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—’”
A pillow to his face cut him off. Laughing, he tossed it aside. “Fess up. How many times have you read this?”
“I told you, I didn’t—”
“A dozen? A hundred?”
“You’re a horrible person, you know that?”
“I do.” He sounded far too serious, and she hesitated, wondering if she should apologize, but his expression shifted to wide-eyed sincerity. “But I simply must find out if our intrepid heroine chooses the prince or the rogue, so don’t you dare spoil it for me.”
Alessa pulled herself tall, every bit the haughty Finestra. “I would never. Only the worst sort of people spoil book endings.”
“True. And you can’t. Obviously. Because you haven’t read it.”
“Because I haven’t read it.”
“You know, there’s nothing to be ashamed of.” He stole a glance at her. “It’s perfectly normal.”
“To read?”
“To enjoy this kind of book. You may be a holy vessel and all that, but you’re still human.”
“Sort of.”
He sat forward. “Entirely. Title or no title, power or none, you’re still human. Don’t let the holy nonsense mess with your head.”
“Holy nonsense?”
He waved away her indignant protest. “Keep your gods and goddesses on their pedestals if you want, but the rituals, the rules, the isolation? You know that isn’t really from them, right? That’s written by mortals. Men, mostly. We have a bad habit of locking up people who scare us, and the thing that scares men with power most is a woman with more of it.”
She couldn’t imagine why anyone would want her power, but there were a million things she didn’t understand about people, so she didn’t argue. Even Adrick had sounded jealous the last time they spoke.
Dante gave her a pointed glance. “If parts of this deal don’t work for you, ignore them. Take the traditions you need and toss the rest. Be bold.”
“Bold, huh?” She snatched the book from the table. “In that case, I’ll take this back.”
Dante’s laughter followed her to a chair on the balcony.
“They were talking about a card game tonight,” he said, coming up behind her. “You should go.”
“I tortured them all day.” Alessa smoothed her skirts. “I’m sure they don’t want me there.”
“Won’t know unless you try,” he said. “You want friends, go get them.”
“I won’t force anyone to be my friend.”
“Ha! You keep bullying me into it.” Resting his hands on the back of her chair, he bent close to her ear. “You aren’t scared, are you?”
Alessa tossed her head with righteous indignation, thwacking Dante in the face with her hair.
Laughing, he brushed a few strands from his cheek. “You smell like an orchard.”
“I smell divine, thank you very much. My Nonna makes me soaps and scrubs with homegrown lemons and sea salt. It’s good for the complexion.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. They let you visit your grandparents?”
“No. I’m not even allowed to write to them, but the rules don’t specify who I can shop from, so I order a basket every few months, and Nonna writes secret notes on the inside of the wrappings.”
“I’m beginning to see where your rebellious streak comes from.”
“I’m named after her, too, and I inherited her tendency to take in strays. If she ever met you, she’d force you to eat lots of pasta and scold you for being too handsome.”
“You think I’m handsome?”
Alessa went pink. “No. But she would. And she wouldn’t expect you to speak, so you’d be happy. When she isn’t singing to herself, she’s talking to herself, and it’s impossible to get a word in edgewise. My Nonno is Deaf, and she always forgets that everyone else isn’t.”
“Sooooo”—he drew the word out—“she’s an older version of you?”
“I suspect you didn’t mean that as a compliment, but I’m taking it anyway.”
“Whatever it takes to build your confidence, luce mia. Come on, let’s go.”
She didn’t move.
“Up and at ’em, soldier.”
She gripped the arms and hooked her ankles around the legs, but Dante tipped her chair forward, leaving her no choice but to stand or get dumped on the floor.
“I despise you.”
“I can live with that.”
Voices grew audible as they crossed the hall, followed by laughter at a joke she hadn’t heard. Everything she’d wanted for years was behind a door, and all she had to do was knock.
Dread. Hope. Two sides of the same coin, spinning too fast to tell them apart.
Alessa held her hand up until her arm ached, then lowered it. “I can’t.”
“How are you going to face a swarm of scarabei if you’re too scared to knock on a door?”
“Crashing a social event uninvited is worse than a battle to the death.”
“Just say hello.”
Alessa cringed at another burst of laughter from the other side.
“Fine, I’ll do it.”
Alessa moved to block his path.
“Don’t you dare.” She wagged a very ineffective finger in his face as he towered over her.
“Coward,” he said with a grin.
The door swung open, and Alessa whirled to find an equally startled Saida clutching her chest in the doorway.
“Finestra. Is something wrong?”
Behind her in the room, Josef dropped a hand of cards on the floor, and Nina did an awkward dance to save a drink from spilling across the table as she jostled it in her haste to stand. If the girl was half as clumsy outside the Cittadella, Josef must need to use his powers all the time to keep from being drenched.
