Page 56 of A Betrothal So Bloody

Dante takes a step toward her, eyes wide and blazing, but her hand closes around the bottle, concealing it from view. He falters.

“Your sanctuary is my gift,” the witch says. “This, however, is precious to me. I’d like something just as valuable in return. Fair, yes?”

“We are not bargaining with you,” I snap.

“You’re not.” She’s no longer looking at me. She drifts closer, just out of arm’s reach. The witch peers up at Dante through long lashes, her unsettlingly bright eyes glinting with a cunning that turns my stomach. “Leave the girl with me, and the cure is yours.”

Dante goes rigid. Tense silence thickens the air as we share an astonished glance. While I’m still reeling, his expression shutters, a wall rising between us as he faces the witch again.

“Why her?” Dante asks. It’s a cautious, probing tone—and a far cry from the “go fuck yourselves, you will never have her” I’d have preferred to hear.

My glare sharpens at the profile of Dante’s face. He’s fucking hearing her out. But how could I have expected anything different? We’re both using each other as a means to an end—neither of us made any effort to conceal that from the start. This leech would probably sell out his own mother for a chance to become human again.

If this is where the charade ends and our temporary alliance dissolves, so be it.

“You fucker,” I snarl, lips trembling. I’m surprised to find my vision sting and blur with furious, unforgiving tears.

I reach for my silver blades sheathed in the slotted leather belt that cinches around the shredded remains of my nightgown. I will not be bargained with.

Before my hands even close around the tapered handles, there’s a faint whoosh of air—and Dante’s dagger is at my throat.

He cuts a sharp look at me, but something is buried there that gives me pause. A faint, almost imperceptible tilt of his head follows.

Wait, it seems to say.

The witch chuckles at our exchange, which only boils my blood deeper. I’m flooded with images of severing her limb by limb, starting with those dangerous hands of hers and working my way in.

“Do you have any idea how powerful virgin blood is in my line of work?” she asks, cocking her head at Dante. “I suppose it all tastes the same to you.”

“I’m not a virgin,” I interject in a growl.

The witch shakes her head dismissively, like I’m barely worth acknowledging. “Dearie, I can practically smell it on you. Anyone could.” She refocuses a beseeching smile on Dante, gesturing widely at the spellwork in progress cluttering every surface. “A few mugs of her blood week by week will help me chase eternity in ways most only dream of. To dance with the horizon of time itself… Surely, you of all people can’t begrudge me that.”

“Take it from me, eternity is a labyrinth you can get lost in,” Dante says. The dark smile playing on his lips is almost wounded.

“Let me handle that,” the witch purrs. “We’re not all cut from the same cloth.”

“Very well, paint me a picture. What exactly would you do with this thorn of a girl?”

“Sentimental, are we? I won’t kill her, if that’s any concern. I’m many things, but not wasteful. I’ll need that blood supply to be good and vital for a long time.”

Horror ripples through me. I glance at the shadowed corners of the cottage, any of which could easily become the place she chains me like an animal until I’m too feeble to be of any use.

I’ll die before accepting such a fate.

Dante sucks air through his teeth, as though she’s failed his unspoken test. “You’re woefully unaware of the burden you’re asking for. She’s terribly annoying, this one. Stubborn as an ass.” He taps my neck with the tip of his blade to punctuate his words. “You’d be better off slitting her throat and being done with it—just my advice.”

The witch smiles, but it’s growing colder by the second—a silent threat mounting. I doubt the last men who tested her patience endured a pleasant fate.

She eases a step closer, her earth-colored dress shifting around her. “You’re cute, but not that cute. Make your decision. I won’t offer again.”

I start forward in protest again, only for Dante to adjust the angle of his dagger and stop me in my tracks. His eyes flick to the shimmering vial in her hand. He swallows, then exhales a shuddering breath.

Stepping in front of me, he lowers his weapon to his side.

“Unfortunately, I have my own uses for her. Pick something else.”

I seize the opening to unsheath my blades and move back into a defensive stance. The front door is at my back. I gauge my surroundings for any tactical advantages that might offset an attack from her—or any traps hiding between the faded parchment and vials scattered on the counters.