Dante stood just outside the doors, pants riding low on narrow hips, knives still sheathed on either side. His thumbs found the hilts of his blades, then slid off, again and again, like he was checking to be sure they hadn’t vanished. The broad shoulders and muscled back that had looked so golden and alive in the fighting ring looked like marble gilded silver in the moonlight.
He could have been a sculptor’s masterpiece: Man on Balcony.
He tensed at some distant sound: Man on Balcony Poised for Flight.
Bit by bit, his shoulders lowered, and his hands unclenched, his chest rising as though he’d ordered himself to relax, one piece at a time. He stepped forward, but paused with a slight shake of his head, like he didn’t trust the open sky before him, or feared freedom was a trap. Rubbing the back of his neck, he turned, looking back at the city over his shoulder.
Alessa ran away before he became Man on Balcony Who Caught You Staring.
He’d been sleeping on floors in tavern storage rooms. She could let him have one decent night’s rest. Clearly, he had his own demons to slay, and she wasn’t one of them.
Besides, it was only one night.
Twelve
Anche in paradiso non è bello essere soli.
There is no greater torment than being alone in paradise.
Alessa was in a coffin.
Not dead. Not yet.
Adrenaline flooded her veins, sharp and sour, as the air in her lungs went stale.
She woke with a start, swinging wildly. Fingers curled into claws, she struck something warm and hard.
A hiss of breath. In the anemic predawn light, Dante clutched his arm.
“What are you doing?” Alessa yanked the sheets up to her chin. “I told you not to come near me!”
He grimaced, shaking his hand as if scalded. “You were having a nightmare. I thought you were going to hurt yourself.”
“Then you should have let me.” Her words, so similar to Lorenzo’s, struck like a blow. “Don’t ever do that again.”
He shot her a dark look. “Believe me, I won’t.”
At a sharp rap on the door, he motioned for her to stay back and strode around the screen. For all his initial reluctance, he took the job seriously. Too seriously.
Alessa pulled on a robe and followed.
Dante was glaring at the door, a stack of clothing in his arms. “She ran away. The maid, or whoever.”
“Can you blame her?” Alessa asked, innocently. “You’re a bit intimidating. You should smile more.”
He gave her a look.
“If it makes you feel better, they run away from me, too.” She waved toward the bathing room. “You can get cleaned up in there.”
Dante bristled before skulking off.
She hadn’t meant to imply he was dirty in general, but any attempt to clarify would only make it more awkward, so she bit her tongue. If he’d decided to take offense at every little thing she said, that was his problem. She covered her face with a pillow, but managed not to scream into it.
Fingers of dawn crept across the floor as she found the energy to face the day. The Consiglio was probably gathering below, waiting to hear her decision so they could summon her next Fonte, but she still had no idea who to choose. She’d give them a list of those she’d ruled out and let them decide. She was a coward, but at least she’d be a coward who wasn’t responsible for making the wrong choice again.
Dante emerged a few minutes later in a crisp white shirt and military-grade trousers. They were a bit tight, but the Captain had done a fair job guessing his size, and she wasn’t complaining about how they hugged his body. Hard to say whether Captain Papatonis would be satisfied with Dante’s appearance, however. With his sleeves rolled to his elbows, the top button of his shirt undone, and the leather gloves shoved in his pocket, he looked alarmingly attractive, but barely respectable by Cittadella standards.
She gave him a bland smile. “Much better.”
Dante scowled like she’d insulted him again.
The bathing room was humid when she stepped inside, and bits of fabric hung from every hook and rod. Intimates she’d left to dry after hand-washing them. Not silky, fine items, even, but practical, everyday underthings.
Nice work, Alessa.
He couldn’t possibly fail to be impressed by her haughty Finestra-ness after bathing amidst her most boring underthings. She ripped everything down and stuffed it all into a drawer.
Strain had left her paler than usual, her eyes overly large, and her hair hung in limp tendrils instead of her usual flowing waves, curly on humid days. She looked nothing like a valiant savior, which felt about right, but was unacceptable.