“Of course they are.” Alessa curled her fingers into a fist. “I’m the monster who haunts their nightmares.”
His eyes softened. She wouldn’t have noticed the change a day before, but it was there.
Dante picked up a bottle of wine and squinted through the cobalt glass.
“I watched them open it,” she said. “It’s not poisoned. Unfortunately.”
Dante tipped it to catch the remaining drops and reached for another. Spearing the cork with a knife, he gave a deft twist, popping it out. He tipped the bottle her way, and she shook her head.
She didn’t realize she was staring at the knives inked on his wrist until he raised his eyebrows.
“Do you regret it?” Alessa gestured to his tattoo.
“Always.”
She had no grounds to judge or pry into his past. She was a killer who’d hired a killer, and he was marked, not banished, so whatever he’d done, it hadn’t been cold-blooded murder—probably a street brawl gone wrong. But it struck her that Dante might be the only person she’d ever spoken to who knew what it felt like to end a life.
“It must be terrible to have a reminder of your worst mistake etched onto your skin forever.”
He absently rubbed his thumb over the mark. “If I forgot, it would be like they died all over again. They don’t deserve that.”
Guilt and sadness had always been a weight she couldn’t shake off, but he spoke of regret like a gift, like he cared enough to want to keep their memory alive.
“Well,” she said, trying to smile and failing spectacularly. “I’m glad I don’t have to get marked. I’d run out of space.” Her smile collapsed.
“You want to talk about it?”
Only her ghosts breathed in the long silence. She’d carried Emer’s story alone for so long, with no one willing to listen.
“The first time, I was so … excited.” The words came unbidden, like blood welling from a wound. “After waiting so long, I was hungry for any kind of connection, even a simple touch.”
“Hungry?”
Heat flared in her cheeks. “It’s the best word I could think of.”
“You wanted him.”
“No.” She shook her head. “I don’t know. Maybe. But that’s not what I meant. I simply wanted to be a part of society again, to be a normal girl who wasn’t set apart from everyone else. He was sweet and kind, and I knew he’d be patient with me as I learned how to control his—our—power. I sensed he could be a friend and maybe something more, eventually.”
“Was it quick?”
She swallowed. “No. And I only made it worse. I’d been warned I might feel a shock, so when he kissed my hand, I was waiting. I didn’t notice he hadn’t moved. Until he collapsed. I should have left him and run for help, but I didn’t realize it was my fault. It was so obvious, of course. The same thing happened to the child I was playing tag with on the day I became Finestra, but that boy wasn’t a Fonte. He was just a boy who had the bad luck to be touching me when the gift came. So, I tried to comfort Emer. I yelled for help.” She hiccupped a watery laugh. “I wanted him to know I was there, that he wasn’t alone.”
Her knuckles were white as bone around her glass.
“Because that’s what I would have wanted. No one should suffer or die alone. By the time help came, when I started to understand what was happening, he was already dead.”
“What did you do?” Dante asked softly.
The dishes before her blurred into a watercolor still life.
“I held his hand.”
* * *
Dante was still asleep when Alessa padded into the sitting area in the morning, wrung out and hollow.
Dea must have known he’d spend his life trying to be surly, so she’d crafted a face that would draw people to him anyway. Or maybe she’d meant to bless him with perfect features and charm, but he’d rebelled with sarcasm and a prickly demeanor.
His eyes opened, and her heart skipped a beat.
“Morning, sunshine,” she said with a brittle smile. “Our mission awaits.”
For Renata, “bonding” had to involve weaponry, so the first item on the Fontes’ agenda was whacking each other with blunt swords. Alessa doubted it would do much to build camaraderie. They weren’t a team. They were miserable quasi strangers trying not to look at each other.
They took their positions in one long row, eyes forward. Renata strode up and down the line, correcting form, instructing them to picture an invisible opponent, but Alessa visualized each step and flick of the blade as a dance. She’d never actually danced with anyone, but her foil became her partner, responsive to her touch, cutting a silver trail through the air. Her muscles grew pleasantly fatigued, and everything fell away.