Page 14 of A Betrothal So Bloody

God, his eyes are pretty. And… oddly sincere.

I glance to his lips before—Father above help me—letting my gaze dip ever so briefly below his waist.

Every instinct tells me to snatch my hand back from this would-be monster, but I restrain myself, realizing we’ve barely touched at all. We haven’t kissed even once since that sorry excuse of a wedding ceremony—not that I’m complaining, of course.

I look down at my lap. It’s a strong hand. Not frigid, but not hot either. Still not proof enough, especially with the hearth unlit.

“You were right,” he goes on. “Your letter, I mean. I’ve been terribly distant, buried in my work. A cardinal sin for a new spouse.”

“And this business… It’s going well?” I venture.

“Better than I could have hoped.” He brushes my knuckles with his thumb. “Any chance you’ll give me the opportunity to make it up to you?”

As he raises his eyebrows expectantly, I’m fighting a bemused smile. Every layer unraveled only proves more enigmatic than the last. Rake or saint? Monster or man? I understand now, why Catarina often returns from infiltration missions so drained. Masking your true self while trying to unveil another simultaneously is more exhausting than any manner of straightforward killing.

But it’s as though God himself has dropped a gift in my lap tied neatly with a bow. If Dante falls asleep beside me, I can check for a pulse—irrefutable evidence to discern what he is, once and for all.

I slowly lay down, pulling my braid over my shoulder as I set my head on the pillow. I squeeze his hand, guiding him down with me.

“Why don’t we start with this, Dante?”

His expression brightens when I use his name, and he obediently lies down beside me, the sheets rustling as he relaxes. A little beat of incredulity flutters through me at his contentment to just lie here like this. Or at least seemingly so, for now.

When Dante’s eyes fall shut and his breathing begins to even out, I study him in the sputtering candlelight. I’ve never been so close to him—not like this. I take in the unkempt gold strands in his hair, the regal cheekbones. His tunic is still laced, the collar sitting too high to display any fang scars on his neck. Even still, he looks softened, somehow—his harsh edges lightened in the warm glow of the oil lamps.

My heart stammers when my eyes catch on the soft, hollow space beside his Adam’s apple—the precise spot where his pulse should be easiest to discern.

Don’t just stare at him, do something!

I shift onto one arm and close the space between our bodies. Holding my breath, I reach toward Dante’s neck—only for him to open his eyes and frown at me across the pillows before I can follow through. Shit.

I snatch my hand back and stutter out something between an excuse and an apology. Mother Superior’s voice rattles in the back of my mind—Your impatience will be your demise, Ariya.

To my surprise, Dante’s lips pull into a soft, inviting smile.

“Has that curiosity of yours gotten the better of you?” he murmurs.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “It’s… This is the first time I’ve shared a bed with…”

“If you want to be touched, all you have to do is ask. I’m yours.” Dante’s voice is a gravelly decibel that once again sends my stomach aflutter—each word drawn out like honey. I swear he’s doing it on purpose, the way his eyes have gone half-lidded like a lazy predator.

My face flushes entirely of its own accord. “I don’t know how to do this. But I don’t want—”

“I know,” he says with the same odd sincerity as before. “Please, let me help you get more comfortable. We won’t do anything that you disagree with.” He offers a gently teasing smirk. “The last thing I want is to scare you off.”

Swallowing hard, I nod.

“Come here,” Dante says. “Turn around.”

I hesitate, silently ticking off every weapon within my reach around the bed before I follow his instruction. I loathe the idea of turning my back to him, but I need him to let his guard down. Once he’s asleep, I can move with certainty.

Settled on my other side, the bedding rustles as Dante brings himself closer to me. He runs a hand along my upper arm placatingly.

“Relax,” he murmurs.

The sound of his voice pierces my anxiety at once, and I exhale heavily. His body eases closer until he is pressed up behind me, his chest gently pushing against my back with each breath. The room tunnels down until nothing matters except the places our bodies touch.

“Is this alright?” he asks.