Page 39 of A Betrothal So Bloody

“I obviously know the basics of swordplay,” I hiss back. “I’m not an idiot.”

He clucks his tongue, but chuckles. “So it might be easier if you imagine this as a fight. Merely stalking your prey, step by step.”

I study his face with narrowed eyes. “Is that what you’re doing?”

A crooked grin comes over his face. He ducks closer, his breath warm against the shell of my ear. “I doubt you want to know the things that have crossed my mind.”

The dance order shifts abruptly, and the sea of dancers split us apart—and just like that, Dante is gone, and I’m in the arms of another man as partners rotate across the floor.

As my new partner kindly guides me into step, I peer over his shoulder to see that Dante has not taken the hand of the other women swirling on the floor already. He’s spotted the matronly barmaid from the front of the house clearing a table full of empty bowls—the one that had been throwing doe-eyes at his back all night.

I can’t make out the words from this distance, but I see him insist she set the tray down and sweep her into his arms in one fluid movement. She’s pink-cheeked at once, delighted at the attention of the other patrons who cheer for their beloved host.

Against my will, a smile pulls at my lips. She has no way of knowing he’s the very blood-addicted creature she’s tried to deter with her garlands and herbs—much less that he’s actually twice her age. In her eyes, she’s just been swept up by the handsome visitor who’s supporting her inn.

Does Dante know he’s probably made her night, perhaps her entire year, as he dips her sensually like she’s decades younger?

The tables nearest them holler, smiling and goading. It’s hard not to be swept up in the illusion of goodwill. Was he always this magnetically charismatic, even before seduction became a voracious weapon? I’m almost jealous. What must it have been like to grow up like that—perfect hair, contagious smile, able to charm anyone he crossed paths with?

Or irritate the shit out of them, I think with a stifled scoff.

I consider Dante’s advice, trying to feel in my body what he so clearly feels in this melody. I begin to recall the steps, nearly matching the timing now.

By the time we rotate partners again, and I’m back in Dante’s arms, I feel each footfall keenly now. I’ll never admit it, but he’s right—the footwork is more digestible if I pretend I’m trying to stay one move ahead of my target. I’m simply parrying with an opponent, my stances shifting moment to moment the way I’ve done countless times. My confidence earns me a grain of fluidity, and a beat of pride washes through me when I’m able to match Dante’s stride. We fall into a harmonious sync, moving as one.

I feel…beautiful. Feminine in a way I’ve never viewed myself before.

My surge of pride is somewhat soiled when I sense him doing the same to me—the dance a veneer to circle me, make me feel like cornered prey. My heart races, but not with fear. I almost welcome the unspoken challenge that charges the air between us. Let him prowl around with that stupid smirk all he wants—I know my blade will strike first.

“You’re not terrible at this.” I lift my voice to be heard over the music, wavering between a statement and an incredulous question. It seems unfair that someone so strong could also be so effortlessly graceful.

Dante laughs. “Used to be a lord, remember? The art form was all but beaten into me until perfection. Though, admittedly, my finesse may be a little rusty after nearly a century.”

“No grand balls with dear Father lately?” I simper, lifting my eyebrows.

The sparkle in his eyes hardens like ice. “Not exactly.”

My gaze moves to the other couples passing around us, hands clasped and faces bright. I watch one pair in particular, who move more scandalously than the others, allowing their hips to press close, faces hovering close at the seamless return from every twirl. The untethered longing in their gazes makes my chest ache, feeling more than ever an imposter amongst them.

But for a moment, I pretend it’s different. I wonder if I’d feel differently if I wasn’t who I was; if Dante was human, and I was just a common milkmaid, and this was real.

Being a part of something larger has always been enough for me. For the first time, watching the couples laugh and clutch each other close, I wonder—is this what it feels like? To be desired?

When I look at Dante’s face again after the next dip, I’m taken aback to see the goading challenge in his expression has softened. His cheeks are gently flushed, his lips parted thoughtlessly. It almost looks like he’s having fun. It disarms me so much, I don’t realize we’ve stopped moving, that I’m grinning back—until his gaze suddenly snaps over my shoulder, elsewhere in the room.

We’ve danced through not one, but three songs, and the music has melted into something new—but it suddenly feels far away as Dante’s demeanor abruptly withers. To my confusion, I see terror—true terror—cross his face. Cursing, he pulls me across the floor, into a small nook away from the festivities. He corrals me into the narrow inlet with my back against a potted plant.

“Dante—”

“Shh.”

To keep the leaves from poking into my hair, I’m forced to nearly press my nose to the base of his neck. My stomach flutters at the nearness, forcibly reminded how much taller he is. Elbowing as much space as I’m able, I follow his gaze outward.

A dancing couple spins out of the way, giving view to a man sitting alone across the room, dark-haired and strikingly handsome. Far too handsome for an agricultural village like Terralta. He surveys the nearest people around him as though he’s trying to come to a decision. There’s something too smooth about how he watches the world around him, something cold and ancient.

“Another leech,” I mutter, frowning at Dante. “Do you know him?”

He looks affronted. “How dare you. Are you naive enough to believe that every vampire knows each other?” He raises his eyebrows accusingly, then gives a defeated sigh. “But yes, I do know him. Thomas. One of my brothers fathered by Alessandro.”