Page 76 of A Betrothal So Bloody

Dante strides ahead, briefly vanishing from sight as he holds a low-hanging branch out of my path. He does not, however, warn me about the steep pitch hiding behind a rolling tree root. My boot catches on nothing but air on my next step, and I promptly stumble off a sharp drop with an undignified shriek.

With a sudden jolt, I’m met with the unyielding strength of a man’s arms around me. Dante’s caught me—one arm beneath my knees and the other clutching me around the shoulders—looking far too pleased with himself.

“I do love getting those little noises out of you,” he remarks.

I scowl, willing that gallant grin to fade off his face. “I could’ve shattered the lantern!”

Thankfully, the gilded glass has been spared, and I keep it raised at chest level protectively. I squirm to hop back onto my feet, only to have Dante’s arms cinch around me. He adjusts his grip so the hand under my knees can stray to cup my ass, squeezing.

I almost drop the lantern again. A single touch, a searing look, and I’m hurdled right back to yesterday. The decadent, sinful things we’d done to each other in that rented room… I suppose I can’t entirely blame him right now.

“Can you behave?” I chuckle. A glow rises to my cheeks as I fight an exasperated grin, the arm slung around his neck relaxing.

Dante takes his time like I’ve probed on deep philosophy, pouting in mock consideration. “I could, but this is much more fun.”

With a final squeeze to punctuate this, he sets me down. I give him a shove with my hips as I press on, sharing a soft snort of laughter as his long strides catch up to match mine.

My smile lingers with a seed of warmth in my chest as we march onward, side by side.

Whatever this is between us… It’s nice, for now.

There’s no point trying to fetter out its meaning, but maybe when he’s human again… We’ll have a chance at a future, at least. If that’s what he wants, of course—I still can’t read him enough to be certain. I’m not even sure if a future with Dante is what I want. But the image of being in the sun with him, hand in hand, is a pleasant one to be sure.

Even still, it would have to be in secret from the Order when I returned. I was meant to be a warrior, not a lover.

If I return, a small voice purrs in the back of my mind.

I shove such traitorious notions aside. Of course I will—even despite everything.

Even though they took your family from you?

My poisonous thoughts falter as I catch sight of jagged shapes sprawled across the clearing ahead. I pull to a sharp halt, putting an arm up to stop Dante, too. Faint moonlight illuminates the wreckage of a wagon caravan—wooden frames splintered and overturned, tumbled crates of cargo strewn across the damp ground.

Thieves. I’m certain of it.

We tense, listening for any lingering assailants, but are met only by the quiet stirring of the small creatures in branches above. Relaxing my grip on my dagger, we forge into the wreckage for a closer look.

I spot blood dampening the ground and splattered along the side of the overturned wagon. There are three bodies sprawled out, all male. While one I surmise to be a merchant, the others’ faces are concealed with plain bauta masks—the trademark of a lowlife desperate for anonymity, as I suspected.

Dante tips one’s head to the side with his boot, revealing a deep slash across the throat. I melt in relief that it’s not fang marks staring up at us. Dante’s siblings are not upon us again.

“Looks like someone’s eviscerated these rogues,” he says, letting the head thump back to the ground. “Nicely done. Perhaps we ought to thank them.”

I set the lantern down on a boulder nearby and crouch, pressing my palm to the side of the corpse’s neck.

“They’re barely cold. No rot set in,” I murmur. “Couldn’t be dead more than a few hours.”

Leaning back on my heels, I scan the clearing with a frown. One of the wagon wheels still intact is drenched in mud. There’s evidence of systematic, planned destruction—sliced canvas coverings, crates ripped open. Of the remaining goods scattered across the earth, most are worthless baubles: a few bolts of linen, cases of wine. Anything of true value has been absconded with long ago.

I stand, carefully picking my way through the disturbed ground, where scattered bootprints outline the traces of a fight.

“I think there was a power struggle. The wounds on them are consistent with the merchant,” I say, jutting my chin at a single pair of footprints trailing west. “There was a third assailant. He must’ve gotten greedy or won a disagreement between them, killing the others and making off with the most valuables.”

“Ah, the kiss of Judas,” Dante tuts.

I give the merchant one more lingering glance, brow furrowed. A pity, but his death here was still a mercy compared to the vile fate of being claimed by a vampire—drained as a meal or abducted for long, tortured servitude.

With no lingering threat to us, I gesture for Dante to pull out the map. “Are we still going the right way?”