Page 67 of A Betrothal So Bloody

I glance at the door, double-checking that it’s latched. And Dante—his seat like a sentry between the bed and the rest of the world. I find myself… feeling safe. Safe with him. How surreal that my own body betrays me, so familiar with a monster.

“I’m not tired,” I say, voice lowered. “Are you?”

Hesitation creases his brow—trying to read through me, catching the weight in my tone. “No.”

My mouth goes dry as I hold his searching stare, and all I know is that suddenly the five feet of space between us is ruining my life.

Feeling unlike myself, I drop my half-finished plum on the tray along with the wine and climb out of bed. I position by myself against the wall, leaning against the dark wood paneling—a relaxed, accessible posture.

Oh God, if my sisters saw me…

Pulling my half-braided hair to the side, I expose my throat with a playful tilt of my head. I brush my fingers over the half-scarred bite marks at the base of my neck, feeling my own pulse hammering under my fingertips as I offer Dante a smile that is more shy than sheepish.

“You must be hungry, too,” I murmur.

His eyebrows shoot up, momentarily frozen by the shock of my invitation. Only a beat passes before the corners of his eyes begin to crinkle, and a slow, dawning smile takes hold.

“Always,” he says.

He’s out of his chair, prowling toward me. I count his heavy strides—five—before he’s standing over me, brushing his knuckles over the fang marks he’d left before. He hasn’t fed on me since Terralta. He must be ravenous. It’s been days since we've been this close, and already, my body lights up in response.

I note a particular gentleness in his touch tonight as he clasps me—a position to anchor me as he feeds that I’m becoming accustomed to. Maybe he feels sorry for me and is sparing me some unpleasantness of being a human chalice as best he can.

His lips take a slow, agonizing path to their destination. It’s maddening. I stifle a gasp, goosebumps rising on my arms and the back of my neck—all of it involuntary.

“As I said,” Dante’s voice is a low rumble against my collarbone. “Perplexing.”

Raw need floods me. Oh God, the need. Maybe this is a terrible idea. I know he can smell the arousal on me—the way he’s always been able to hear my heart beating. I’m humiliating myself just being near him now.

There’s a pause, a warm exhale on my neck—and then Dante’s fangs pierce my skin. A mewl of pain catches in my throat, my hands gripping the front of his tunic to steady myself. The numbing haze washes over me, and I release a grateful sigh. That strange sensation courses through me as Dante takes and takes, temporarily transforming my anxiety and grief into strangers.

It’s tempting to be washed into an ocean of the drugging sensation, but I force myself to stay grounded. Tonight, I want to be aware of every sensation.

He’s holding me so firmly right now—but so carefully. I know, because I know what he’s capable of. One of Dante’s hands is buried in my hair, holding the dark locks in a fist, while the other is splayed over my upper back. The hard wall of his body is pressed over mine, entangling and all but pinning me to the wall. This body which has become such a familiar sight, the object of my most unspoken desires, and yet utterly still a mystery to me. He’s not letting his full weight rest against me, but fuck—I’m imagining what it might feel like.

Enjoying being bitten. I could hardly imagine a greater sin in the eyes of the Order.

But I won’t lie to myself anymore. I’m not afraid to admit what I want—something just for me—perhaps for the first time in my life. If I were to choose one beautiful sin, it would be him.

Strange, how the thing I once feared is now a welcome question in my mind. Desperate, even.

I shutter my eyes and move my focus to my neck, aware enough to notice how restrained he is, exercising incomprehensible willpower to prise himself off me—all of it, so he won’t hurt me more than he has to.

Dante is panting a little when he surfaces, his chest heaving against mine.

Affection spills through me as the blues of his irises return and our gazes lock, labored breaths mingling. I can’t loathe him as I should. Not anymore.

Fuck.

Our noses are practically brushing, still grasping each other like he might duck his head at any second and feast again. He’s finished, and he should step away—but I don’t want him to.

I want him.

“Can I tell you a secret?” I whisper in the sputtering candlelight. “I’ve been sending letters to the Order to update them, and—”

“You think that’s a secret?” Dante interrupts. Of course he’s noticed my sneaking off. He’d already seen a glimpse of one such coded letter back at the D’Agonisto villa.

I shake my head. My fingers flex against his chest, gingerly gathering handfuls of fabric and releasing it again. My heart races like I’m running toward the edge of a cliff.