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Alessa brushed at it, but she couldn’t see the top of her head. “Emer and Ilsi were approved within a half hour, but it took an entire day before the Consiglio cleared Hugo. I thought for sure they were going to send him home and make me choose again.”
Dante stopped pacing. “You never talk about him.”
“He wasn’t the most interesting person. He was so bland that he might as well have been a bowl of vanilla pudding. I chose him because I was tired of killing people I liked.”
“Oh. Is today worse or better, then?”
“Both?” she admitted. “Ilikethem. All of them. Even Kaleb. I have more control over my power now, but I’m still asking someone to face Armageddon.”
A line formed between Dante’s eyebrows as he walked over to tilt her chin—down, not up, alas—and blew on her hair, gently de-pollinating her.
“Did you know thatFinestrais a base word for other words?” She couldn’t help herself. “Likedefenestration.”
Dante stopped blowing. “Yes.” He sounded wary. Smart of him. “It means to throw someone out of a window.”
She snickered. “Or tobreaka window. It’s a metaphor for—”
“Don’t you dare finish that sentence.”
She fluttered her eyelashes in mock innocence. “Deflowering a virgin.”
Dante couldn’t stop the laugh that burst free. “I want it on the record that I didn’t eventouchyour flowers.”
“There’s still time.”
“Is this a side effect of forced purity and years with nothing but novels for entertainment?” He tugged his ear. “All these pent-up naughty thoughts finally taking over?”
“Maybe,” she said with a cheeky grin. “Or maybe it reined me in, and I would have been even worse. Can you imagine?”
“Dea help me, I cannot,” Dante said, pushing a lock of hair off his forehead. It promptly slipped back, and Alessa reached to brush it away. His jaw went tight. “I need some exercise.”
With a sigh, Alessa trudged after him to the outdoor training yard around the side of the building. Dante started doing pull-ups, and she strolled closer for a better view.
“Can I help you?” Dante asked.
“I’m sure youcould.”
With a huff, he dropped to the ground for push-ups.
“Ever since you called yourself stale bread, I’ve had a wicked craving.”
He paused, shook his head, then pushed back up.
“Iadorebread. Especially baguettes. Long, thick, hot and slathered with—”
He hit the ground, shaking with laughter. “Enough. Mercy. You’re a champion of lewd baking metaphors.”
“I haven’t even begun. I grew up in a bakery, you know. Should I detail my obsession with pastries?”
He got to his feet and dusted his palms. “I amnota pastry.”
“Sure you are. One of those mystery pies that could be savory, but actually has a sweet filling under all those layers of crispy dough.”
He squinted at her. “Are you calling medoughy?”
“You started it.”
Someone coughed discreetly. A servant hovering nearby. “Excuse me, miss. Interviews are over and the Fontes are waiting for you.”
