Page 10 of A Betrothal So Bloody

“How on earth—”

“My mother’s.” Chiara chews her lip. “Her final gift before sending me off. She didn’t understand that I couldn’t keep it, and I couldn’t bear to turn it over. I’ve kept it hidden all these years, and well…it will blend right in with your cover story, won’t it?”

I shake my head, thrusting the gift back towards her. “Chiara, I couldn't possibly take something so precious from you.”

“Yes, you can.” She smiles widely, but there's more force behind her words as she pushes my hands back toward me with a squeeze. I catch the soulful look shining in her eyes—this isn't an impulsive gesture. She's given a great deal of thought to this moment. “Think of it as borrowing, if it eases your mind at all. You'll have to come back and give it to me.”

Her voice goes thready at the end, wavering with all that's unsaid. That I must come back, no matter what awaits me at that villa. Mustering the strength to smile back, I pocket the gift. “I will. I promise.”

Glancing down at the training trousers tucked into my knee-high weathered boots, Chiara's tremulous expression becomes impish. “My only wish is that I could attend the ceremony and laugh at the sight of you in a ridiculous wedding gown. I hear the fashion these days has enough lace in the skirts to drown in.”

I nudge her, my grin sharpening. “I’ll have to make it more bearable by wearing this.” Feeling the cool beads of the necklace against my palm, I sober. “I’ll be thinking of you—and praying that your first assignment isn’t half as daunting.”

There it is—the admission of weakness that should be met with punishment.

But Chiara simply pulls me into a fierce embrace.

four

Ihave only ever attended one wedding, and it took place in what now feels like another life entirely. A female cousin I can barely remember married a man I remember even less. At eight years old, I recall the excitement but none of the finer details. Although my home village had been humble, the event was undoubtedly joyous.

Wealthier unions have always sounded more like fairytales by comparison. Never once have I dreamt of being the bride for such an affair. From what I understand, refined marriages are surrounded by days of celebration and delectable meals, performances and extravagant gifts.

Mine is nothing like that, more akin to a nasty secret that is hastily tucked out of sight and forgotten immediately.

Dante insists we marry at once in a small ceremony a mere two nights after his proposal. And small is not minuscule enough a word. Only a handful of well-to-do townspeople and my beloved “aunt” are in attendance. The former are certainly a means to an end—witnesses to spread the word that the strange aristocrat has taken a bride.

There isn’t so much as a hint that Dante expects a dowry from my supposed family, my father being too ill and my mother busy caring for him with the rest of the household. When I venture to remind him that most wedding festivities take place in the bride’s home, he dismissively states that he will invite my parents to visit in due time—when my father’s health improves, of course, he adds. His estate is more than adequate to host. After all, why wait to reap the benefits of such an advantageous union?

He even provides the wedding gown, and I swear he smirks when he first sees that it is far too long for me. One of his servants is an accomplished enough seamstress and promises to make short work of bringing up the hem in time for the ceremony.

“I’ve never heard of a wedding taking place after sunset,” I say innocently, picking at the skirt of my gown as it’s pinned. The luxurious creme fabric is trimmed in gold. “Is that a common practice here in Florence?”

Dante smiles tightly. “My priest is a busy man, darling. We are lucky to have gotten him at any hour, given the short notice.”

He surely has an answer for everything.

Catarina and I never have a moment alone after that, and I’m certain my situation would not change even if we did. In the whirlwind of preparations, there is no time for either of us to inspect the estate more thoroughly. If he is a vampire, he’s hiding it extraordinarily well. We cannot say for sure if he is mortal, and so we must move forward with the initial plan.

I will have to carry out this assignment on my own as the lady of the house.

Just before the ceremony, I bite my tongue when I see Dante dip his fingers into holy water provided by the priest and bless himself. His flesh does not burn. Shit. Is he really just an eccentric man wanting to escape the status quo?

I throw a look in Catarina’s direction, but she is unmoved, still playing her part, happy tears sparkling in her eyes. The sniff and slight shake of her head is clear: not enough to go on.

I find myself missing the harrowing, sweat-dripping-down-my-neck heat of a fight as I walk down the aisle. Awed gazes watch me as I pass, fawning over my ivory gown and the strands of freshwater pearls Catarina had braided into my hair earlier. All of it leaves me disoriented. My blade sawing through a spine would be far preferred over the gold band Dante slipped onto my finger. The violence of a true hunt is straightforward—kill, or be killed.

The five vampire hunts I’d joined previously had been part of a group effort—the killing strike to bring closure to a longer investigation. Myself and a group of three to six slayers would surround and infiltrate the building. Nothing has survival instincts like vampires who know they’re cornered. They’re feral, almost mad in their desperation.

Remembering the spittle-flecked snarl of the last female I’d slain on the field only made it all the more surreal to be here now, standing at the chapel altar with my hands lightly resting in Dante’s. He’s composed and steady. Each passing minute makes it more difficult to picture this man pouncing on me with fangs bared than to imagine him at a public poetry reading.

And where will that leave me? Running this damn household, arranging occasional dinners, attending events on his arm like an accessory?

Vile as such a tedious role is to imagine, my stomach drops like I’ve missed a step in the dark when I realize I might have to produce heirs for this intolerable man. The very thought makes my meager dinner threaten to make a reappearance.

No—surely Mother Superior would help me find a way out of that, at least.

The ceremony passes in a blur, more akin to a fitful nightmare than a dream. It’s all so delicate—something I suddenly realize I’m acquainted with only as a concept.