“Neither can I,” Saturnino whispered back.
The day seemed to stretch out ahead of her, and it felt both too long and impossibly short. She wanted the day to be over, she wanted it to never end. It was the day of the tournament and Saturnino’s existence depended on her killing the pope. A thousand things could go wrong, so much was out of her control.
Saturnino gently eased Ravenna off his chest, sliding out of her embrace. He padded to the wooden trunk at the foot of his bed, wearing not a stitch of clothing, his only adornment an iron key that hung from a slim strip of leather tied around his neck. He pulled it off and bent to unlock the trunk. He closed the lid and came back to join her in bed, his hand clasping a roll of parchment.
He unrolled it and handed it to her.
She sat up, clutching the sheets to her chest, and, with her free hand, took the parchment, her eyes skimming the Latin. At the bottom was the official seal of Santa Maria del Fiore.
“Is this…”
“It is the legal documentation of our marriage,” Saturnino said. “If the worst should happen, everything I own belongs to you.”
She bit her lip, averted her gaze.
“Ravenna, we have to make a plan,” he said quietly. “Where will you go afterward?”
He meant once he turned back to stone and, for some reason, couldn’t be turned back. The idea of it so horrified her, the pain threatening to fracture her heart, that she could barely breathe from the ache.
“Look at me,” Saturnino said. “Please.”
Ravenna shifted, met his gaze. Her voice shook. “I made friends with the owners of the inn your family brought me to on our way to Florence.”
“Can you trust them?”
She thought about Amina, the way she had tried to help her, the supplies she’d given her so she could attempt an escape. Ravenna nodded. “Yes, I can.”
“All right,” Saturnino said. “There’s money for you in the trunk. Take my horse, and head to that inn. Don’t linger, stay only a few days. Once it’s safe to travel, ask for an escort to help you reach Malmantile. It’s a small village not far from Florence where I have a home that no one in my family knows about.” He reached for her hand. “My home is near the village’s only olive grove, next to a stone well,shaded by an ancient oak tree. From the well, the house is a short walk to the east. It’s tucked behind a cluster of pines, the gate is unmarked, but there is a rosemary bush growing beside it.”
Ravenna nodded. “I’ll remember.”
He leaned toward her, holding up the necklace, a simple cord of worn leather, the iron key hanging from it like a talisman. “This,” he said, his voice low and steady, “is yours now.”
Without waiting for a reply, he reached forward, his fingers brushing the nape of her neck as he slipped the cord over her head. The leather settled against her skin, warm from his hand, and the key dangled above her heart, its weight both foreign and grounding. “It opens the trunk and the front door. Don’t leave Florence without it, and proof of our marriage.”
“I won’t,” Ravenna clutched the key in her hand. “I promise.”
Saturnino smoothed the line between her brows with his finger.
“What if I can’t kill him? What if I fail?”
Saturnino brushed her hair over her shoulder, his fingers drifting to her collarbones, then sweeping up to cradle her cheek. “You’re not doing this alone.”
“What if the courier doesn’t keep his word?”
His fingers traced her eyebrow, the bridge of her nose, the outline of her mouth. “Vampyres live by a code. They don’t often give their word, but when they do, they mean it.”
She nodded, a bit more reassured.
“If it were up to me, I would spend eternity with you.” He whisked his lips across hers. “Every sunrise and sunset, every precious moment in between.” His voice dropped to a husky whisper, breaking at the edges. “And all your nights would belong to me.”
Tears slid down her cheeks, and he kissed them, wiping them away with gentle fingers. He coaxed her onto her back and pressed his lips to her cheek, her brow, down the line of her jaw, and the rising and falling of her chest. Slowly, softly, as if trying to taste every second he had left, his mouth traced a silent prayer over her skin, each kiss a hushed vow.
Saturnino worshipped her with his mouth, a man trying to memorize the shape of his salvation. His hands swept across her, brushing her hips, and then went farther down still. Her heart raced, blood pumping furiously through her; she was alive with him in that moment, living and breathing him in.
He brought his mouth between her legs and Ravenna threw her head back against the silk pillow, stared up at the velvet fabric draped over the canopy, sensation flooding her. She pulled at his black hair and he lifted his face, flanked by her legs, and gave her a wicked smile. He turned his head, and placed an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of her thigh.
“Saturnino,” she breathed, shivering.
