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But when Fiore opened his mouth at last, before any words could escape, there emerged a growl—from his stomach rather than his lungs.
Fiore clapped his hand over his mouth. This did little to muffle the startled laugh that followed the growl. And there remained nothing to stifle Enzo’s own chuckle beyond his coughing.
“Dinner?” Enzo proposed when they’d both recovered.
Fiore concurred with a grin.
Dinner was rabbit cacciatore. One of Enzo’s favorites, though he hadn’t asked for it. Giovanna had acquired the habit of asking the cooks at Ca’ Scaevola, the villa, and the hunting lodge alike to serve his favorite dishes by default whenever he was in attendance. He suspected this had been her effort to combat his near-total lack of appetite when he’d first returned from university. As the months passed and his condition improved, so had the offerings of the kitchens changed to a more equitable rotation of things everyone enjoyed. But now—spurred on by his injury, he supposed—she had reverted to ordering what she considered the choicest morsels for Enzo’s particular palate.
Which was all very well for him, but as he sat down to it at the card table with Fiore, he worried whether or not it would suit Fiore’s palate as well.
“Have you any objection to rabbit?” Enzo enquired, doing his able best to sound conversational rather than concerned.
Fiore raised his brows. “None at all.”
A sigh of relief escaped Enzo alongside his smile, the latter of which was echoed in Fiore’s own handsome features.
And Fiore did seem to like the rabbit, judging by the way he polished off his plate. Still, Enzo hoped he didn’t do so out of a sense of obligation.
“If there’s anything else you’d particularly like,” Enzo said, working hard to keep his tone bright rather than desperate, “you need only ask.”
Fiore raised his brows again and assured him with another smile that he’d have no hesitation in asking.
The delight of dinner was dampened by the return of Dr. Zoccarato. Again Fiore retreated to the window. The sun had set and a splendid moon had arisen over the mountain peaks. But while Fiore faced these natural wonders, his dark gaze cast continual sidelong glances towards the doctor performing his examination. Enzo endeavored to reassure him with a smile. It seemed to work.
At last, Dr. Zoccarato declared Enzo quite recovered from his earlier exertions and predicted a good night’s sleep and a stronger day ahead.
“Good evening, your grace,” Dr. Zoccarato concluded before departing with a bow.
Fiore waited until the door had firmly shut upon the chirurgeon before he leapt to rejoin Enzo abed.
“Good evening, your grace,” Fiore echoed with a grin.
This was all the warning Enzo received before he devoured him in a kiss. Enzo certainly didn’t mind. But his injury forced him to break off for breath far sooner than he wished. Fiore sat back astride him and gazed down with a curious expression.
“Fiorenzo Scaevola,” Fiore murmured in a thoughtful air, as if half to himself. “Duke of Drakehaven, brother to Prince Lucrezia, Serenissima of Halcyon.”
Enzo regarded him warily. Whatever reason Fiore had for recalling his full title now, Enzo couldn’t imagine anything good.
“Does this,” Fiore ventured, “make you the dueling duke of legend?”
Enzo had dreaded this moment ever since his return to Halcyon. Whispers of “the dueling duke” had preceded his arrival. Enzo considered that particular appellation unfounded. He was far from the only duke to have ever fought a duel.
The dread had taken on a particular pall after meeting Fiore. Before he’d braced himself for the scandal and scorn of mere strangers. The stakes sharply increased for any one individual—particularly when that individual held Enzo’s heart in thrall as Fiore did.
But Fiore didn’t seem scandalized or scornful. Just curious. As he was ever curious, in his impish, capering way, like any faun in the forest observing the mannerisms of mortals. Even now his head tilted whilst a soft smile played about his lips and teased the return of the dimple in his left cheek.
After a long pause, Enzo admitted, “I have dueled.”
Fiore ran his fingertips through Enzo’s hair strewn across the pillows. “I’ve not paid much mind to the whispered tales. I’d like to hear your truth of it—if you’re willing to tell.”
The second silence between them stretched even farther than the first.
Fiore’s smile waned. “Or if you’d rather not—”
“I will,” said Enzo. He wearied of dodging this fate. And Fiore had already divulged the dreadful history of his own worst fears. The least Enzo could do was reciprocate. He just had to find where to begin.
Fiore settled in to listen. He did so by insinuating himself between Enzo’s arm and chest on his good side, slipping down snug as if Enzo’s body were molded to hold him. His slender weight brought with it more comfort than others might have expected to gaze upon his insubstantial form. To Enzo, his warmth and softness became a most welcome anchor. And the gaze he cast up at Enzo as he laid his head against his shoulder—the enormous dark eyes holding a promise of solemn patience—would have drawn a confession from a man of bronze, to say nothing of Enzo’s own mortal flesh.
