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At least the traditional white gown for meeting with the Consiglio was loose and flowing, so it would conceal her training clothes underneath, and she wouldn’t have to return upstairs to change before her daily session.
To Renata, combat training was stress relief. To Alessa, state-sanctioned torture. The pain of getting dressed left her woozy; lifting a sword might break her.
The low neckline slid off her shoulders as she stood, fumbling to get the last satin button behind her neck through a loop that seemed intentionally too small, and a ragged sob of pain slipped out.
“You okay?” came Dante’s voice.
It was one thing to cry in front of a stranger in an alley, but they were in the Cittadella, and she was the Finestra. Or at least, she was trying to be.
“I’m fine.” Her voice cracked. Traitor.
“You don’t sound fine.”
“You’re my bodyguard, not my nanny.”
A lengthy pause, footsteps, and the stutter of chair legs against the floor.
She picked up a ribbon, wincing as the small movement sent a bolt of pain across her collarbone. What was wrong with her? Had she forgotten how to accept kindness?
She thought she’d sampled every flavor of loneliness, but this one was new. She should have feltlesslonely, not more, but like a flame appears brighter in the darkness, her isolation cut even deeper with a stranger filling spaces usually left empty.
Gritting her teeth, she worked until a long plait lay down herback, but before she could tie it, the braid unraveled. Tradition be damned, the Consiglio could accept her hair down.
She stepped out, casually adjusting her position so it didn’t look like she was holding a pose.
Expression blank, Dante was sitting at the table, flipping a knife into the air, over and over, so fast the blade blurred silver.
He raised his eyebrows at her transformation.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. Some tasks are still painful.”
Dante caught the knife and stood it on its tip. When he lifted his hand, it stayed upright, precisely balanced. “I could help.”
“No. You can’t.” Gods only knew if there was anyone who could help her, but it wasn’t him.
Alessa pulled on her gloves, pausing to straighten one twisted finger. “Keep the armband on at all times, especially when you aren’t with me.”
“Why wouldn’t I be with you?”
“I won’t need protection when I’m with my mentors.”
Dante bit one end of the armband’s fabric to tie it around his bicep, speaking through gritted teeth. “You trust them?”
Did she? She hadn’t when she’d escaped to the city and begged a stranger to protect her.
“Of course,” she said, well aware she’d taken too long to respond.
He plucked an apple from a fruit bowl, polishing it against his shirt, his expression inscrutable. “Got anything else to eat?”
Alessa worried her lip. She wasn’t much of a breakfast person, usually just popping into the kitchens for an espresso and abiscotto in the morning. “There’s bread and cheese. I could call for something more substantial if you’d prefer—”
“No. That’s good.” He glowered like she’d offered to hit him, not feed him.Grumpy, grumpy.
Dante rattled around the kitchenette, opening and closing cabinets as though he’d lived there for years. Despite being a stranger, an interloper, and a marked man, he didn’t think twice about asserting himself and taking up space. Now that she thought about it, most men didn’t. Some people stepped aside, and others stood their ground, as if they had every right to exist.
Maybe she deserved to claim her small patch of space too, not because of her title, or even because she’d earned it. Just because.
It shouldn’t feel like a revelation.
