Ignoring her outstretched hands, Dante continued his methodical perusal of the assorted pastries. “I’m not scared of you.”
She raised a victorious fist. “One down. Victory is mine.”
Chuckling, he popped a puff pastry into his mouth.
Twenty-Three
Lupo non mangia lupo.
Wolves don’t eat wolves.
DAYS BEFORE DIVORANDO: 20
Back in her suite, Alessa debated aloud what to wear for her portrait session the following day, while Dante ignored the topic entirely, lounging in an armchair with yet another book.
She tore through her closet, pulling down armfuls of ruby silk, silver taffeta, and violet lace, and hung a half dozen gowns she’d worn once or not at all from the privacy screen between her bed and the main room.
After some very loud throat-clearing on her part （and one small but heartfelt foot-stomp）， Dante looked up long enough to log his vote by grunting in the general direction of a crimson dress. She didn’t bother asking for his input on jewelry or shoes, but arranged her picks beneath the dress so she wouldn’t have to rummage in the morning.
Wandering back toward the sitting area, Alessa picked up the small, leather-bound book he’d left open on the side table and ran her finger over the words inside the cover.
Per luce mia.
“Is this for me?”
Dante glanced over and bolted upright. “No.”
“Sorry.” She jerked her hand away. “I didn’t mean to pry.”
“No. It’s fine.” His cheekbones darkened. “You can look at it. It’s in the old language, though.”
Alessa opened to a page at random. “O mangiar questa minestra o saltar della finestra,” she read, stumbling a bit. “Something about ministers … jumping out windows?”
“Minestra is soup. Eat the soup or jump out the window. It means take it or leave it.”
“Ah,” she said, closing it. “I’d begun to wonder if you’d memorized a book of ancient proverbs, and voila, here it is.”
“More than one, actually. The holy man who took me in after my parents died made me read the Verità every day. It was big enough to hide other books behind it.”
“Oh.” She chewed her lip. “How long did you live with him?”
“Too long. Took me three years to get away.”
“That’s awful.” She wanted to ask more, to understand what he’d been through, both during his time in captivity and the years after, but instinct told her a true friend would change the subject.
Her fingertips detected grooves on the back of the book, and she flipped it over to see letters carved into the leather.
E. Lucente.
“I knew it!” Alessa crowed. “Your name is Eustice!”
Dante shook his head with a crooked smile. “The E is for Emma. It belonged to my mother.”
“Drat,” Alessa sulked. “Well, at least I know your last name now. Lucente. Light. And Dante means…”
“Enduring.”
“Enduring light,” she mused. “I like it. You called me that before: Luce mia.”
Dante crossed and uncrossed his arms with a soft throat-clearing. “She used to call me that.”
Her heart ached for the little boy he must have once been. “What are you reading now? Anything good?”
He slid a glance her way. “You tell me. I found it by your bed.”
The blood drained from her face. “Give it back.”
He pulled it close. “I will. I’m just borrowing it. Fair trade.”
“You can’t. It’s mine. I mean, it’s not mine. I found it. It was clearly not meant to be in the library, so I removed it. To discard it.”
“Why would you do that?”
“It’s … inappropriate.” The tips of her ears went hot.
“Well, someone’s enjoyed it. Half the pages are dog-eared.” His lips twitched.
She busied herself by shuffling throw pillows around. “I wouldn’t know.”
“They marked the best parts, if you ask me.”
Best. The most scandalous—that’s what he meant—but as she had not read it and therefore could not have folded pages to mark scenes for future reading, she could neither argue nor agree with his assessment, and the bastard knew it.
“The author is quite, eh, descriptive,” he said, all innocence. “Ah, here’s a good line. ‘When the Prince Regent turned to display his most royal sword, the lady gasped. Such an impressive weapon could—’”