Come la cosa indugia, piglia vizio.
Wait at your own peril.
DAYS BEFORE DIVORANDO: 18
Alessa muddled her way through training the next day, which went about as well as the sessions before their day off—if one could call a near-death experience and attempted sororicide a “day off”—and she wasn’t the only one who only emerged from a stupor at the sight of a parade of wheeled icebox carts in the courtyard.
Josef had planned the surprise, a fact he took a bit too long explaining as they eyed the alluring treats.
Alessa held back as the others perused the selection from Josef’s family’s gelateria. To be polite. And because her dread about the coming evening, when Dante would take his turn being tormented, was quickly overtaking her hopes that he could help her.
He’d dodged death at her hand once. That didn’t mean he would again.
Beside her, Josef puffed with pride as he watched his fellow Fontes make their selections. “I’ve always thought you can learn a lot about a person by their favorite flavor.”
“Oh?” Alessa said.
“I usually choose vanilla.” He looked at her expectantly.
“Because vanilla is…” Boring felt like the wrong answer.
He smiled as if offering her the solution to a puzzle. “Subtle, but complex.”
“Of course.” Alessa called out a request for dark chocolate and raspberry and waited for Josef to take a bowl from an alarmed-looking gelato scooper and hand it to her. “Tell me more.” She’d never really had a chance to speak with him one-on-one, and if the topic of frozen desserts was her best chance to get him to open up, so be it.
“Most people act like vanilla lacks flavor, but it’s actually quite nuanced. The notes vary depending on where you source the beans and how you prepare them before blending.” Josef smiled at his bowl, which was still half full, and thanks to his gift, showed no sign of melting. “I know I’m a man of few words, but I like to think that I, too, am more complex than people assume.”
Alessa nodded pensively. “What does mine say about me?”
Josef flushed. “I couldn’t presume, Finestra.”
Alessa sighed. “Nina, then. Stracciatella? Let me guess, sweet but inconsistent?”
Josef blinked, befuddled. “I know her too well. It wouldn’t be fair.”
“You can’t propose a gelato theory of personality, and then hold out on me, Josef.” She eyed Dante across the room, but while Josef might be the stuffiest boy she’d ever met, even he would notice her pathetic curiosity if she wasn’t careful. She settled on a safer option. “What did Kamaria get?”
“Half mint and half cafe latte, but she orders something different every time she comes into the shop.”
Alessa thought. “Hmm. Let me try. I’d say she craves excitement and adventure, and she hates being bored.”
Josef’s eyes twinkled. “I concur.”
“This is fun. Do Kaleb.”
“Strawberries and cream. I haven’t figured him out yet.”
“You and me both. Pink. And sweet.” Alessa shrugged. “Yeah, I’ve got nothing.”
They let the subject drop for a bit, each absorbed in their dessert.
“Limone,” Josef said, out of nowhere.
“Excuse me?”
“That’s what Signor Dante chose. If you were wondering. You may not have been.”
“I wasn’t.” Methinks I doth protest too much. “What does limone say about a person? A sour disposition?”
Josef looked mildly offended. “Lemon is not sour, it’s tart. Not the same at all. The culinary section of the paper called our limone a ‘near-perfect blend of tart and sweet: appealing, layered, and complex. The heart of Saverio in every scoop. A classic.’ Our family has spent years perfecting it. It’s our most beloved flavor.”
Alessa licked a bit of gelato off her spoon. “Of course. The perfect flavor. My mistake.”
Dante eyed them as if he knew he was the topic of conversation.
With an obnoxiously cheerful grin, Alessa spooned another scoop into her mouth and promptly got her first taste of the dark chocolate, which entirely ruined the effect. Her eyes slipped closed to fully appreciate the melding of hedonistic chocolate and fruity tartness melting on her tongue.
When she returned to the mortal plane, Josef had moved on to analyzing Saida, and Dante was jabbing at his limone as though it had offended him.
“Quit stalling,” Dante said. Elbows propped on his knees, he watched Alessa pace.
She’d put it off as long as she could, chewing each bite of dinner as slowly as possible.
“We almost died yesterday,” she said, yawning dramatically. “Doesn’t that warrant an early bedtime?”
Dante glared at her through his lashes. “That was your excuse last night. Are we doing this or not?”
She’d already left him unconscious once. A second touch might be too much.
“I’ve changed my mind,” she said. “This was a terrible idea.”
“If we wait for a better one, we’ll all be dead. Look, as someone older than you—”
“Pfft. Not by much, if at all. Do you even know how old I am?”
He dragged out the question like it was sucking years from his life. “How old are you?”
Alessa smiled because she knew it would irritate him. “I am eighteen.”
“Like I said. As someone older than you—”
“How old are you?”
“Nineteen. Or twenty. Stop interrupting.”
“How can you not know how old you are?”
“I don’t carry a pocket calendar and I lost track of the date a few weeks ago. Do you always ask so many questions?”
“I don’t know, do I?”
