“Crollo,” Dante wheezed. A tear slid from the corner of his eye, and she had to fight the urge to brush it away. “He’s not finished. I saw—I heard—” He stopped to take a short, shuddering breath. “It’s all connected. Your power. The end. It’s not over.”
She shushed him. “But it’s over for right now, yes?”
A tight, pained nod.
“Then get some rest, so you can heal. And for Dea’s sake, Dante, take the medicine.”
Adrick measured out a dosage and helped Dante raise his head enough to swallow. Alessa beckoned to the nearest medic.
“You know what he is, right?” she asked, daring the middle-aged woman in spectacles to have a problem with Dante’s identity.
The woman nodded, eyebrows drawn. “I do, and I’d be fascinated to hear about what you’ve witnessed. But as for right now, he’s stable, but not improving. These things take time, though.”
“But you’ve seen some improvement, right?” Alessa said. “Small cuts healing, bruises fading?”
It wasn’t unusual for someone to waver on the verge of death for days or even weeks after a grievous injury. It was, however, unusual for a ghiotte.
“I’m afraid not, Finestra. If anything, he’s had a bit of backsliding, but we caught it before it got too bad.”
Alessa frowned. It was still early. And he had come back from the dead. It was a lot to ask of one man. It wasn’t much to cling to, but she held on to a sliver of hope.
Fifty-Six
Tutto sapere è niente sapere.
To know everything is to know nothing.
“Porca troia,” Dante cursed, waking with a start—the only way he woke these days.
Every time he closed his eyes, he died all over again, and every time he opened them, it felt like being born from the fire again.
Asleep, awake, it didn’t matter. There was no relief.
The never-ceasing noise plucked at his nerves. Labored breathing, soft moans, low-pitched voices. One more day on this cot, inhaling disinfectant and waking to other people’s misery, would kill him.
“Puttana la miseria,” he said through gritted teeth.
Dottoressa Agostino shot him a dark look.
“Mi scusi,” Dante said, only half sarcastically. He’d heard worse from other patients in the common tongue every damn day, but she held this against him?
He didn’t feel pain, he was pain. Every damn hair on his head hurt. But he’d put it off long enough. Choking down another groan, he sat up.
Alessa drew his gaze like a magnet. Sitting on a cot across the room, her face lit with joy when she saw him.
She jumped up, excused herself, and hurried toward him, leaving the soldier she’d been talking to gaping at her back. Dante fought a smile. She did that all the time, and she had no idea, flitting from one person or thought to another with no clue that anyone might not be able to keep up.
“How are you feeling?” She kneeled beside him and took his hand, silk gloves against bare skin.
“Take them off,” he said softly.
Her eyes, more green than brown today, went wide, long lashes fluttering with nerves. “Later. You’re still recovering, and—”
“Please,” he begged. “Take them off.”
She paled. Her hands shook as she removed her gloves and brushed the back of his hand with her fingers.
His muscles seized. He bit his lip, hard. Che palle.
Alessa leapt to her feet, blinking away tears. “It’s too soon. You need more time to heal. I’m going to find Adrick and Josef. They promised to help you up the stairs, and the doctor says you’re ready—” She hurried away mid-sentence.
Dante dropped his head back against the stone wall and stared up at the metal filigree over the courtyard.
No point denying it.
He wasn’t getting worse, but he wasn’t getting better. At least, no faster than anyone else.
A nurse strode toward him with a bowl of something steaming, a smile on her face that he couldn’t return.
They treated him like a normal person, and at first, he’d assumed they didn’t know. But they did. Hell, they fought over who got to tend to the Ghiotte Fonte. His lip curled at the phrase.
They knew exactly what he was.
Or at least, what he had been.
Fifty-Seven
Traduttore, traditore.
Translator, traitor. All translation is flawed.
A month after Divorando, Alessa watched as Kaleb and Dante helped each other stand, swaying until they found their balance. In bandages and loose-fitting robes, they looked like a pair of drunken pirates who’d lost their pants.