Page 97 of A Betrothal So Bloody

It’s not the first time he’s prodded at my studies. I shrug and offer an innocent smile. “I have—”

“Your reasons,” he finishes with a disappointed sigh.

“Enzo…” I understand, really. He’s in his mid-thirties, pressured to find a suitable wife, and we’ve been friendly enough. “I have no family. No dowry. So little to offer. You could have a much nicer woman on your arm tonight.”

“You are nice. And too delicate to be toiling these long hours away at the shop.”

I suppress a smirk. If he only knew there were a dozen weapons hidden right beneath the floorboards he stands upon—perhaps that would convince him that courting me is a mistake.

Before I can put into no uncertain terms that I will not be convinced, a skittering sound makes us both flinch. Our eyes scan the ground at once—and Enzo shouts, jumping nearly a foot in the air as a rat bounds across the dusty floor of the shop. Seeming eerily intent on its path, it clambers up the table leg, straight toward me.

“Shit! Stand back, Ariya!” Enzo lunges toward the hearth to grab a fire poker.

“Wait!” I narrow my eyes, seeing something clutched in the rat’s teeth—a folded bit of parchment. The little beast stands on its hind legs at the edge of the tabletop, fixated on me and waiting.

When I inch closer, the rat remains docile. When I hold out my hand, it neatly places the parchment onto my palm before skittering back down and disappearing into the wall.

As I unfold the parchment, Enzo drops the poker. “What the fuck was that?” he gasps. “Did… Did that rat just pass you a message? I must be losing my mind.”

Were I not in shock, I would have hurried to distract him from the strange happening, but I am frozen—keen on the short message. The painfully familiar scrawl makes my knees nearly give out from beneath me. My eyes race over the words once—twice.

When Enzo tries to step closer for a better look, I hold the note close and give him a distant look. “I’m truly sorry—I’m afraid I have plans tonight.”

Moonlight glints off the canal’s surface. I watch every shadow along the water-stained stones. The buildings, paint peeling across every surface, blot out the city at large. But I can still hear the dull roar of the St. Mark’s Day celebration in the distance. The noise is my only tether to the splendor of the more enticing side of Venice. This corner of the city is one I only frequent when pursuing a lead on a possible vampire attack—a labyrinthian section of homes and businesses with little streetlight to illuminate. Riskier to travel alone at night, unless you knew precisely where you were going.

The gondola creaks as I step off of it. There are few other boats nearby—this street was well-chosen. The perfect, intimate meeting place selected by Dante—or, more likely, a trap set by Alessandro. I’m armed to defend against that possibility. If I have been lured here, it isn’t as though I’ll be any safer cowering at the shop.

But my stupid, hopeful heart wants to believe it is Dante. One line from his short message is all but burned into my eyes. The way he addressed me—my ruinously beautiful little slayer. Every time I think of it, I’m back in bed with him, and he is curiously insistent that I am a beauty to behold.

As I make my way down the packed earth street, I keep my cloak pulled tight with one hand—the other is resting on the hilt of the blade sheathed at my side. Lower-class courtesans are lined by the water near a bridge, some bearing small lanterns to better illuminate their low-cut gowns. Their laughter and beckoning voices turn my head just as one woman pulls down her neckline to expose her breasts entirely to a passing gondola. It’s a sight I’ve rather gotten used to, living here where courtesans can rise to ranks of privilege some noblewomen only dream of. The boat doesn’t change course, but the wine-drunk men aboard sing back slurred verses of poetry and toss flowers across the water.

Leave it to Venice to make even a damn bridge a den of debauchery. It lives up to its reputation as the continent’s most hedonistic and luxurious city every hour. One of the courtesans catches my eye as I pass them, and she grins with a wave of her layered skirt—inviting, unafraid. The corner of my lips tug up, and I offer a nod as I press on. I have no quarrel with these women. Dangerous as their profession might be, they’re better than half the uptight fucks that compose the noble class.

I keep glancing over my shoulder, heart pounding as I imagine eyes watching me from the darkened arches that branch off to alleyways and long, winding paths between buildings.

This is the place.

Two doors past the mask-maker’s shop, like the scrawled note instructed. The gaping eyes of the bauta masks painted onto the stucco wall seem to follow me as I pass and pull to a halt just inside the arched alley that faces the water. Minutes stretch, and my hand becomes sweaty on the hilt of my dagger. I become painfully aware of every sense—the smell of decay and perfume thick in the air, water lapping against stone, the distant tolling bells for the procession at the city’s center.

A soft gust of wind makes me freeze. I look across the narrow strip of canal and see my reflection briefly distort in the shop’s window on the other side. A couple of nearby lanterns gutter and nearly go out entirely, throwing shadows around.

From the corner of my eye, I see one such shadow peel out of the darkness behind me—and there is no reflection in the window.

Leech.

Whirling, I drop my hand to my belt and unsheath my blade. I ram my weight into my attacker. He grunts, staggering back and catching himself on the wall he’d pulled away from. The raised hood of his cloak masks his face in darkness.

When I dive again, blade raised, the man catches my wrist with fluid, stonelike strength and holds fast. My view of the canal spins away as he pins my back against his front and wraps his arms around me in an iron grip. My head rests in the crook of his arm. I try desperately to pummel him—but shit, I’m entirely out of practice—

“If I’d known you were craving a fight, darling, I’d have come armed.”

I stiffen against the firm body at my back, painfully aware of how familiar I am with it. That voice in my ear nearly undoes me. With a gasping cry, I whirl to face him, and his grip relents. His hood has fully fallen, revealing bright eyes, tousled blond hair—and that unbearably beautiful, infuriating smile.

“Still passionate about your sharp objects, I see,” Dante says with a click of his tongue.

My blade clatters to the ground as I throw my arms around him. He squeezes me back ferociously, his teasing giving way to a shudder. A sob chokes out of me—he’s here, he’s real. I bury my cheek against his chest, relishing the solid feel of him as I fight for a full breath.

We pull back for half a breath only to surge back together—this time his lips catching mine. We kiss like we could be swallowed into each other, making up for months apart. Any worries I had about Dante forgetting me become utterly distant. Every ferocious, starved caress says it all.