises to someone else in the dark.
My throat tightens.
Then another thought slithers in, unbidden and shameful.
What would it be like to have sex with him?
Heat floods my face, my neck, between my thighs.
I've never been with a man. Never been kissed on the lips. Never felt the things I felt when his hands were in my hair, when his lips pressed against my skin.
But if it's him...
If it's Dante...
I think I want it.
I think I want him.
The realization plows into me so hard I have to bite my lip to keep from moaning aloud.
“That’s all for this morning,” Dante says.
I scramble back from the door frame, heart pounding, looking for somewhere to hide. There's an enormous potted tree to my left—I duck behind it just as the men file out.
I press my back against the wall, holding my breath, as the men pass.
Then silence.
I wait. Count to ten.
Still quiet.
Relief floods me, and I peek around the tree.
Dante is standing in the hall, back to me, hands in his pockets.
Without turning around, he says, "Come have breakfast with me, Polina."
I freeze.
