Page 66 of A Betrothal So Bloody

And yet… Who am I without the Order? What else am I meant to do with my life—discard my role in disgrace and become a common housemaid? I know no other life. No connections. As far as most of the country knows, I don’t really exist at all.

I snap up a blank piece of parchment and plunge my quill into the inkpot, starting another letter with furious strokes:

Dear Mother Superior, go fuck yourself in a ditch, you hateful, murderous cow—

I growl, crumpling this letter too and chucking it as far across the room as I can.

Footsteps pad toward our room. I have only a few moments to hastily wipe my puffy eyes before the door scrapes open and Dante saunters inside, laden with refreshments.

“Look what I got the contessa in the neighboring room to give us,” he declares, looking utterly pleased with himself.

He sets a bottle of wine down on the side table and tosses me a plum from the bowl in his other hand. I catch it deftly as it sails near my head. At least grief isn’t tainting my reflexes. I turn it over in my hand before sinking my teeth into it. Tart juice flows over my tongue, perfectly ripe. Dante sets the rest of the bowl by the wine—brimming with grapes, a loaf of herbed bread, and a generous portion of gorgonzola.

“Did she really offer this all to you, or did you just steal it?” I ask around my next bite.

“You know how people love to give me things. She was practically throwing herself at me with the deed to her estate.” He pulls off his doublet, draping it over the back of the chair. “Alright, the wine I stole, but that was just for fun.”

He flashes me a shit-eating grin. I laugh softly, nibbling on a few grapes though I have little appetite.

“You can’t even enjoy these,” I point out. “Are you trying to flavor me to your liking?”

The playful gleam in Dante’s eyes darkens into a smoldering intrigue that makes my pulse quicken. “Now isn’t that a fascinating concept.”

Dante takes a seat at the table, arm’s reach from the bedside. The simple movement of pulling out the chair briefly stretches the white fabric of his tunic taut across his shoulders—giving a fleeting glimpse of the defined muscles beneath, shifting with easy power. It dawns on me on how there’s a shade of vulnerability here, with his doublet off and the ties of his tunic loosened. Dante is unraveled just enough, in a way that few others probably witness.

No one else in the inn can see him like this. Only me.

“Go on, eat something. You’ve barely touched a thing all night,” Dante says, giving an impatient wave toward the food.

I scoot to the edge of the bed, uncorking the wine and wondering when on earth I’d become pleased to see him and not revolted by his very existence.

I raise the bottle to him in a half-hearted toast before bringing it to my lips, forgoing the goblets on the tray altogether. Alcohol may be forbidden to slayers, but tonight is mine. I am too weary to obey. The Order’s commands can wait until tomorrow. They will never know.

And tonight… Somehow, the rules seem so less consequential.

The first sip of red wine is painful—dry and acidic. I swish it over my tongue, swallow, and take another gulp. The next taste is more palletable, and I’m slowly able to appreciate notes of berries and smoke.

Dante’s gaze is burrowing into me when I lower the bottle, as though he’s hypnotized by the unsubtle display of my throat tipped back. A disturbing, yet oddly flattering notion.

“If I drink enough of this, will you feel its effects, too, when you feed on me?” I ask, swirling the bottle’s content thoughtfully.

Dante gives a coarse laugh. “It’s the only way I can now. Do you think it’s a coincidence that my kin hunt for quarries at alehouses and brothels so often?”

We share a little snort of laughter at this, and I take another sip.

“I thought you didn’t drink,” Dante comments.

“I don’t. But it’s growing on me.”

A brow quirks, and he wrestles back a smile. “Careful, darling—you might start enjoying yourself, and I’m fairly certain that would kill you.”

“No chance of that,” I say, waving my hand dismissively, “with you sitting there, watching my every move like a crow.”

“Well, I’m not exactly spoilt for entertainment. And you’re such a delightfully perplexing little thing.”

I shift my gaze away then, unsure how to respond. My grip tightens on the neck of the bottle.

“You should get some rest,” Dante announces, leaning back in the chair. “I’ll sleep here, before you get all pink-cheeked and pointing daggers at me. Next nightfall should bring us to the grove. We’re not far.” He pauses, as though his own words reverberate through him. After decades of searching, he is this close.