Page 45 of A Betrothal So Bloody

“You shielded me. No one has done that for me in a very, very long time.” He says it so softly, so devoid of teasing, I’m struck speechless.

I feel frozen in place as his touch moves from my waist, brushing over the loose silken sleeve of my nightgown. It’s like he’s feeling the fabric as an excuse to touch me, watching my face like he’s testing me. Somehow, this hesitant exploration sends shoots of sensation through me more potent than his demanding grip just a minute before. When I don’t wrench my arm away, this unspoken test is resolved, emboldening him. Dante tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear, his thumb brushing the scrape on my temple with feather-light pressure as he does so. His fingers notch, cradling my jaw. It’s intimate in a way that frightens me more than a sword swung at my neck.

“And you’re not afraid of me.” He frowns as he searches my face. Looking for something—for what? “Though you know I’ve killed hundreds of souls. Maybe thousands.” It’s said with a faint shrug, like he’s lost track.

Push him away, I think frantically. End this, whatever it is.

“I should rather hope it’s the other way around,” I say instead, mustering every ounce of strength to steady my voice. “My mercy is conditional. You should fear me.”

Dante chuckles low in his throat, but it’s not mocking.

“Oh, Ariya,” he breathes. “I’m terrified.”

Fuck. The sound of my name in that raspy decibel—my name, not a pandering moniker—makes my breathing turn shallow. I moisten my lips. Suddenly, I feel like he sees me—actually sees me—and he’s about to kiss me. It’s different from the display at the bar. I know it’s different; the way his eyes shutter, looking at my mouth.

It would be easy. Our bodies are so close, all I have to do is tilt my face to his and allow it to happen. The sin of kissing a vampire has to be lessened by his desire to be cured, doesn’t it? A fallen angel better than a purebred devil?

He leans toward me. Heart pounding like a drum in my chest, I let my eyes fall shut, loosing one final breath before—

Lips hovering over mine, Dante stops short. A beat passes before he suddenly chuckles. The sound hits me like a slap. I flinch as he pulls himself backward—like he’s wrenching himself out of a stupor.

“Holy shit,” he gasps between bursts of laughter. “It’s so easy with you, it’s not even fun.”

His apathetic mask clicks back into place so quickly, it’s a masterclass. I blink, reeling, looking for any trace of that smoldering affection, but his smile is cruel and mirthful now. It’s like he’s slammed a door shut between us.

But for a moment, I swore there had been something else.

No. Another damn game—I was just naive enough to fall for it this time.

Red floods my vision. Whatever I thought I had seen in Dante’s eyes…. It doesn’t matter. I’m so angry, I can’t think. I’m nearly shaking. One furious thought blares above all others: I will not be some plaything for his amusement.

I could run. I could shove him away, curse his name, and refuse to speak to him. But that’s precisely what he expects of this wide-eyed girl, isn’t it?

No—I will not run. I’ll use his favorite language against him.

With hate blazing in my eyes, I reach up, grasping the hand still cradling my face. I feel possessed, guided by instinct alone, as I brush my mouth over his wrist. Dante stiffens. Seeing the immediate effect, I continue along his palm, up his ring finger, then the first—savoring his eyes widening with every stretched moment.

Fuck you, I think as I part my lips and take his first two fingers into my mouth.

The sheer, dumb surprise on Dante’s face is my prize. I double down, sucking and testing how deep I can take his fingers into my mouth. I don’t have to wonder long if it feels good to him—a soft gasp escapes Dante’s parted lips. I smile around the digits, my free hand grasping at the hem of his shirt, pulling him closer.

He’s slackjawed when I slip his fingers back out, guiding his hand down. Good. Let him writhe a little for a change.

I barely have a moment to catch my breath before Dante snaps forward—shoving the two fingers back in with enough force to make me stagger back a step. I would gasp if he wasn’t filling my mouth, but only a muffled mewling noise comes out.

Dante’s eyes blaze as I stare up into his face, swirling with a dozen emotions—curiosity, confusion, arousal.

“Go on,” he whispers. His thumb and other fingers squeeze my jaw tightly, painfully.

A new wave of self loathing rolls in when I feel myself getting wet. The pinch of pain feels good.

His fingers are deeper in my mouth this time, the taste of his skin flooding my tongue anew. My eyes water. Even as I glare at him, butterflies roar in my stomach, rebelling against my loathing. I find myself caught in a strange marriage of humiliation and pleasure.

He shifts against me, and I notice tension tenting the fabric of his trousers that leaves little room for interpretation. It takes a second to register what it is, what it means. My eyes widen, intimidation and pride coursing through me in equal measure—I have made that happen. Dante tracks my lingering glance with a flicker of a half-formed guilty twitch of his lips that barely registers.

This new, dark game has changed, galvanizing the air between us. He thinks I can’t take it, and I refuse to be cowed down by this arrogant dickhead. I clasp his wrist, sucking hard, taking him as far back as I can. My eyes flutter, another gasp caught in my throat when I nearly gag.

Dante gives a soft, guttural suck of air. It’s raw, real. He never takes his eyes off me, like he’s feasting on the very vision of me—his gaze dark and heavy-lidded, glittering with satisfaction.