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She stumbled but didn’t fall. Dante had her arm in a vise grip, hauling her toward the stairs.
“It’s not going to fallagain.” She struggled, but his hand might as well have been an iron shackle. “You can’t touch the Finestra, you dolt. The earthquake is over.”
“There was no earthquake, and that wasn’t an accident.”
She tried to turn around. “Did you see someone?”
“I could barely see anything.”
He let her go when they reached the stairs, pushing aside wet hair plastered to his forehead.
Dante flicked the drops from his fingers and gestured at the side of her face. “You’re bleeding.”
“What?” She touched her cheek.
Dante gripped her elbow again, urging her along, but her waterlogged skirts kept tangling her legs, binding them together.
“Oh, for Dea’s sake, holdon.” She yanked her arm free and found the clasp, unwrapping herself and bundling the wet fabric into her arms. The forest green tights she wore beneath were nearly as thick as pants, and her leather boots—which were probably ruined—went above her knees.
Dante’s gaze flicked down, then immediately up and away.
“Oh, please,” she said. “Like you’ve never seen a woman’s legs before.”
“Just keep moving,” he said gruffly.
When they made it to her rooms, Alessa hurried to the bathroom to examine her injury. The cut on her temple, courtesy of a stray piece of marble, was straight, as long as her finger, and relatively shallow. Nothing that required stitches, thank the gods, because she would’ve had to do it herself and she’d probably faint. First her ear, now her face. At this rate, she’d look like a battle-worn Finestra before Divorando even began.
Dante came up beside her. “I found salve. Hold still.” He raised a finger, and Alessa stumbled back, tripping over the commode and falling into the tub.
“Have you lost all sense?” she said. “You can’ttouch my skin,or you’lldie.”
Dante blinked. “Oh, right. Here.” He tossed the salve into her lap.
Her backside hurt, her temple smarted, and she must have looked ridiculous with her legs draped over the side of a bathtub, feet sticking up. Meanwhile, instead of looking like a drowned rat, Dante looked gorgeous, hair curling, white shirt translucent and plastered to his chest, and his pants—no, she wasnotlooking at his pants.
She glared at him while unscrewing the cap. “Are you laughingat me?” she said. “You think someone tried to kill meagainand you’relaughing?”
He raised a fist to his mouth. “Someone’s been trying to kill you the whole time I’ve known you.”
She hurled the salve at his head.
He caught it. “Can we agree that when I tell you to move your ass from now on, you do it without question?”
“Fine. Can we agree that as long as I do, you won’t drag me around? The Finestra isn’t supposed to be manhandled.”
“Deal.” He shook the salve at her. “Done with this?”
Alessa pushed up to her elbows, squinting at the inside of his wrist. At the two crossed blades, the thin circle of minuscule letters around it—the mark that declared him a criminal, a killer. Thefadedmark.
Dante dropped his hand, but she’d already seen the proof.
“It’s fake,” she said. “You markedyourself.”
Twenty-Two
Si dice sempre il lupo più grande che non è.
In a story, little lies make the wolf bigger.
