Page 19 of A Betrothal So Bloody

I glare. “Hardly.”

But shit, something in my voice must give me away. I’ve killed before, but never alone. Never like this. I was supposed to have had time to signal the Order for backup and take him down in due process. Dante’s eyes light up, latching onto my uncertainty like the leech he is.

“And how certain are you that this little splinter will work, darling? Can you be sure you’ll be quicker than me?”

He says it like it’s flirtation, not a threat; like we're both not a single twitch away from killing the other. Dante’s fingers flex at my throat. His grip isn’t yet painful, but to my dismay, it nearly wraps all the way around my neck. How effortless it would be for him. Just a flick of the wrist, a snap of bones—and I’d be gone.

He leans closer, his warm breath hitting my cheek. “Admit it; you’re curious.”

“Fuck you,” I whisper.

“I know your Order’s mission,” Dante presses. “The grand design of eliminating this sanguine affliction from the earth. I want the same. Help me find the cure. And maybe put these erratic, violent tendencies of yours to better use along the way.”

I frown, remembering how anxious he had looked when coming to me earlier this evening. The way he had checked every window. The paranoia of a hunter terrified of becoming prey?

Fuck. He’s right. A cure for vampirism… It’s a fantasy to most slayers, but if it was real… It would change everything.

“And if this thing you’re searching for is a fairytale?” I ask.

Dante’s eyes glimmer with insidious humor. “Then I’ll guide your hand myself.”

A vampire working against his own kind. It’s utterly insane.

And yet…

My breathing quickens as I lower the stake to my side. Dante reciprocates the truce, releasing my neck. He steps back, each of us watching the other warily, bracing to be immediately double-crossed. I take in the state of the room: the sheets hanging in a mess off the side of the bed, the rug crumpled, my desk chair on its side with legs shattered.

Dante combs a hand through his hair, seeming to sense he’s in a similarly disheveled state.

“I don’t see how this can work,” I croak out. “How am I supposed to trust you? Am I supposed to take you—this unholy thing designed to lead humans astray—at your mere word? For fuck’s sake, I nearly woke up with your fangs in my neck! Your word is worth less than dirt.”

Dante shoves the overturned chair out of the way as he strides for the door. “Follow me. I’ll show you.”

seven

“You don’t have to keep carrying those, you know.”

I scowl at the dagger still clutched in my hand. “I only have the one.”

“Please. You think I didn’t notice the second blade and holy water you slipped into your gown?” He leads the way down one of the many corridors of the villa, cocky enough to have his back facing me. He rubs the nape of his neck and mutters, “I suggest you keep that vial capped if you know what’s good for you. I’m nearly done healing from that little splash of yours earlier. If even a drop touches my face…” He throws a murderous glare over his shoulder.

“Wait—” I stop dead in my tracks for a moment before hurrying to catch up with his long stride. “How were you able to bless yourself with holy water during the ceremony? There’s no way you could have hidden the burn.”

“You doubt my theatrical capabilities?” His voice carries that infuriating little smirk. “If you must know, it wasn’t really blessed.”

“But the priest—”

“A beggar from the street who would have done a lot more for a lot less. I did have to sober him up by dunking him in the water trough out back, though. I wasn’t lying about the short notice.” He stops before a door and pouts mockingly. “I don’t mean to break your heart, but the entire ceremony was a sham.”

“So…we’re not…”

“You aren’t bound to me through body and soul. Sorry to disappoint you.”

I might have fallen to my knees in relief if not for the curiosity that takes hold when he pushes the door open. Recognizing this hall, I realize he’s brought me to his study—one of the few places that have been barred from me in the villa.

As I step inside, I ensure that he remains within my line of sight even while I glance around in wonder. His research is more akin to the work of a madman than a scholar. Maps are piled high and scrawled with ink—some spots scratched out with a frustrated hand. Pages torn from books and journals are splayed across a large desk, parchment upon parchment crowded with Dante’s looping handwriting.

All the while, Dante observes me with a surprisingly sober stare. “I have been looking for a cure for quite some time.”