I clench my fists, willing intrusive thoughts away, thoughts that convince me that he’s been thrust into an all-day orgy, or worse, into an entire pit of vipers, without me to help him step safely through them. But the thoughts and fears fester beneath my skin. Those dancers who circled him, their hands grazing, their movements deliberately seductive… they could very well have been the least of my problems. And gods, the way the queens looked at him, as if he were something they might devour whole. But the danger he might be in worries me more. Because I don’t know what I’d do if he—
Fuck.I need to stop thinking this way. Surely, he’s fine. The palace would have been alerted if the future prince of Hedera had succumbed to death. Silas would be in an uproar.
I turn from the window, shaking the images from my mind, when a sharp knock startles me. I whirl, heart lurching, and cross the room in four quick strides. My pulse pounds as I unbolt the door and pull it open.
Dante stands before me.
Sweat hugs his skin, his tunic loose at the collar, his hair damp as if he’s just stepped out of a fire. His breaths come heavy, lips parted slightly, and the scent of liquor lingers on him, warm and heady. His eyes—hooded, unreadable—flick over me, then past me, as if checking to see if I’m alone.
“Can I… Can I come in?” His voice is rough.
I nod and step aside, barely thinking, thankful that Indira is busy running errands for Queen Eleanor.
He enters without another word, moving straight to the nearest chair and sinking into it with a weary exhale. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, fingers laced together as he stares at the floor.
I watch him, my pulse thudding. Gods, he looks ruined.
“What happened? What did they make you do?” I ask, bracing myself.
His shoulders rise and fall with a slow breath. “Something unexpected,” he says finally. “Something stupid.”
I swallow hard. My heart is in my throat, hammering against my ribs. “Dante.”
He drags a hand through his hair, frustration shadowing his expression. He winces when his arm comes back down. “It’s done,” he mutters. “I endured it.”
That’s not an answer.
Irritation flares sharp and hot in my chest, a desperate need for clarity. “What was it, then?” I snap, the words escaping before I can stop them. It’s been hours since Nadya and I returned from her great-aunt’s cottage, and I momentarily wonder if Tia’s tea is still affecting me.
Dante exhales, then lifts his hands to the buttons of his tunic.
I freeze, my frustration twisting into something sharper, something more uncertain.
He undoes the first button. Then the second.
My brow furrows, unease pooling in my stomach. “What are you—”
The tunic slips from his shoulders.
My breath catches.
His arm—his entire shoulder—is covered in ink.
A sprawling design, intricate and dark, the curving lines sharp and precise, curls over the muscle. Gorgeous, detailed peonies surrounded by leaves and artistic swirls. The skin beneath it is still red and swollen, the ink gleaming, fresh.
My lips part, a gasp slipping free.
Dante leans back in the chair, letting his tunic fall the rest of the way, watching me as if waiting for my reaction.
But I can’t speak.
Because for all my worrying, all my misplaced jealousy, all the tension I’d built up in my mind—this was never what I expected. And I still don’t know what it means. I don’t understandhowthis happened.
I exhale slowly, dragging my thoughts back into focus. Dante’s cheststill rises and falls with uneven breaths, his skin gleaming with sweat, his muscles tight with lingering pain. Whatever liquor they forced on him is only dulling the edges. It won’t last.
I step toward him, my bare feet nearly silent against the stone floor.
His lids are heavy, the grey of his eyes a bold contrast to his lashes as he gazes at me. He shifts in the chair and then winces, freezing in place.
