Page 62 of A Betrothal So Bloody

“I’m sorry. I—” I pause, blinking as I sink into awareness, looking around me—and register that he is already fully dressed. My expression sours. “Were you watching me sleep?”

“Clearly a dangerous pastime.” Dante rubs his cheek, scowling. “Next time I wake you, I’ll remember to be armed.”

I flop back onto the blankets, pulling them over my head. The fire has been reduced to smoldering embers, but there’s still warmth preserved here, bundled against the evening chill.

“A few hours more,” I plead, “We have plenty of moonlight. I can’t think straight.”

The covers are wrenched off me, and when I roll over to seize them back, I see Dante has stalked across the cottage and discarded them on the other side of the room.

“Asshole,” I mutter, just loud enough for him to hear as I scramble toward my saddlebag.

Dante’s still eyeing me with a seed of caution as we prepare to depart. We’d discovered a single horse in a stable jutting against the treeline, barely wide enough to accommodate it. I don’t feel any guilt over stealing from a witch, but I’m amply glad to know we’re giving it much needed recreation from that cramped shelter. We let the mare smell the saddlebags and acclimate to us before strapping the saddle into place on its back.

Fuck, a good bath can truly make you feel like a new woman. The submersion before bed had been a godsend. No longer smelling like a sewer rat, I had almost moaned as I dressed in one of the clean gowns I’d salvaged—this one a rich sage green with velvet trim. I take special care to place a silver blade in each pocket, and strap holy water and stakes to the interior of the bodice where I could. God willing, the next days would be free of bloodthirsty vampire siblings and witches—but luck favors the prepared. Mother Superior would expect no less of me.

Dante mounts first. He grasps the saddle and puts his left foot in the stirrup, swinging into the seat with one fluid motion. His hair is askew from the movement, and I nearly laugh—but he merely gives his head a slight shake, and it falls perfectly back into its normally tousled mop. My smile drops. This fucker.

He leans down, extending a hand to me. My fingers wrap around his as I step into the stirrup too, swinging my leg around the horse’s back to sit behind him. I let out a breath, winding my arms around his waist to steady myself.

I bite down on my lip—hard. It’s the equivalent of six in the morning for our nocturnal schedule, so I shouldn’t be noticing that grounding, sharp smell that clings to his skin.

Dante takes the horse at a full gallop to put distance between us and Terralta, and I squeeze him tighter, watching the moonlit landscape pass us in a blur. I hear his laughter in the wind, amused by my brief yelp as I’m forced to cling to him like this. I’m grateful he can’t see the pink-flushed cheeks that accompany my glare.

I glance over my shoulder as the cottage vanishes from sight—just in time to spot a grey blot of fur dart out from the door left ajar and into the woods.

Nearly half an hour later, the horse slows to a steadier, less breakneck speed. With Dante at the reins, I allow myself the indulgence of tilting my head back to trace familiar constellations across the polished sky.

There are the easy ones—Ursa Major and Ursa Minor keeping vigil around the pole star. I send a silent prayer for the bear I had to kill, then tilt my head to the side to catch a glimpse of the celestial Virgin lighting up the eastern sky, patiently awaiting a harvest season still months away.

Craning my neck further behind me, I search for the Corvus constellation to the south. Its four stars are faint this time of year—elusive like the Order named after it. Years of practice allow me to catch sight of the little crow riding the back of the Hydra. As I twist in search of another constellation, Dante huffs.

“If you fall off the back from all that fidgeting, I’m not stopping for you. What on earth are you doing?”

“Studying the sky isn’t a large area of study at the abbey,” I admit. “It’s mostly meant for navigation, but I devoured every book on the subject twice—mythology and all. Staying in practice kept me awake during night watch.”

He scoffs. “I would gladly reach the end of eternity without laying eyes upon another star. But good for you, I suppose.” Try as he might to tease, heaviness weighs down his tone.

“Don’t be so gloomy,” I say. “We have Callistia ahead, all but confirmed and on schedule. And don’t forget, you did get to kill all those vile men last night. I thought that might keep you in high spirits.”

He hums, a smile in his voice. “That was fun.”

I worry my lower lip, fighting a small, crooked smile. Most people don’t share a slayer’s morbid sense of humor, but…

“Did you see the one with his leg broken backward?” I asked, a little softly. “You could—”

“You could see the bone sticking out!” Dante finishes my thought with a barked laugh. “Hells, the squeal he made…”

I stifle a giggle behind my hand, remembering the nightmarish, yet melodramatic splay of that body. He’d looked a bit like a sideshow puppet broken by overuse.

“You’re as twisted as a butcher,” Dante chuckles, shaking his head with what I swear might be fondness. From a killer like him, this is hardly a compliment.

“I have nothing to confess,” I say.

“They weren’t monsters.” Of course, he misses no opportunity to prod at my zealous principles.

“But they were a reeking sack of misogynistic assholes.”

Another soft snort of laughter catches my ear. “And hideous. I can’t decide which is the greater crime. I mean seriously, did not one home in the entire village have a comb?”