“No. Nothing’s wrong.” Alessa smoothed her skirts. “I merely wanted to check if you needed anything.”
The Fontes made a horrified tableau, watching her like a family of mice might face a cat who’d unearthed their den.
Saida blinked. “I don’t think we need anything. Do we need anything?”
Heads shook.
Alessa nodded. Then realized she’d been doing so for an awkward length of time and stopped abruptly. “Excellent.” Another half-nod. “Well. Then. Have a lovely evening.”
“You, too.”
“Thank you.”
Saida closed the door, but she didn’t throw the deadbolt. So there was that for a silver lining.
Dante popped his lips. “Okay. Maybe you should have brought something to loosen them up.”
“Nina is only fifteen.”
“Cookies for her and alcohol for the rest.”
“You could have suggested that before I stood there like a dunderhead.”
Dante stole a look at her as they retreated to her rooms. “Hey, points for effort.”
She gave him a mock scowl.
Her pent-up nervous energy had nowhere to go, so when Dante, with a waggle of his eyebrows, held up another romantic novel he’d found, she refused to play along.
“That’s a good one,” she said. “But I forbid you from getting stuck in a book right now.”
“Forbid me? You think you can give me orders?”
“I give you orders all the time. You just don’t follow them.” She cut a glance his way. “Dante, you’re my only friend.”
“I think you might be mine, too.” Dante pinched the bridge of his nose. “Dea, that’s pathetic, isn’t it?”
“Quality, not quantity. Now, I’m asking very nicely, so you have to say yes.”
“To?”
She clapped her hands. “Playing with me.”
Dante squinted, and she smiled brighter. If he was going to tease her about reading smutty novels, she’d fight back by working innuendo into every conversation.
“Fine,” he said, still studying her. “Should I raid the library, or do you have something to drink in here?”
“I’m the Finestra. A divinely ordained warrior.”
“That a no?”
“I’m just making it very clear that it would be inappropriate—” She hoisted herself up on the counter, reaching to open the highest cabinet and nudge a loaf of stale sourdough aside. “Highly inappropriate to keep liquor in my room.”
The easiest to reach was a dusty bottle of limoncello she’d forgotten to chill, and she held it up for his consideration. Dante arched an eyebrow. She put it back.
Biting her tongue, Alessa flicked a heavy decanter with her fingertips, her other hand poised to catch it when it tipped over the edge.
Long browned fingers caught it in front of her face, and Alessa snatched her hand away. Pressing back against the cabinets, she turned to berate him.
And forgot how to speak.
Dante stood so near to the counter he was practically between her knees, his dark eyes so close she could count the flecks of gold.
His gaze dropped to her lips.
“Get back,” she squeaked. “I don’t need another death on my conscience.”
Cradling the bottle with more care than he showed for his life, Dante turned to lean against the counter beside her, still too close. “Be my own fault, wouldn’t it?” He pulled the cork and took a swig. “Oh, that’s good.”
“I’d still have to live with the guilt and find a new bodyguard.” Alessa selected two lowball glasses and hopped off the counter. She gave him a pointed look. “They’re called drinking glasses.”
“Fascinating.” He held out the bottle, sighed when she didn’t take it from him, and put it on the table.
Alessa poured a bit for herself, then corked the bottle and held it close to her chest. A hostage. “Let’s play a game.”
“Eh?”
“A game.” A distraction from her social failure.
“What kind of game?”
“A drinking game.” She took a sip—like a lady—and let the challenge dangle.
He dropped into the chair, his elbows hitting the table with a thump. “I’m listening.”
“Truth or challenge. When it’s your turn, you choose for that round.”
Dante tipped his chair back, skepticism etched on his face. One of these days, he was going to fall on his ass, and she dearly hoped she was there to see it.
“If you don’t perform the challenge or answer the question, you take a drink.”
A slow smile spread across his face. “Works for me.”
“You’re just going to say no to everything, aren’t you?”
“Yep.” The front legs of his chair thumped down.
“No.” She clutched the bottle tighter. “I won’t pour unless you participate.”
He flicked his fingers for her to proceed. “Fine. But I’m not telling you my name.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
“I never said it was.”
“I’m going to get it out of you, one way or another. It has become my life’s mission. I’ll stop at nothing. Thumbscrews, the rack. Coming right up.”
“I’d love to see you try.”
“Are you ticklish?”
“Not a bit.”
“I bet you are. I bet you giggle like a schoolgirl.” Alessa gave him an arch look. “I’ll double your salary if you tell me.”
His eyes crinkled with amusement. “No payment could be more satisfying than besting you. I’ll take it to the grave.”
“Oh, come on.”
He considered. “Fine. I guess I could tell you on my deathbed.”
“Two things to look forward to, then.”
“Are we playing or not?”
Teasing him was fun, but she couldn’t risk him changing his mind. “I’ll start with an easy one. Most beautiful place you’ve ever seen?”
