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“Are you okay?” she asked. “Sit down so you don’t fall.”
Dante waved a hand as though to protest, took a halting step forward, and reached out to steady himself. Careful not to touch his bare skin, Alessa guided him to the settee. Dante sat and blinked repeatedly, his eyes unfocused. “I’m fine. Just dizzy.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop being sorry. Just ease into it next time.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?”
He was, apparently, because he spotted her hand inching toward his knife and trapped her wrist. “I’m not letting you injure yourself.”
“Then how am I supposed to practice?”
“I’ll think of something.”
“A paper cut?”
He dropped his head in his hands.
After a few rounds of what Alessa dubbed “touch training,” Dante sprawled in his go-to armchair with a history of ghiotte hunting while Alessa tried her best not to disturb him with her pacing.
Dante’s eyes flicked to her, heavy-lidded with annoyance. “Go to sleep.”
“I’m not tired.” Her body, her business. Sleeping was the last thing she wanted to do. She wanted to celebrate. Or something. There’d been no paper cuts or other injuries in the past few hours, since Dante swore he’d quit if she even thought about injuring herself again, so she’d focused on fine-tuning the flow of power instead. Less effective than using his gift, but it meant hours studying his reactions until she could read his comfort by the tension in his hands, the size of his pupils. She was learning about her power by studying him. And she wanted more.
More ofDante.
His friendship. His secrets. His feelings. His touch.
“Read a book or something, will you?” Dante rolled his shoulders back.
“I can’t. I’m too wound up.” For the first time in years, she couldtouchwithout hurting someone, and every moment she didn’t, she thought about doing so. Any kind of touch. All kinds. The brush of a hand, a hug, a shoulder to rest her head on. And other touches, the kind she had no memories of, but wanted.
Like an animal emerging from hibernation, ravenous and focused on one overriding need, she couldn’t stop craving what she’d been denied for so long.
“I give up.” Dante marked his page with a dagger bookmark. “I can’t concentrate with you flapping around the room.”
“I’m notflapping.” Alessa pressed her hands to her side to stop them from—dammit—flapping. She wouldn’t be greedy. She could live with a platonic friendship—maybe—if she could curl up in his arms and be reminded she was still a person beneath the Finestra. He’d be gone in a few days, and she was a coward.
Even a normal girl couldn’t casually ask a boy to—what? Cuddle? Hold hands for reasons less pure than saving the world?
“I’ve never heard anyone sigh so loud in my life,” Dante groaned.
She flushed. “I’m sorry. It’s become a bad habit.”
“Sighing?”
“Pacing. I’ve never been good at settling myself.”
“How hard can it be? Stop moving, fall asleep.”
“Maybe for you. My father used to have to pin me in a full-body bind to get me to stop wiggling so I’d sleep.”
“That checks out.” Dante rubbed his temples. “Just come here, already, and put me out of my misery.”
“Very funny. Ican’tkill you, remember?”
“I’m not asking you tokillme. I’m not good for much, but Iama warm body. I have a book I wanted to finish anyway.”
