Page 5 of A Betrothal So Bloody

Even a few feet away, I catch a hint of something heavy and peppery in the air. His cologne. It’s nothing like the lavender and jasmine perfume oils I’m used to, and it sends an immediate, unwelcome shock to my pulse—this visceral urge to get closer to him.

How utterly annoying that my own body betrays me like this.

I’m startled back into the moment by a trill of laughter, impressed by how Catarina is able to snap out of her normally meek personality into this character. I steel myself to do the same as she turns to me, gesturing.

“My niece, Ariya,” Catarina says. “Isn’t she more beautiful than I described?”

“A vast understatement,” he agrees, and again I’m struck by the masculine resonance of his voice. Something involuntarily flutters in my stomach.

I am unprepared when D’Agonisto turns his full attention on me. Every step closer charges the air until he stops just a breath away. He’s tall, and he has to bend to take my hand, brushing a kiss to my knuckles. He lingers just a moment longer than needed—or perhaps time stretches when we touch—and his eyes flick up to catch mine.

He has the most beautiful, mesmerizing eyes I’ve ever seen: a dark stormy sapphire that appears almost royal purple in the dark due to… were those flecks of ruby?

Fuck. Focus, Ariya.

That little smirk on his face widens as though he can read exactly what is no doubt all over my face.

“Whoever’s been hiding you away should be charged with a terrible crime,” he says, straightening.

I gather myself enough to smile back, my hand still tingling from the brush of his lips.

If you’re not who you claim to be, your head will become a trophy in the abbey.

Signore D’Agonisto—call me Dante, he insists—is seated at the head of the table, naturally. Catarina and I sit across from each other on either side of him. The dining room and its trappings are remarkably grand, considering he is not known to open his doors to company. But for someone who has become notoriously socially distant, he carries himself with the eloquence of someone who is delighted to host visitors often.

“I simply can’t see what is so fascinating about me that beckons such outrageous rumors,” he laments after the first course has been set before us. “I mean, really. Is it so outlandish that I’ve grown weary of socialite politics? A man has no obligation to put his life on full display.”

“Quite right,” Catarina sighs. “Rest assured, Ariya and I are aware of the honor you have bestowed upon us, opening your lovely home.”

“The pleasure is mine, believe me.” D’Agonisto’s eyes move between us both before settling on me with interest. “Though I’ll admit, I’m curious about your aunt chaperoning us. Last I understood, it’s customary for the father to attend—make sure I don’t swindle you out of your family’s good name, and all that.”

I smile half-heartedly at the attempt at humor.

“My father is of poor health at present,” I chime in. “Unfit to travel. But I know he’ll be most eager to make your acquaintance once he recovers. My aunt is more than capable of speaking in his stead.”

His lips tug upward at the corner, as though amused. With a slight incline of his head he concedes, and I can’t help but feel I passed some unspoken test.

I have offered no more than a word or two up until now, observing our host’s behavior with the food set in front of him. He pops a few grapes in his mouth at one point, and on another glance, I see him chew on a bite of meat. He doesn’t have the appetite one would expect at such a succulently prepared dinner, but that in itself isn’t proof enough.

Human food offers no sustenance or pleasure to vampires—blood of living creatures is all that sustains them. Our food doesn’t harm them, but it’s unpleasant at best. All accounts attest that even the most richly prepared roasted pheasant tastes no better than dirt or paste to the creatures we hunt.

Hardly touching my own meal, I watch his face carefully as he takes a sip of wine. I try to discern a shiver of disgust at the taste of his drink, but his expression remains infuriatingly neutral. Perhaps he has practiced to keep further suspicions at bay.

Damn him.

D’Agonisto’s eyes flit to mine once more, and I stiffen as his eyebrows pull into a perplexed frown. My intense stare must appear positively deranged. My cheeks flush as I attempt to soften my expression into something more becoming. I pray that he mistakes my attention for infatuation.

“Don’t be shy,” he calls over, letting his voice dip into a drawl. Teasing me. “What’s on your mind? Say it.”

I press my lips into a thoughtful line. “Please forgive me—I don’t wish to be like others who have encroached upon your privacy. What caused you to withdraw from the public eye? I hope I’m not overstepping, but I see…pain.”

His face is unreadable for an unsettling stretch of time before he finally blinks. “People I held very dear once turned against me in a bid for power. I found myself quite alone and have lost my taste for running in such circles.”

“How terrible,” I say, blinking hard as though to fight tears. “It must be devastating to be left with no one to trust—and to have such awful rumors pile upon this hardship. You have my deepest sympathy, Signore D’Agonisto.”

“Dante, my dear.” Sighing, he regards me with a bored, appraising look. “I’ve known the solution for some time now. Perhaps the time has come to squash the gossip so I may live my life in peace without every lift of my finger being analyzed.”

He fixes me with an ardent stare perhaps even more intense than mine. Is that a hint of accusation in his gaze?