He pursed his lips slightly. “A little beach on the far side of the island.”
Her heart twisted. “What does it look like?”
He lifted his glass, let it plunk to the table, then did it again. “A beach.”
“What kind of beach?”
“The kind where the land meets the sea,” he drawled, reveling in her annoyance.
She shook the bottle with a wet slosh. “Humor me. I haven’t been on a beach in years.”
He cast his eyes to the ceiling. “High cliffs on both sides. A narrow path to get to it, so it’s not worth the effort for most. But the water…” He trailed off with a wistful smile. “I’ve never seen that color anywhere else.”
“It sounds perfect,” she said with a sigh. She rewarded him with a stingy pour and tucked the bottle between her thighs, the most secure place on earth. “What’s my question?”
“If you could do anything before Divorando, what would it be?”
“Easy. Control my power and stop killing people.”
“No, no. Games are meant to be fun. Pick something good.” Dante lifted his glass to his lips.
“Lose my virginity.”
Dante choked. Red-faced, tears in his eyes, he pounded his chest.
Alessa preened. “Better?”
“Much,” he croaked. “Challenge.”
“Hmm. Say something nice about Kaleb.”
“Nope.” He tipped his glass.
“Slow down,” she protested with a laugh. “The game will be over in five minutes if you drink that fast.”
“Nah. Iron constitution.” He patted his firm abdomen. “Ugh, Kaleb. Fitting he makes electricity.”
“How’s that?”
“Ever been near a lightning strike? Not fun.”
“You have terrible luck.”
“It wasn’t a direct strike. I’ve also broken seven bones, including my nose, been stabbed and burned, and nearly lost a finger.”
She grimaced. “The gods must really hate you.”
“I’m certain they do.”
“That makes two of us, then.”
He scoffed. “You’re the savior. After Divorando, you’ll never work another day in your life. They’ll write sonnets about you.”
“Or I’ll kill every remaining Fonte on the island, everyone on Saverio will die, and it will be all my fault.” She pressed the cool, sweating glass to her cheek. “I hate hurting people.”
“No, really? I couldn’t tell.”
“I have one job. One. Why can’t I do it?”
He gave her an appraising look, trapping his lower lip between his teeth. “You said you felt hungry.”
“Hmm?” She dragged her gaze from his mouth, but his eyes—warm and dark, like molten chocolate cake flecked with toffee—didn’t make it any easier to concentrate.
“When you touched your first Fonte, you said you felt hungry. Have you ever really been hungry?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Everyone’s been hungry.”
“Not like when dinner’s late—truly hungry. So famished you’d choke down dirt to fill the hole in your belly.”
“I suppose not.”
“Well, when you’re that empty, and you get your hands on food, you know you’ll be sick if you eat too fast, but you can’t help it.”
She stared into her glass as though it might hold answers, but all she found was her own warped reflection. “Okay…”
“That’s why they locked you up in here, right? To remind you about connection and community by taking it away from you?” He waited until she looked up, then held her gaze. “They starved you, and you gorged yourself the first chance you got.”
Unease sat heavy in her gut. “Are you trying to say I kill people because I’m so pathetically lonely I gobble them up? Because that doesn’t make me feel any better.”
“I’m saying it’s not your fault.”
Her throat constricted. “Books make it sound romantic to die from loneliness, but to kill someone else with your loneliness? Now, that’s a talent.”
Dante leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Maybe if you took the edge off, you’d gain some control.”
Her lips twitched. “What, like an affection snack?”
“Something like that.” Dante drummed his fingers on the table. “Could you get a pet?”
“A pet?”
“Small? Furry? Domesticated animals?” He mimed clawing at the air. “Like a cat.”
Alessa took a slug of whiskey, coughing at the burn. “You’re proposing I get a cat. To fill the gaping, empty hole inside my soul. A cat.”
“Why not? Maybe you’d see better in the dark.”
“Or kill a cat.”
“You think so?” He looked surprised. “They have fur over their skin.”
“I don’t know, and I don’t want to find out. If I killed a sweet little kitty, I’d never forgive myself.”
“For a cat? You’ve already—”
“Killed three people? Is that what you were about to say?”
He had the decency to look uncomfortable.
“At least they agreed to it. An animal can’t.”
Dante still looked thoughtful.
She raised a finger in warning. “If I wake up tomorrow and find a cat in my room, you’ll both be put out on the street.”
He laughed and reached for her glass, as his was empty, but she swatted his hand away.
Was it possible?
She’d always believed she was supposed to embrace her isolation, blamed herself for letting loneliness fill the spaces meant to hold divinity, but Dante’s words had her doubting.
Maybe she’d been fighting the current, swimming in the wrong direction, all along.
After cutting herself on the blade of hope so many times, would she be a fool to reach for it again?