“Har har. Now, let me finish. As someone older than you…” He paused, anticipating an interruption, but she clasped her hands innocently in her lap instead. “I can tell you, it’s always better to get something unpleasant over with quickly. Drawing out the wait only makes it worse.”
A truth she knew quite well at eighteen, but it was easier said than done.
“First, tell me how this works. Can a ghiotte heal from anything?”
Dante picked at a loose thread on his chair. “No, not anything, or my parents would still be alive. If you cut my head off or drop a wall on me, I’m done for. Regular injuries, I’ll recover. If it’s a repeat injury, it’s easier. The first time I broke my arm, it hurt like a beast. By the third, I barely noticed. Healed faster, too. I think that’s part of the … gift, but I don’t know.”
“Is it like that for all of you?”
“If I ever find another ghiotte, I’ll ask.”
“You don’t know how it worked for your parents?”
“I was a kid. I didn’t take notes. It was just a thing I knew to keep quiet about. All I know is that for me, the worse the damage is, or if I’m tired or hungry, it takes longer.”
She blew a stream of air through pursed lips. “Are you hungry now? Tired? Thirsty?”
“I’m fine. Let’s start with the basics. I know about your first Fonte, but how’d it end with the others?”
Rubbing her arms, Alessa tried to recall. “Ilsi’s heart stopped on our fourth try. Hugo tried for a few seconds, collapsed, and cracked his skull on the table. I don’t know if I killed him or the fall did.”
Dante pursed his lips like she’d detailed a mundane grocery list rather than a series of gruesome deaths. “We’ll stay seated, then. Get over here.”
Her thighs barely touched the chair before she sprang back up. “My hands are cold.”
“Well, in that case.” Dante slapped his thighs as though to leave. “Sit down.”
“It’s too dangerous. With the Fontes, there’s a reason to risk it, because I need their gifts. But you’re…”
“Worthless?” His tone was light, but his hands curled into fists. “I have nothing to offer, nothing to defend Saverio with, so it’s not worth adding another tally to your guilt list?”
Alessa pressed her fingers to her temples. “No. That’s not—”
“Well, you’re right. No one would miss me.”
“I would.” Her lower lip trembled, but she wouldn’t cry. Her tears had roped him into this mess in the first place.
“I’m not going to die.”
“You don’t know that.”
He shrugged. “Nothing’s killed me yet.”
“That’s a ridiculous argument. Anyone could say the same, and it would be true.”
He winked. “Have a little faith, Finestra.”
She’d been gloveless around him before, but she’d never taken them off for him, and as he watched the fabric slide down her forearms, she saw her skin like it belonged to someone else. The faint blue veins on the inside of her wrists, the pale palms and slender fingers. Her heart thumped viciously against her ribs. “I’m letting go if you so much as twitch.”
She shrank back as he reached for her.
“Hands on the table, palms up. No grabbing.”
He sighed but did as he was told.
“You still feel pain, though, right?” she asked.
He raised his eyebrows. “Yes.”
“Then why are you so damn calm?”
“Worrying about pain doesn’t stop it from happening,” he said. “If you don’t breathe soon, I’ll poke you in the belly like a stubborn mule.”
“You’re an ass.”
“Yup. Now, do it already.”
She hovered her palms above his, lowering until their fingertips brushed with every heartbeat. With a shaky breath, she pressed her hands against his. His hands, like the rest of him, were strong and deft, rough but graceful.
Dante grunted softly, but she was lost to the sudden surge of power. Yes more want need take yes. Her gift demanded, like the ocean dragging a sinking ship under. Tethering herself, she focused on his face, fighting the craving until the tide receded.
His jaw went rigid, but he didn’t pull away.
When she lifted her hands, they exhaled.
“Well,” she said. “How bad was it?”
“Bearable.” He cracked his knuckles. “Again.”
“Not yet.” Shaking her hands out, she left to fetch water and crackers. If hunger and thirst were risk factors, she’d shove both in his face at the first sign of trouble.
Out of habit, she put both glasses in the center of the table and sat, stunned by the realization that, even without gloves, she could have simply handed it to him.
Dante ignored the crackers, but downed half his glass. “You go palms up this time. I’ll pull back if I need to.”
She hated relinquishing control, but she couldn’t gauge his pain, and he could. This time when they touched, the voracious need was less insistent, and she was able to pay attention to everything else. She counted silently, noting the texture of his skin, the steady beat of his pulse against her fingertips, how very alive he felt.
He let go as she reached fifty-two.
“Well?” she asked, breathless.
“Better. The first time hurt. This was … uncomfortable, but not unpleasant.”
“Those words mean the same thing.”
“No, they don’t.”
“Of course they do. If something is uncomfortable, it’s unpleasant.”
“Not always.”
“Give me one example of an experience that’s uncomfortable and pleasant.”
“A massage. Amazing after a fight, but ouch.”
“A what?”
“A body rub for sore muscles. You’ve never had one? Oh, right. ’Course not.”
“You pay someone to rub your body?” Who was she kidding, she’d pay to rub his body.
