Page 38 of A Betrothal So Bloody

I shove the rose Dante had given me into my cloak pocket. I’m not insane, I’m simply placating him. And five minutes can bring little harm, I suppose.

The Calendimaggio music has shifted, violins playing a sparkling, glassy melody. It’s warm and inviting, but I’m mortified. Dante strides into the midst of the others dancing with feline grace, pulling me along with him. He must clock my look of horror as he guides me into position, because the corner of his mouth lifts back into a smirk.

“I’m not convinced you’re not just doing this to torment me,” I say, my voice threadier than the growl I intend.

His teeth flash. “A happy overlap.”

As we take the first steps, Dante inhales deeply, scanning the people around us and loosing a long, measured sigh.

I arch a brow at him. “It must be like walking into a room full of free wine.”

He chuckles, eyes bright. “It is, actually.”

“You don’t seem to be very ashamed of being a vampire for someone so desperate to reverse the condition.” I lower my voice, glancing at the revelers in stride beside us.

“I can’t be cured if I starve to death,” Dante counters smoothly. “When I’m human, I’ll start fresh. The picture of innocence—cross my heart.”

“Hm.”

A few people turn their heads when we glide past, the way almost everyone does when they first see him—like they’re all wondering what it would be like to be loved by him, to be him. Does he even notice it anymore?

He certainly takes advantage of it when it suits him; my attention drifts to the rose in my pocket.

“I forbid you from hunting the flower seller,” I say just loud enough for him to hear.

His jaw drops. “You forbid me from doing something I wasn’t planning to do?” A snort follows. “While I’d love nothing more than to see you try to stop me, I’m merely supporting a small business in much need of patronage. The man is an artist with a trowel, and I would never deprive the world of him. Is that so hard to believe?”

“I saw you. Everyone with eyes saw, even if they didn’t understand it. You were doing that…that thing.”

Dante cocks his head with infuriatingly intrigued amusement. “The thing? Enlighten me.”

“Charming him! Why hunt like a woodland beast when you can have them waltz right into your bed, hm? I’m not an idiot.”

“Even you can’t begrudge me a little window shopping. Just because you pass on the holiday roast in the butcher’s window doesn’t mean you can’t appreciate its form.”

Still trying to match his quick, gliding steps, I remove my hand from his shoulder to put my finger an inch from his face. “If you harm an innocent person—even just to feed—our deal is off. I will kill you like the creature you are.” My lips thin, and I can hardly believe my own words as they spill out. “I would have you feed on me again before I’d allow anyone else to be drawn into your web.”

His mouth opens in pleasant surprise. I hate the sudden ravenous glint in his eyes—especially how it makes my breath catch, the way he looks like he might bite into me like an apple.

“Who knew you were so generous,” he purrs, eyeing my neck like he might test my resolve right then and there.

“Did you miss the part about me killing you?”

But Dante just grins, grabbing my hand and lifting it over my head to twirl me in a quick, elegant movement.

The other villagers in their colorful garb strike into step with the music. I don’t even know the name of this dance—I’ve only watched at a distance, the way you watch a play being performed.

I feel like the clumsiest person in the entire country as I glance around, awkwardly trying to mirror Dante the way the other women do toward their partners, placing our palms against each other’s. I’m always half a beat behind where I should be. Twice, I misstep while I’m looking away and step on his toes.

“Ow,” he says under his breath. “I see I’ve finally found something that terrifies you. Dancing.”

“I’m interested in more useful pursuits than drunkards spinning about,” I sneer—though I do my best to temper my disdain in light of the revelers directly near us.

I catch Dante roll his eyes like he’s praying for patience before ducking to grasp my waist, lifting me in an arc to his other side in sync with the others. My stomach somersaults as weightlessness washes over me. The dance floor is briefly a dazzling flash of colorful skirts flaring like the wings of exotic birds.

Back on my feet, the battling violins lean into a more lively tempo, and I sense the dance shifting. I follow the lead of the others, allowing Dante to hold me closer, clasping one of my hands while the other steers me by my waist. I’m almost grateful when I feel him taking the lead, guiding me where to go.

“The footwork isn’t dissimilar to scrimia,” Dante says above my ear. “Do you know what that—”