Page 43 of A Betrothal So Bloody

Yes, he had played the sickeningly doting husband downstairs, but that second kiss had been entirely my doing.

It had felt…good. Scorchingly good.

Of its own accord, my hand slides down my side, recalling the sensation of his calloused hand upon my arm last night—when he’d so forcefully tended to my wounds. As it crosses my mind, I unwind the bandages, letting the linen unravel to the floor so I can inspect the scratches. Brushing a hand over my forearm, there’s no pain. The scattered slashes are nearly healed over—only a few faint lines of scabs across my olive skin.

Against all odds, Dante had done a fine job.

I swallow hard, trying to suppress the feeling of…something. A stirring—familiar, yet not. When I touched myself in the dead of night in the dormitory, shame always curled its tendrils around the sweet pleasure. But the space between me and the abbey has made the perpetual pang of contrition grow distant.

I reach between my legs, fingers brushing against the sensitive skin of my inner thigh—

Stop.

I blink hard and get a hold of myself, blaming these blasphemous thoughts on the come-down of such a harrowing night. That, or I’m truly losing my mind.

I throw the gown over my head and step out.

“You took your time.” To my relief, he’s not stark naked, wearing a fresh white shirt and dark trousers.

But Dante’s expression changes when he looks at me. This gown is a far cry from the simple cotton shifts worn at the abbey, and much thinner than the gown and cloak I’d been travelling in. It carries a flattering cut at my chest, complementing the modest blessing in that area. Ivy swirls in green stitching along the bodice seams, with small bows of the same color fixed at each wrist. Ivory fabric flows down to my ankles, making me think about our twirl on the dance floor.

He continues to stare unabashedly. “You look…”

“Like a doll?” I finish flatly.

His toothy grin flickers as though he doesn’t quite agree, but he’s keeping his real assessment to himself. “Do you like it?” he asks.

I am taken aback by the sincerity of the question. “It’s soft as butter,” I admit. “I’ve never had so many styles at my disposal. It’s strange. Frivolous.”

He snorts, but I see something almost soften his eyes like he’s pitying me. “You slayers aren’t really known for your keen sense of fashion. Once you’ve felt silk, everything else snags like hay.”

“You seem to have no shortage of assumptions about the Order.”

“What can I say? I’m a lush for gossip.”

Now that it’s on my mind, I wonder at the origins of the gown—and the rest of my wardrobe packed away. Am I wearing pieces that belonged to the real D’Agonisto’s lovers? No, that can’t be right. This nightgown, along with all the exquisite gowns provided for me at the villa, don’t dwarf me. They’ve been perfectly tailored already.

Even if the marriage was a sham, an odd feeling creeps in. The ring he’d gifted me, the clothes he’d bought for me… As though I do belong to him in more subtle ways than an official ceremony.

“Where did these come from, exactly?” I ask, pinching the skirt of my nightgown.

“I didn’t steal them, if that’s what you’re implying. The tailors were paid handsomely.” He shrugs. “I protect my investments. Couldn’t have you waltzing about in rags.”

I cross the room toward the four-poster bed, the floor cold against my bare feet. I pluck up my dagger and move it to the table nudged beneath the window. “And the money?”

“I wouldn’t worry. It’s a trifle that won’t be missed.”

I frown as I consider the exuberant amount of wealth it takes to maintain a villa, even at half-pace. Given Thomas’ fine clothing as well, it can’t all be stolen from D’Agonisto. Whatever Alessandro is doing, he does it very well.

That man. My throat closes as Dante’s words come back to me—lashed until the scourge hit bone. It conjures images I can’t shake; his handsome face twisted with cold-sweat agony, crying out as the lash came down again and again.

Vampires don’t deserve compassion—but I feel sick as I wonder if he’d begged his tormentors to stop. It seems almost impossible when contrasted to the arrogant man standing before me now.

The prickle of Dante’s stare bores into my back, and I turn to face him. He’s leaning against the wall with his arms folded over his chest, quietly studying me with an intensity I can’t quite read.

“I’ll admit I can’t stop thinking about the taste of you. It was my first in months. I am very appreciative, just so you know.” He tilts his head at me, something wicked surfacing in his gaze. “You’ve been thinking about it too, haven’t you? Did that filthy mind of yours enjoy it?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”