Page 58 of A Betrothal So Bloody

Dante spits into a basin for several minutes. Even then, he continues to wipe his mouth to rid himself of her blood as best he can. “It tastes curdled,” he moans. “Decades of dark magic holding her together. Disgusting stuff.”

I am well-acquainted with disgusting at the moment. Skeptical over her death, I make short work of shattering the witch’s disfigured, stony corpse. Much to my revulsion, there were even more fleshy bits beneath the surface. I gradually feeding the pieces into the fire, grateful at the very least that I do not have to taste her.

As I’m finishing up with the final chunks of the corpse, Dante crouches beside me, grimacing as the cloying odor of sulfur and burnt flesh hits him.

“Smells like shit,” he groans, covering his nose and mouth with his hand.

“Rather looks like it, too. Still, better her than us.” I wipe my hands on the front of my tattered nightgown and steal a sidelong look at him, rocking back on my heels. As a beat of silence stretches between us, I debate whether to say anything at all. But I must know. “Why didn’t you take the deal?”

His gaze roves me, unreadable in a way that leaves me feeling like I’ve missed a step in the dark. I catch a glimpse of that hungry depth again, something I’ve only seen in fleeting moments, like when I roused him from the nightmare.

Whatever it is, he’s losing his grip on chaining it back.

“I promised you a favor in return for supping at your neck,” Dante says quietly, broad shoulders pinching in a shrug. “Consider us even now.”

He pats my cheek with a lopsided smile that doesn’t quite meet his eyes—an utterly patronizing move that should make me want to smack him across the face. But instead, my skin tingles where he’d touched me.

For whatever reason, Dante protected me, and he could have paid a dear cost for it.

He touches the shards of the bottle on the floor. The stain of the potion is barely visible, already drying into a shimmering glaze on the warm terracotta tile.

“Doubtful she has another,” he murmurs, dragging a hand over his face.

“It wasn’t the cure,” I tell him. “It couldn’t have been. You know that, don’t you?”

He stares hard at the floor. “Do I?”

“She was lying. If you’d said your heart’s desire was to sprout another head to keep you company, she would have conjured some tale about having that exact potion in her stash. For all we know, this is horse piss.” I lean forward to catch his eye earnestly.

“Of course. I suppose you’re right.” The corner of his mouth lifts, but it’s brief.

Averting his gaze to watch the witch’s smoldering remains in the fire, Dante’s face clouds in thought. A slight tremble disrupts his breaths, reaching all the way down to his fingertips.

“Are you alright?” I ask.

He stands abruptly, making me flinch. “Never better. I just…need a moment.”

He heads to the table and sinks into the first seat he comes across. Dropping his face into his hands, he sighs and kneads his fingers through his hair.

Clearing my throat, I stand slowly. “You’re not paying any mind to her drivel, are you? She was a mad, revolting strega. Nothing more.”

“And yet… Alessandro would say there was wisdom in what she said about me needing a master,” he says with a bleak chuckle.

“Don’t—”

“No, really. Perhaps that’s simply the way of things. My whole life I’ve been robbed of autonomy. Goddamnit, do I really reek of it?”

His shoulders are slumped, the strong line of his back motionless. Cautiously, I cross the room to take the seat next to him.

Dante’s expression is hollow as he extends a hand over the candle set at the center of the table. He flexes his fingers, teasing the tongue of flame, before flattening his palm directly through its center. I suck in a little gasp as his flesh begins to sear. I know it hurts him, but Dante’s expression stays empty.

After a minute of this masochistic display, he pulls his hand from the fire, inspecting the hideous line of red, mottled flesh. He watches with a clench to his jaw as his own skin begins to heal up immediately, gradually erasing any evidence of the injury, stitch by stitch.

Dante smiles humorlessly. “I didn’t want to be this cursed thing between vermin and a god.”

His words hurtle me back to our bedroom at the inn, when his shout had rattled me to my core. Though distance has diluted its impact, our argument from earlier still curdles the air between us, an unspoken thing acknowledged only in fleeting glances.

His vulnerability chafes against me like a knife because it’s all wrong. In a world festering with monsters, I’m called to be strong at any cost, molded with the knowledge that any shred of weakness means a shameful death.