Page 11 of A Betrothal So Bloody

The world sharpens back into focus when I hear the priest call for the kiss of peace.

My eyes snap up to meet Dante’s, and it takes all my strength to hold my demure smile in place. I’ve never kissed a man. My only experience comes from a few girls in the dormitory—in secret after midnight. There had been giggling and tenderness then, but this… This is not curious or innocent.

As he cups my head and presses his thumb under my jaw, I nearly draw back in alarm before correcting myself. I lean up to meet him—the eager bride our guests need to see. As Dante’s lips crush against mine, the world tilts, and for a moment all I feel is the firm, demanding press of his kiss. Far from a chaste brush of lips, this is sensual—drawing a few murmurs from the ladies sitting in the front pews.

And it’s brief.

Dante pulls away, and I’m left a little breathless, gentle lightning still shooting through me. By contrast, his expression is so passive that it hits me like a blow. Maybe he’s trying to keep himself from wolfing me down if he lingers too long with our mouths together. Vampire or not, it must be like a starving man pressing against the glass of a butcher’s shop.

Wait—do I want him to enjoy it?

The guests are on their feet. Dante offers his arm to me as the organist begins to play Jubilante Deo, filling the small hillside chapel with otherworldly, majestic sound.

“Shall we, mogliettina?” Dante says under his breath.

I wind my arm into his, gritting my teeth at the pet name. Little wife.

Fuck, that’s going to take some getting used to.

What should be a grand feast is a pathetically short reception in the courtyard—one long table piled with delicacies that make my mouth water. I indulge in a few apple tarts in the hour that follows—the sugar calming my nerves, somehow. It’s more than I expect to keep down. Dante scarcely leaves my side, obviously determined for these select nobles to burn the image of the oh-so-happy couple into their minds.

With the full moon beaming down upon us, guests take their leave one by one, until I’m faced with Catarina. She still looks utterly regal in that ochre gown—such a strange dissonance to the dark uniform I’m accustomed to seeing her in. I suppose I barely look like myself right now, either.

Conflict simmers in her gaze as she faces me—a furrow that accentuates the lines on her forehead. I wonder if that was maternal affection there. But Corvus doesn’t sanction sympathy. Orders are orders. And I am not groveling for reprieve on my first solo assignment.

“Your family is so proud of you, Ariya,” she says, still in that emotional voice that was so unlike her. She grasps my hands, squeezing. “I will speak to Mother for you. I know she only wishes she could be here to see you now.”

A presence shifts behind me—Dante is standing at my side again, our hips nearly brushing.

I swallow down the words I can’t say in his presence. “We will have everyone visit soon. We must celebrate properly, all of us together.”

My words ring with a warmth that cuts me inside. It’s strange to discuss this fictional family when I barely remember my own parents. It’s for the best; attachments are a weakness for slayers. Loved ones become easy leverage for our enemies—we doom them by loving them. Yet, I can’t ever deny the ache that comes when I picture my parents offering me to Corvus—one of many young initiates volunteered to Mother Superior.

With every sacrificial lamb, Tuscany gains a vampire slayer. It’s a great honor to offer a daughter and have them accepted into Corvus.

Yet, it burns—had it been easy for them to let me go?

I push the thought away. The hollowness surfaces time and again, proving difficult to suffocate no matter my efforts over the years. It shouldn’t matter—it doesn’t matter.

Catarina embraces me tightly, Dante’s gaze bearing into my back all the while. Little else can be said besides a murmured command—“Write soon”—in my ear.

And then, I’m watching her carriage vanish past the towering iron gates, and I’m alone. I still feel in a hazy, dream-like state as I join Dante and some of the household servants inside the villa through a side corridor. It opens up at the back of the grand staircases that lead to the upper floors—to the bedrooms.

The silence of the home is suffocating, with only the faint bustle of servants dismantling what is left of the feast to break the utter isolation between the two of us.

“So, now… Shall we go to bed?” I ask.

The words are like acid, but I’ve been reciting them. The same way I’ve choreographed the way I’m fingering the gold stitching on Dante’s doublet—blushing and innocent, the way new wives were meant to be. Unfortunately, the quaver in my voice is very real.

Father above, I can only imagine the things he is about to do to me.

Dante’s lips press together as he takes my hands and pulls them off his chest. “Soon. But for now, I have pressing business to attend to. You’ll have to forgive me. Gabrielle will show you to your room.”

He beckons a middle-aged woman with dark hair pulled off her face, placing me in her care. With just a kiss to my hand, Dante turns and ascends the left stairs, vanishing down the corridor.

I’m quiet as Gabrielle leads me to the opposing hallway, chattering about my beautiful dress, how angelic I look, and how I remind her of her own daughter. Shock renders me nearly mute, vaguely aware of the paintings and torches we pass on our way to the bedrooms.

Dante is truly behaving like this marriage is just something he had to get out of the way, an inconvenience to fit into his busy schedule.