Page 12 of A Betrothal So Bloody

That may be the first thing we have in common, I think wryly.

Gabrielle escorts me into a private chamber on the second floor, lavishly furnished. I waver at the threshold as she busies herself with readying the bed. I was under the assumption that brides took up residence in the master bedroom, but I bite my tongue and don’t question it. I would be mad not to accept the gift of privacy.

After Gabrielle assists me in undoing the dress enough for me to escape it, I dismiss her. Having any sort of authority over her feels strange. Nothing in all my training could have prepared me for being the lady of a house.

The instant I am alone, I bolt the door and shed the opulent wedding dress entirely, shoving it into the corner. I unfasten the vials of holy water I had hidden at each hip, as well as a dagger—pure silver—strapped to my thigh. I keep my head down, focused on basic tasks to keep myself occupied. After rooting through the hidden compartments in my trunks, I hide weapons from the Order around the bedroom. I will have something sharp and lethal within reach from any given point in the room. The bed in particular is loaded from all angles.

After donning a nightgown, I throw a dressing gown over it as well. The more layers the better, in this case. Dante may have been off in a hurry, but that doesn’t mean he won’t find me once he has the urge to consummate our marriage.

I don’t want my mind to dive into those waters, but I have no choice. With no opportunity to learn what sort of lover he expects, my sincerest hope is that he will arrive with the intention of draining my blood dry, and his head will soon thud onto the polished floorboards.

Pacing the room like a prisoner, I triple-check my weapons. As time crawls on, I begin to warm to the idea that I really do have this room entirely to myself tonight. Even still, I cannot bear to lay down right away. How can I sleep? I continue taking lap after lap, ready for anything—to be bedded, to have Dante attempt to feed on me now that I belong to him.

I remain fixated on the door for another hour, but he never comes.

Exhaustion burrows its tendrils into me, and I have no choice but to sleep if I wish to be alert enough to protect myself in the coming days. I cannot investigate or fight if I can barely stand.

With a grunt, I shove one of my heavy trunks to bar the door for good measure. As I settle beneath the covers, I check again to ensure that my blades are within easy reach.

Just in case.

five

My dear aunt,

I can’t help but wonder if there has been some mistake. My husband’s behaviors leave me uncertain. He is occupied most days and scarcely makes an appearance in daylight hours.

We have dinner together each night, and when asked, he will say that he is conducting research for business matters. As to the subject of this research, he is wholly secretive. Outside of these meals, we have seen each other at odd moments, but more often than not, I am alone.

He has even missed our dinners the past two nights, offering shallow excuses passed along by the servants. As you know, there are few on the staff, but they are kind and make this estate less like a crypt.

My quiet days here are a stark contrast to the constant company of my loving family.

I stop and strike out the last line furiously, contemplating a fresh sheet of parchment. This is the third letter I will be sending, and the third time I’ve mentioned my loneliness and homesickness. I must sound like a whining child who cannot appreciate the lavish estate she is living within. Some of my fellow slayers have had to stake out targets in squalor for months, and here I am, crying into silk pillows.

I have never been surrounded by such manmade beauty. The abbey may have its breathtaking views, but this is different. The food is decadent. The bed is softer than anything I’ve ever slept upon—though Dante hasn’t joined me in it even once.

What a luxury, to worry about loneliness when the alternative had terrified me. I cling to some routine from the abbey: exercising in the privacy of my room, saying daily prayers every dawn and sunset for protection for myself and my fellow slayers. Though I’ve been tempted some days to borrow the carriage collecting dust by the stables for a trip to view the Duomo up close for myself, I can’t quite justify the frivolity of it. A pleasure trip to the city outweighing diligence for my assignment was little less than treasonous.

Pushing away from the desk, I assess the meager potential evening before me. The hours after dinner had seemed like an ideal time to search the estate, to catch Dante in the act of feeding, but I’ve had no such luck yet. I’ve searched every corridor and chamber available to me; all of them are ordinary and utterly devoid of sinister indications. Even the cellar I had once suspected proves to only imprison an ample store of wine. His absence at dinner still leaves me suspicious, and to my surprise, the sting of insecurity lurks beneath.

What have I done to make him ignore me in every way? Is there something wrong with me? I should be relieved that he hasn’t ravaged me, but… shouldn’t he at least want to?

I’m not some ogre, I think bitterly.

A strange ache pulses through me as I realize that I may likely never find the proof I’m looking for. It’s been weeks.

I had hoped to be known for feats of valor for the Order… but there was bravery in this, too. I could be a useful tool for Corvus—provding information, money, resources that were desperately needed. I could still fulfill glory for the Order and mankind this way. A life worth living.

Numbness crawls through me at the notion.

Years, Mother Superior had said. Years before a contractual marriage will be dissolved.

I suppose I’d best learn quickly to get comfortable.

A knock at the door makes me jump and tip the chair over. I straighten it quickly and eye the bolted lock. What on earth would Gabrielle be doing here at this hour? She usually leaves after supper to be with her family for the night, and she had refreshed the sheets just this morning.

I pull the door open and go perfectly still when I find Dante filling the threshold. He is leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed in a perfectly rakish pose.