Page 22 of A Betrothal So Bloody

“You’re joking.”

“Do I need to put you over my knee and convince you?”

I raise the ax halfway. “Absolutely not.”

“Pity.”

I frown at the D’Agonisto family coat of arms branded near the head of the ax. All at once, I remember all the other personal touches I’ve seen throughout the villa. Tapestries, coats of armor, wrought iron doors—all with the same crest. And I realize, if he’s recently on the run, none of this can belong to him.

“What happened to the real Signore D’Agonisto?” I demand, stomach twisting with dread.

“Oh, I killed him.”

I gape at his matter-of-fact expression, waiting for him to chuckle and say that he’s only joking—and then surely he will scold me for assuming he would be so callous just because he’s a vampire. But he does nothing of the sort.

“Don’t look at me like that. I mean—I had to. This was an ideal location. Isolated, comfortable… No one of note had seen the old codger in years, so with a bit of glamour, I could step right into his guise with no one the wiser.”

“You said you’ve only been killing animals!”

“And quite the animal he was. The man was an absolute asshole who won’t be missed, trust me. Your sweet Gabrielle had bruises from his manner of correcting those beneath him. I didn’t punish his staff for getting in the way—you should be quite proud of me for that. The boost from his blood gave me the energy to dismiss his servants without arousing their suspicions. I paid off the remaining few so handsomely that they don’t bother to ask questions. They’ll miss me more than they ever did that old fuck.”

Disgust roils through me nonetheless. Monsters should have no say in who lives or dies. But the thought of Gabrielle being bruised does soften the fire in my belly—if he can be believed.

“Who are you really, then?” I demand.

He smiles. “Dante—as I’ve told you time and time again. The surname was the only other thing I stole from the wretch. Now, I’m sure your thrilling questions have far from dried up, but we have a week’s journey ahead of us, and we’re losing moonlight.”

“Can’t you just shadow-step us there?”

He gives me a double take. “I beg your pardon? I may look divine, but I’m not a god.”

I shoot him a flat, knowing look. “Don’t play me for an idiot.”

Dante stares me down for a few beats, expression utterly masked. With a sharp exhale through his nose, something relents, and he pinches between his eyes. “Seven hells… How do you even know about shadow-stepping?”

“Corvus has documented vampires who can vanish into mist and reappear at will for generations. They have no reason to tell fanciful tales.” I smirk at him. “And I’m an eager student.” Noticing the guarded tension now bundled in his shoulders, I cock my head at him, lips pursed in a mock pout. “Are you simply not as powerful as you’d like me to believe?”

His jaw tightens into a rigid square. “As it happens, I’m only one hundred twenty-nine years old, and it takes centuries to learn such feats,” he spits. I try in vain to hide my delight in hitting a sore spot. “So, horseback it shall be, unless that offends your delicate sensibilities, my lady?”

“I’m hardly the delicate one between us, seeing as you felt the need to take up residence in a villa while running for your life.”

He scoffs and stalks out of the room, knocking my shoulder with his as he passes. “You have twenty minutes.”

eight

“You know, I do think this makes a very memorable honeymoon, don’t you?” Dante says brightly, taking the lead on the path with his mare.

The skeleton crew of remaining servants have done an excellent job of keeping the stables lavishly cared-for, but I can tell by the hurried trot of my horse that she’s been itching for some exercise.

The midnight air is crisp, carrying the sharp scent of the cypress trees that line the packed dirt road. The grand dome of the Duomo is at our backs, slowly vanishing under the horizon. Ahead, misty vineyards pepper the long stretch of road between us and the next city. It’s quiet, a stillness only shattered by the steady beat of horseshoes against the earth, the slight rattle of our saddle packs, the whistle of a breeze through the trees.

I don’t grace Dante with a response, keeping my eyes fixed forward. Having memorized the line drawn upon the map, I refuse to let him lead us off course—either for nefarious purposes or sheer stupidity.

“Not a big talker, are you?” he goads.

“I kill your kind, and you kill mine. You’re twisted if you think I’m going to have a laugh with you on this journey.”

“You can kill people and have a sense of humor, you know. I do it all the time.”