Page 27 of A Betrothal So Bloody

This gets a small snort out of me. “No, shockingly.”

ten

“Ifound more dry wood,” I call.

Up the slope, where our makeshift camp waits with a small, crackling fire, there is no response. Of course there isn’t. Because I’m traveling with the world’s most arrogant, self-centered shithead.

We had set up near the creek for the sake of replenishing our water, with the unfortunate side-effect of the waterlogged soil. A misplaced step causes me to sink into soft earth up to my ankle—further caking my satin dress with mud.

Finally breaking onto solid earth again, I glare at Dante, who is reclined by the fire and watching me struggle with a heavy load of wood clutched to my chest.

“Of course, this would be easier,” I bite out, “if I had—I don’t know—the strength of ten men combined.”

“You’re doing fine, darling,” Dante dismisses. “I’m not getting that muck on me. These clothes are nearly ruined as it is.” He wrinkles his nose at the fresh line of mud on my skirt, affronted at the idea of the same fate befalling him.

I dump the load of firewood in a pile beside my saddlebag with a grunt. I have half a mind to berate him further, but he did run ahead to retrieve our horses and did a surprisingly adequate job of calming them down. They’re at ease now, tethered nearby and fed an apple each from our supplies. We’d agreed to pause here for an hour or so to allow the horses—and me—to gather themselves after the excitement.

As I add two pieces of wood to the fire, Dante folds his arms over his chest, leaning back against a boulder. He groans, head tipped back toward the stars in exasperation.

“Not a single bear spotted in Tuscany for ages,” he all but whines, “and of course one would cross our path. The heavens continue to have a truly hateful sense of humor for me.”

I give him a reproachful look across the flames. “You survived. Isn’t that proof that someone is listening to your prayers?”

Dante lifts a brow, dark amusement settling over his features. “Perhaps just one vicious little angel.”

I press my lips together, unsure what to say to that. With the fire fed, I return to cleaning my wounds. I’m lucky to only have a few superficial scrapes on my left calf and inner forearms. With proper care, they will heal quickly.

I’m still wiping dirt from my arms with a damp rag when Dante moves, sitting a little closer to me. He holds out a hand, gesturing impatiently for the supplies.

“Allow me,” he says.

“I can handle a simple bandage,” I snap, narrowing my eyes at him.

Dante snatches the clean linen strips right from my lap. “Your handiwork is abysmal if last time was any indication. Besides, spouses do this sort of thing, no?”

I stifle a groan. “When will you stop making that joke?”

“When you stop reacting to it.”

His boyish smile is contagious, lacking any sadism, and I find myself conceding a small smile in return. “One hundred twenty-nine, and yet you’re still a child.”

Although caution lines my nerves, curiosity surfaces, too. I extend my left arm toward him, holding it steady as he measures the length of the strip to cover my wound. Just like he’d done with my hand those weeks ago when we’d first met under false pretenses, Dante’s skill with binding my arm is unparalleled. He neatly tucks in the trailing end of the bandage into the base of my wrist, leaving me with a tight but flexible wrapping.

As he pulls away, Dante’s thumb brushes along the crisscrossed scars on my palm. I can see the question forming behind his eyes, and I’m not in the mood to explain the evidence of my past failures. That I deserve these scars. I squeeze my hand closed, bringing it to my chest.

“Thanks,” I mutter as he releases me and reclines again.

I flex my fingers under the linen, feeling a strange rush of vulnerability. I’m unaccustomed to being taken care of, even in something so slight. “How are you so good at dressing wounds? You creatures heal so rapidly—surely you have no need of this skill anymore.”

Unless you torture your thralls and repair them so you can repeat it all again. The horrible thought occurs to me the moment the question passes my lips.

“Old expertise from a past life,” Dante replies. For a man seemingly used to luxury, he’s determined to be relaxed—stretching out a leg and propping his arm on the bent knee of the other, his back against stone like it’s a velvet cushion. “My father—my real father—was a lord. The living kind. Some called him The Prince of La Serenissima. A good man, but with such power comes the need to maintain a certain image. When I didn’t help as a good little heir should, he’d have my hands whipped. Unfortunately for the both of us, I was an exceptionally spirited boy.” He flashes me a smirk. “Just an average, pleasant childhood, I’d say.”

Another stab of pity washes through me. I’d heard of far worse parental discipline, particularly from the noble class. And bleeding knuckles and palms… I know this pain all too well from the purifying punishment sister Gemma delivers when we fail training exercises.

No, it’s the reminder that the monster sitting beside me once had an entirely separate life that pulls me to pause. It’s hard to imagine Dante in a life not soaked in blood and death, to be waltzing in the sunlight with servants at his beck and call. Had his smile ever been less wicked? The image is a drastic departure from the disheveled, bloodthirsty heathen sharing a fire with me now.

I shove down the mercy pangs. It doesn’t matter—he’s changed now, and if he can’t find this mythical healer he’s searching for, he’ll have to die.