Page 88 of A Betrothal So Bloody

“Shh, let the horny fuckers watch,” he purrs.

My tension releases in an incredulous snicker. “You’re so…”

“Romantic?”

“Demented is the term I’d use.”

But when I peer over my shoulder and meet his fervent gaze, my insides pulse with the same desperate need.

“Give me everything,” I breathe.

twenty-seven

Any efforts to dry off during our hike back to civilization are thoroughly wasted as another spring storm rolls in on the last mile, drenching us anew. With dawn nearly upon us and the stars paling behind the sheet of dark clouds, Dante and I dive into the first shelter we can find in the outskirts of Verona—a narrow passage that leads beneath the city. We make quick work of the chain-bound iron gate that bars it from civilian entry and bolt down the stone stairs.

It’s surreal to exchange breathless laughter with Dante as we make useless efforts to shield ourselves from the downpour, still aching and aglow from our last fuck. How can either of us laugh? We’ve failed. We’re both grieving an impossible weight, and yet the trek back has been alleviated in a way I never expected. The ache of uncertainty seems to yield under the simple fact that neither of us are shouldering it alone. At least, not yet.

There’s a sharp temperature drop as we descend—cool, damp air making my drenched clothes cling to me like sheets of ice. The final stairs are cracked and crumbling, unsteady under our boots.

The passage opens up into a wide tunnel where our movements now echo, the sound catching strangely. A murmur of moving water catches my ear, not more than a few feet in front of us. I can make out rough stone walls and low, arched ceilings, but not much else. There’s not a single torch in sight, and utter darkness eats away at the shallow light spilling in from the street two stories above.

I kneel, pulling out my lantern from its snug position in my satchel along with a flint and steel striker. It takes several tries—and a cocktail of muttered profanity and prayers—before my damp hands coax sparks from the striker. The oil catches, and a humble flame ignites behind the amber glass, casting a warm circle of illumination.

I hold it out, taking a few steps inward for a better look. Dante trails closely behind me, pushing back the damp locks plastered to his forehead. A diverted underground stream runs uniformly along the passage floor, lapping along the stone like a never-ending whisper. Even in the weak light, I can see the stone walls are glistening with moisture, the smell of dust and limestone thick on every breath.

A pile of yellowed human skulls are stacked at the base of an arch, some half-buried in dirt. I trail my gaze higher, finding that graves have been carved along the walls, along with forgotten Roman murals, faded beyond recognition. While some of the bodies are wrapped in linens, other skeletal remains look hastily buried—almost crammed into the inlet. Plague victims, no doubt. A few skeletal jaws reveal a stone or brick forced between their teeth—another deep-rooted, but baseless superstition held by many that this would prevent their deceased from succumbing to vampirism.

I catch Dante’s lips curl slightly when he spots this, too, but he schools his expression masterfully by the time I face him fully. In another life, he could have easily been one of these unmarked remains victimized by a mysterious illness.

“Looks like this place hasn’t been touched in decades,” I say, my words coming out in short, icy bursts. “Should be quiet, at least.”

“It’s a far cry from the hot baths at Bagno Vignoni, but it’ll do.” Dante wrinkles his nose as he scans the chamber, but relief floods his gaze nonetheless. Not a ray of sunlight in sight. “With any luck, it will open up at the river in a few miles. Perhaps we can claim sanctuary at that cathedral we passed yesterday and get a proper bed tonight.”

I snort, shooting him a wry look. While vampires can technically enter holy ground, the blessed objects and ample supply of holy water generally makes it a gauntlet of hazards.

“I know you’re just trying to get a rise out of me,” I counter.

“No, really—think of how fun it might be. They could welcome in a nun and monk of the Carmelite order. Bone-weary on a pilgrimage and our poor habits taken by vicious highwaymen…” Dante’s smirk is utterly goading. “We’ve already established your acting prowess.”

“I’m not doing that,” I laugh indignantly. “And as though anyone would believe you to be devout even for a moment.”

“You’re right. Damn this jawline. They’d never buy it.”

“I’d kill for a warm bedroll and fire, though,” I admit, another shiver wracking me. “I’m exhausted. I may sleep for two days straight at our next refuge.”

I rummage for my cloak, only to find it’s been soaked-through near the top of my bag. Useless. While I’m still digging for something else to quell the cold, Dante finds a salvaged doublet near the bottom of his own things and drapes it over my shoulders. It dwarfs me—which is perfect, given my present state. I’ll take every inch of dry fabric I can.

“I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to this,” I say, studying his intensely focused expression as his hands squeeze along my shoulders and arms, adjusting the fabric on me.

“What?”

“You. Being…sweet.”

Dante’s expression flattens—but I swear there’s something sheepish under that mock-offense. If it wasn’t so dark in here, I might’ve caught him blushing. “Look, if you want to freeze to death, just say the word.”

His hands are still resting on my upper arms. I lower my gaze, taking him in—cold-kissed and drenched. His navy doublet hangs open, and the white tunic beneath clings to his skin, half-translucent and revealing the exquisitely carved lines of the body beneath. Water drips from his tousled locks, now darkened to a deep golden-brown.

He’s so pretty, I could cry.