“You’re a good artist,” he says as we walk, the trees thickening. Birds cry overhead, and somewhere, I hear the rush of water. “I hear you’ve been making good use of the drawing room.”
“Yes. It’s lovely. I love the castle, actually. It feels…” I catch myself. Santo studies me, expression inscrutable. My face warms. “I like it there.”
He says nothing for a while. It’s very cold, and I’m grateful for his heat. I want more of it, but I’m too sheepish to cuddle any closer. Already this feels dangerous—trusting Santo, even a little. But I let him lead me on and on, until the trees thin and fall away altogether, and we’re on a sharp, grassy cliff overlooking the river.
I feel my jaw drop. There’s a sort of gazebo built on the cliff, its latticed stone walls overgrown with greenery. I release Santo and rush inside, grateful for the cover as a sleety, wet snow begins.
The view is stunning. I can see the castle from here, the drive, the gazebo; the river courses fast and emerald green through the hills, past the huddled, scenic town. And the mountains from here are immense, behemoth. Breathtaking.
“This,” I say with a reveling laugh, “is incredible! This is just in your backyard!” Immediately I’m itching for a pencil, for pen and paper, for any way to capture this. But I know better—I’m not nearly a good enough artist to capture this. Beauty too immense for replication.
When I turn, I find Santo watching me amusedly, hands in his pockets. “Come here.”
I blush, but do as he says, halting before him and looking up to meet his eyes.
“Do you want to marry me, Dani?” he asks, and the question takes my breath away. “Knowing what I am.HowI am. If you didn’t have to marry me, would you?”
“I…” I can’t say. Part of me wants to say no, vehemently, angrily. But my anger these last few weeks has begun to fade. It’s like the world I lived in before I came here wasn’t real, only a lonely dream. Santo is dangerous and terrible, but he’s visceral and real and alive. He makesmefeel alive. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t have a choice,” he says, his face hard and unreadable. “But if you did, would you go back?”
Why is he asking me this? Is this another test? A dare? “I don’t know.”
“You should say yes, Dani.” Anger flashes through his dark eyes. He reaches for me, strokes one gloved hand down my throat. “Apart from the deal you made, you should have no reason at all to stay. The mountains can’t be that beautiful.”
Heat floods my face. He’s right. Ishouldsay yes. It’s only a question, a hypothetical. It won’t change anything. But it strikes me then that what began as obligation has quickly caved in to want. Santo is magnetic. Something about him awakens me. As much as I want to stay angry, as much as I want to hate him, I don’t.
“What if I said no?” I ask. “Could you think less of me than you do already?”
His eyes gleam. “You are my servant.”
“Yes.”
“You are to be my wife.”
“Yes.” My heart sparks. I reach for him, press my gloved palms to his chest.
“What makes you believe I think so little of you, Dani?” He takes my wrists and draws me closer. “You’ve surprised me at every turn. But is surprise enough to sustain a marriage, hm? One that began in a place of such hate? A transaction?”
“I don’t know.” What I do know is that he took this moment to be with me. That he came to check on me this morning. That last night he swore he wouldn’t be gentle, but he was. Against his better judgement, Santo doesn’t hate me. He doesn’t feel ambivalence toward me. But clearly, he feels something.
And so do I.
“What if I want to stay?” I ask, my eyes catching on that beautiful, supple mouth. “What if I don’t hate you at all?”
“You should.” His voice is rough, tinged with anger. “You should hate me, Dani.”
“What if I respect you?” I ask, thinking of that man on the drive yesterday, of the heartbreaking story Sabine told me about the Amatas, about Vittorio, and all the betrayal Santo has weathered. “What if I want to learn to do more than that?”
“You’d be a fool,” Santo growls, turning me by the wrists, pressing my back to the ivy-draped stone wall of the arbor. “You don’t know me.”
“I want to.”
“Because you were a virgin when I took you? Because I was your first? You are naïve.”
“So what?” I ask, and I’m stunned when tears prick my eyes. “You’re cynical and jaded and cold. I don’t judge you for it.”
“I don’t judge you for your naivete.” Santo looks away sharply, suddenly. His jaw is taut when he releases me and paces away. Fog has rolled in with the sleet, and the cliff has vanished. There’s nothing in the world but this cold little chamber, this man, this stranger. And me. “I’m not a good man, Dani.”
