Page 47 of A Betrothal So Bloody

My mind drifts back to his erection earlier, the firm length of him ghosting against my belly with only a flimsy layer of fabric between us. I know it was involuntary. It didn’t have to mean anything.

Did it?

For fuck’s sake, stop thinking about his dick.

I squeeze my eyes shut again and slow my breathing in a carefully measured rhythm. It’s tedious, but after a few minutes, my senses cloud with drowsiness. Soft, indistinct visions pacify my racing thoughts—childhood memories that had not quite been buried in my decade of unattachment discipline. Sparkling snow dusting a vast field, cold on my fingertips like melting diamonds, honey-drizzled buns, hooves on a cobblestone path shadowed by sweet-smelling chestnut trees.

Oh, how I had treasured that rare snowfall—however young I had been.

A distressed noise cuts through the room, yanking me back into my body. I sit upright, flipping my silver blade into my hand as I scan the shadows. The door is still barred by the wardrobe, and the windows intact.

The noise comes again—from the left corner of the room, where Dante is slumped in the chair. He appears to be sleeping still, yet muttering clipped phrases, his chest heaving with short, violent gasps. Each breath is an ugly, desperate sound in the otherwise empty room.

Something caves in my chest a little. He’s having a nightmare.

A callous thought is my first instinct—serves him right, let him wallow in whatever dark place his mind has decided to punish him in, let him be afraid.

But as his fretful noises carry on, I can think only of fear that has flickered onto his face more than once, accompanied by the mentions of Alessandro’s cruelty. Where is Dante right now—being lashed, or worse? Is it a vision of the past, or the fear of what will happen if he’s dragged back to Venice?

Another moment passes before I accept that I cannot go back to sleep with him fussing like this. And no one else is here to chide my flicker of compassion—weakness wrapped in pretty silks, as Mother Superior likened it.

I climb out of bed, the floorboards cool as I gingerly approach. Perhaps it would be better to call him from across the room, but despite everything, I cannot help but prefer to wake him gently.

He’s shuddering in his seat. As I kneel beside him, I squint. Are his eyelashes wet?

With a light hand, I shake his shoulder to rouse him. I’ve barely touched him before he awakens when a violent start, fangs bared as he launches his arm out, his hand covering my throat. I seize with a choked noise.

So much for gentle.

As our gazes catch, one of his trapped tears spills from his wide eyes. Breathing heavily, he releases me and rubs his face like he’s coming to again.

“Are…you alright?” I ask, one hand over my throat in faltering, belated protection.

“You stupid girl,” he hisses. “I could have snapped your neck.”

“If that’s your way of apologizing, I humbly accept,” I say, tone flattening.

“Apologize? Who said anything about an apology? You shouldn’t have tried to wake me. For a trained assassin, you have terrible instincts.”

“You were suffering!”

“What, your Order didn’t teach you to be soothed by vampiric distress?”

I clench my jaw, unrelenting as I study his face—still glistening with a faint sheen of perspiration. “You sounded like you were in pain. I won’t apologize for being worried.”

Dante frowns, eyes smoldering like he’s unsure if he can trust my display of compassion. “How…sweet.”

Whatever this is, he’s still recovering, and I’ve yet to see this manner of vulnerability from him before.

“Was it a nightmare?” I ask. His arm still shakes slightly, and I reach out to brush his sleeve.

“Don’t touch me.” Tone clipped, he jerks away from me. “I can’t—” He cuts off in a sharp huff and looks hard at me. I search for hatred and disgust in his gaze, and perhaps that’s what he wants me to see, too. But there’s something else he’s desperately trying to chain. Something I don’t understand.

A beat passes, and Dante finally breaks eye contact to scrub a hand over his face again. He hesitates before admitting, “Less dream than memory,” he mutters. “I could blame it on the charming family reunion in the hall, but it’s always the same. The night I was turned was unpleasant, to say the least. I had to watch my family perish the same day.” He swallows hard and stares at the floor. “A horrible disease. We’d all been stricken for weeks.”

“I’m sorry. That’s awful.” Another piece of the puzzle. He must have accepted the gift of immortality from Alessandro so he wouldn’t die of plague with his family.

He pushes both hands through his hair, and my stare catches on the way his arms pull tightly at his shirt. I glance away sharply, hating myself thoroughly.