“For a good massage I’d beg, borrow, or steal. There’s this girl who lives above the Barrel—” He shook his head with a small smile. “Scented oils, clean sheets, and her hands are magic.”
“I don’t need the details, thanks.” But the image he’d painted was already there, and her face went hot.
Dante narrowed his eyes. “What is going on in your head right now?”
She lifted her chin. “I was struck by the memory of you in that fighting ring. I was quite sad that something so pretty was about to be destroyed.”
Whatever he’d expected, it wasn’t that. “Uh. Thanks?” He pointed to her eyes, then turned his fingers to his own. “Focus. I’m trying to explain how something can hurt in a good way.”
“And I’m trying to explain why the words good and hurt don’t go together.”
“They can, though. I just need the right example.” He grasped in the air for some elusive example, until his gaze fell on a stack of novels. “Arousal!”
Her cheeks burned so hot her hair might light on fire. “I said I don’t need the details.”
He bit his lip against a laugh. “Unrelated. Bear with me. I know you’ve been locked up here for a while, but I’m guessing you’ve still thought … thoughts.” He aimed a pointed look at the books. “So. Like I said, uncomfortable but not unpleasant.”
She wiped her expression blank. She was thinking all kinds of thoughts at that very moment, but she would not react.
He snapped his fingers. “Exercise. I should have said that first.”
“You really should have.”
He laughed far longer than he deserved to. “You know what I mean, that good ache in your muscles after a hard workout. Uncomfortable, but pleasant.”
“Fine,” she said through gritted teeth. “Does it feel like any of those things?”
“Well, no.” He frowned. Of course it didn’t. It felt like pain, and she’d never wanted to know more specifics than that, but she had to understand if she wanted any hope of taming it. “It’s more like a … buzzing. Or a vibration. It only hurts when it’s too … fast? Intense? It knocked the wind out of me at first, but it got less noticeable each time—more like a purr.”
“What is it with you and cats?”
He grinned. “Guess you remind me of one.”
“Because I’m so sweet and lovable?”
“No, that’s not it.”
“Mysterious and graceful?”
“Definitely not. It’s probably because you never sit correctly, and you get visibly annoyed when anyone reads a book in your presence.”
She humphed, uncurling her legs so her feet dangled, toes barely touching the floor. “Most chairs are too tall for me. It’s uncomfortable.”
“Excuses, excuses. Anyway, when you touch me, think like a cat.”
There was no excuse for the vivid mental image of herself in dramatic eyeliner, slinking toward him, hips swaying in a feline prowl, that popped into her head, but there it was.
Dante absently tapped his knee. “It’s like stretching. If you yank someone’s arm back, you could dislocate it. You have to ease in, stopping at the point of good pain. Speed and force make a difference. Like, touching foreheads is fine, but do it fast enough and it’ll get you thrown out of a fight. See what I mean?”
She raised her eyebrows. “I’ve been head-butting people?”
“In a way. Don’t think about power, just focus on touching. You aren’t hurt right now, so you don’t need anything from me.”
Had a sentence ever been so untrue?
She took a deep breath. “Promise me you’ll stop if it’s too much.”
“Cross my heart and hope to die.” He slid his hands across the table.
“You aren’t allowed to.”
Two of her Fontes had made it past two touches, but no one had endured more than four.
Alessa closed her eyes, gathered herself. No taking, no using, no stealing. Just touching.
Alessa leaned over the back of the couch, her cheek a handspan from Dante’s parted lips, and held her breath until a reassuring gust of air warmed her skin.
Skin to soul, she was wrung out like a wet rag. They’d spent hours practicing, and she needed rest, but every time she got into bed, she panicked and ran back to make sure he was only sleeping.
The whole time, she’d been so scared the next touch would be the one that proved too much. But while her anxiety mounted, Dante had only grown calmer as the hours slipped by and the touches stretched longer.
By the time he’d agreed to stop, she was thrumming with more strains of nervous energy than she could label, and each brush of hands was branded on her memory, her skin tingling and hypersensitive as if she had a fever.
During the last few attempts, he’d claimed it didn’t even bother him anymore, but it had clearly taken a toll, because he’d fallen asleep where he sat, fully clothed.
She checked his breath one more time. Still alive.
This time she managed to get in bed and stay there, to stare at the ceiling in stunned disbelief.
Dante—dark-eyed, tousled hair, sarcastic, stubborn, beautiful Dante—who’d been sleeping in her room for days, could hold her hands without suffering. And if she could touch his hands, she could touch his lips—
Focus, Alessa.
This wasn’t the right time, but after Divorando? The thrill racing through her at the possibility wasn’t going to make sleep any easier to find.
Her eyes were sandy from exhaustion, but each aftershock of excitement jolted her fully awake again, leaving her with too much time to remember the slide of his palms against hers, the gentle strength of his fingers around her wrists, his pulse throbbing against her fingertips.
The most wonderful night of her life. And one of the most heartbreaking.
Finally, she could touch someone without hurting him, but his gift was the only kind that couldn’t save Saverio.