He caresses the curve of my cheek. “Marco won’t depart for another hour. Would you like to see where I live?”
It takes my naïve mind a moment to process the connection between Marco’s departure and a visit of Dante’s quarters. My cheeks warm as I consider his offer. On the one hand, I need to check on my newest houseguest before getting to work; on the other, this will be the last time I see Dante for a week. Perhaps longer.
I’m not ready to say goodbye. “I thought soldiers couldn’t entertain civilians on the barrack islands.”
The slow smile my words spark across his face rids me of any and all sense of responsibility. “Soldiers cannot, but I am no soldier, Serpent-charmer.”
Thirty-Two
Dante commands the gondolier to change course.
As we glide toward the island of white tents, I look over my shoulder at the drawn curtains of my first-floor bedroom. “That garish dish . . . Do you think your brother would ever consider giving it to me?”
Dante glances away from a passing military vessel stockpiled with trunks and soldiers. “No. He’s attached to his trophies. They fuel his ego.”
I’m tempted to ask straight out for it but decide being pushy can only backfire. I’ll wait to unearth the remaining crows before ransacking the trophy room.
As soon as we dock, Dante stands and holds out his hand to help me disembark. With a graceful hop, he joins me on the wooden pontoon and laces his fingers through mine.
The soldiers patrolling the garrison shores watch us with wide eyes. I’m glad the sight of the prince walking with a woman startles them so. After all, it can only mean it’s not a habit of his.
“What are you all looking at?” Dante barks, jolting them from their stupor and jolting me in turn. The power he has over people, over me, over Luce . . . it’s formidable.
We stroll down a narrow cobbled road that opens onto a larger street lined on both sides by tents. Some flaps are drawn open; others are sealed shut. Heads swivel as we pass, conversations dim.
I cross manyBottom of the Jugregulars; none acknowledge me. Do they fear Dante snapping at them for looking my way, or are theythatflummoxed by my presence amongst them?
Dante nods to a sprite guarding the entrance of a tent twice as large as the neighboring ones. The winged male snatches the corner of the flap and soars upward, parting the unblemished material to let us through. “I’m not to be disturbed, Gaston.”
For some reason, I wonder if this is the sprite who delivered my ribbon and dress. “Of course, Altezza.”
As I step into Dante’s quarters, unease whooshes through me, growing more insistent when the heavy material settles, shutting out the sunlight. Flattening my palm on my stomach to ease my nerves, I concentrate on the stark decor.
Everything is functional and immaculate, from the honeyed floorboards, to the crisp bedsheets, to the hammered copper tub. A table stands beside the empty bath, outfitted with stacks of fresh towels and a porcelain sink. Although there are no windows, light filters in through the fabric walls, making the metal sparkle and the buffed floors shine.
It’s pleasant in an understated way, albeit a little cold.
I slow-twirl to face him. “How does it compare to your home on Isolacuori?”
He stands with his back to the doorway, blue eyes sparking like the furnishings. “It doesn’t. My home on the royal isle is gaudy; this one is efficient.”
“Which one do you like best?”
“Currently?” He steps forward. “I much prefer my tent because you’re standing in it.”
Butterflies carry my lingering qualms away on their beating wings.
His hands circle my waist, and he inclines his face until our foreheads meet. “No wonder the pure-blooded females loathe you so.”
I recoil. I’m hardly a Fae favorite, but loathed . . .?
His grip hardens along with another part of him. “You areunreasonablybeautiful, Signorina Rossi.”
His pretty words thaw me out. I’m far from gorgeous, but if Dante sees me as such, who am I to contradict him? I take his compliment and store it inside my heart, next to all the others he’s peppered me with over the years, then palm his shoulders and press up on my toes to reach his mouth.
I almost land my kiss when he murmurs, “Stop working at the brothel.”
I roll back onto my heels, perplexed. “I can’t stop working at thetavern.” I make sure to hammer in the fact thatBottom of the Jugis first and foremost a place to eat and drink. “My family needs the money.”
