Page 34 of A Betrothal So Bloody

Dante keeps a poised, pleasant expression—but only just. His eyes tighten at the corners, reading the challenge in my own. He’s amused at my boldness, but it battles with his loathing to lose. Human food tastes like paste to him, but refusing me would surely be marked as peculiar. And with a hunting militia scouring for creatures of the night? Risky. He’s lost the game before he can even speak.

He ends our stalemate, leaning down to let me feed him. His breath is hot against my fingers, lips grazing my skin for just a moment. It’s intimate, the sensation sending a little shock through me—but it pales compared to my vicious pleasure at watching Dante pretend to enjoy it as he chews.

“Doesn’t it just melt in your mouth?” I gush, exchanging a look with the vendor, who is watching us with eager anticipation.

“Yeah, it’s amazing,” Dante intones, his smile stiff. He looks like he's scanning the ground for a corner he can spit it back out without being caught.

I can see now how adamantly he’d been muscling down his revulsion during that first betrothal arrangement dinner at the D’Agonisto villa. He moves to steer me inside, but I’m quicker. I rip another piece, grabbing his arm.

“Just one more bite, love.” I pout. “You haven’t eaten all day!”

The villagers near us—an older couple dressed in their most lavish clothes and a few others in line for pan dolce—chuckle as they observe our exchange. Who doesn't enjoy reveling in the affection of young lovers, after all? Dante is utterly aware of them, his irritation spiking the air between us. I wonder if anyone else can feel it. I gaze up at him, victorious.

He puts on an affectionate mask, leaning down once again with a forced chuckle.

Just short of his waiting lips, I pause with my hand extended.

"Swallow," I whisper. That cruel animal in me purrs at the look that comes over him.

“I’m going to kill you,” Dante says through his smile as I place an even bigger piece of sweet roll in his mouth. He gives my finger a nip as I withdraw this time—a playful, albeit very real warning.

The next time his arm winds around my waist, he’s unshakable as steel. I continue eating as he ushers me toward the inn, reveling in the pleasure of putting him through a little well-deserved hell with every step.

And the taste… It’s almost a pity Dante can’t experience it the same way. The honeyed bread evokes that memory again—kneading dough, my small hands floured like my mother’s. I’m certain she had once made hers this way, with the dough braided together. I tell myself it’s a simple indulgence, and not breaking any rules on attachments. It certainly wouldn’t be the worst rule I’ve bent thus far, I think, with fang marks still throbbing under my carefully-poised braid.

We’re halfway to the door when shouting rises over the music and laughter. The passersby ripple as something tears through the walkway. A young girl, no more than ten or so, darts right past us, so close that her tattered dress brushes against mine. She glances back at us, her breathing quick and sharp. It’s her eyes that strike me speechless: the irises are a pale blue, nearly blanched like ice itself. In the flickering torchlight, they almost seem to glow. She ducks behind a wine barrel and curls up small in its shadow, breathing heavily.

Not human, a voice hisses in the back of my mind. I tense.

And she’s being hunted—those armed villagers from before are zagging through the crowd. I count at least five wielding axes and spears, clearly scouring for someone or something.

Dante takes a small step closer, not quite looking at the girl. In fact, his position nearly conceals her from the gathered customers nearby.

“You again! Travellers,” one of the hunters staggers to a halt before us, with a companion close behind. His brow is gleaming with sweat, curly dark hair plastered across his forehead under a wool beret. The other hunters spread through the square, splitting off to cover a wider radius. “We’re looking for a creature. She’s only just passed this way, moments ago.”

“You’ll have to be more specific,” Dante drawls.

“A girl,” the other hunter adds, urgent. “She’s crossed the town walls, and we believe she walks among us, a master of disguise. Have you seen her? She’s more dangerous than she looks. That devil-woman has taken two of our men this month alone.”

“I’m sorry,” Dante replies. “I’ve only seen a pair of unfortunate cretins with faces that… Well, I’m sure your personalities are lovely.”

The men scowl murderously, knuckles whitening on their axes. I’m bracing myself for a fight, and this time I won’t save him if these men decide to beat him publicly and expose his nature.

But before I can speak, Dante takes a quick step closer to them, the air suddenly prickling with invisible tendrils of energy. I find myself unable to look away as he leans in close to them.

“Search the pig troughs at the mill,” Dante whispers. There’s almost a vibration to the soft words, rising hairs on my arms. “Don’t be afraid to dig deep—use your hands.”

Dante’s eyes have paled—not quite milky white, but a signal that he is pulling on his power all the same. My stomach churns knowing that it’s my blood that has given him the stamina for this feat—doubly so, as I recall the drugging pull of his command firsthand.

This hypnotism isn’t weak, like that night in the bedroom. Though it’d taken a pointed effort, I’d been able to fight my way back to clarity—but these hunters are swallowed up entirely by Dante’s silken words. The two men become passive, as though his command had been the tender words of a lifelong friend.

“Yes, very good,” the curly-haired one intones.

“Yes, what?” The corner of Dante’s mouth lifts, a sadistic twitch.

“Yes, sir.”

Dante pats his cheek. “Attaboy. Now, go on.”