Dante’s gaze flicked down, then immediately up and away.
“Oh, please,” she said. “Like you’ve never seen a woman’s legs before.”
“Just keep moving,” he said gruffly.
When they made it to her rooms, Alessa hurried to the bathroom to examine her injury. The cut on her temple, courtesy of a stray piece of marble, was straight, as long as her finger, and relatively shallow. Nothing that required stitches, thank the gods, because she would’ve had to do it herself and she’d probably faint. First her ear, now her face. At this rate, she’d look like a battle-worn Finestra before Divorando even began.
Dante came up beside her. “I found salve. Hold still.” He raised a finger, and Alessa stumbled back, tripping over the commode and falling into the tub.
“Have you lost all sense?” she said. “You can’t touch my skin, or you’ll die.”
Dante blinked. “Oh, right. Here.” He tossed the salve into her lap.
Her backside hurt, her temple smarted, and she must have looked ridiculous with her legs draped over the side of a bathtub, feet sticking up. Meanwhile, instead of looking like a drowned rat, Dante looked gorgeous, hair curling, white shirt translucent and plastered to his chest, and his pants—no, she was not looking at his pants.
She glared at him while unscrewing the cap. “Are you laughing at me?” she said. “You think someone tried to kill me again and you’re laughing?”
He raised a fist to his mouth. “Someone’s been trying to kill you the whole time I’ve known you.”
She hurled the salve at his head.
He caught it. “Can we agree that when I tell you to move your ass from now on, you do it without question?”
“Fine. Can we agree that as long as I do, you won’t drag me around? The Finestra isn’t supposed to be manhandled.”
“Deal.” He shook the salve at her. “Done with this?”
Alessa pushed up to her elbows, squinting at the inside of his wrist. At the two crossed blades, the thin circle of minuscule letters around it—the mark that declared him a criminal, a killer. The faded mark.
Dante dropped his hand, but she’d already seen the proof.
“It’s fake,” she said. “You marked yourself.”
Twenty-Two
Si dice sempre il lupo più grande che non è.
In a story, little lies make the wolf bigger.
DAYS BEFORE DIVORANDO: 26
The laughter wiped from his face.
“Why?” Alessa clambered out of the tub. “Why would you pretend to be a criminal? An outcast?”
“Why do you care?” He slammed the salve onto the counter and walked out.
Leaving a wet trail behind her, she ran after him. “I’m trying to understand you.”
“There’s your first mistake.”
“If you aren’t marked, you don’t even need a Fortezza pass, so why did you come to work for me?”
He wouldn’t—or couldn’t—look at her. “Because men do stupid things when women cry?”
“Not good enough. You lied to me.”
He whirled on her, eyes flashing. “You found me, remember? And mark or no mark, I am an outcast. No home, no family, no friends.”
“I told you—” She stopped, suddenly lightheaded. “I thought you understood what it felt like, but you’ve never killed anyone.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing. Maybe I just didn’t get caught.”
“Which one is it?”
“I didn’t save them. Same thing.” He stared at the floor, hands gripping the hilts of his knives like they were the only thing tethering him to the ground.
She couldn’t stay angry when he looked so lost. “Your parents?”
“To start.”
“For what it’s worth, I’m a much better listener than I am a Finestra.”
“You don’t need my ugly history.”
“What’s one more tragedy?” She gave a delicate shrug, a gamble that paid off when he quirked an almost-smile. “I told you mine,” she said, a teasing lilt to her voice.
He turned to the rain-streaked balcony doors, fists clenched, mouth tight. She was about to leave him in peace when he finally spoke. “They were killed by a mob. People we’d known all our lives turned on them, dragged them outside, and beat them to death.”
She shivered. “Why? What could they possibly—”
“Nothing,” he snapped. “They didn’t do anything to deserve that.”