I’m tempted to keep the ragdoll act up a while longer, if only to save my eyes the pain of staring at Dante as he steals another precious liberty from me, but my lids slam up.
“Ah. Feeling better, moya?”
“No,” I bite out.
Leering like the barmy fool he’s become, he asks, “Ready to become mine, Serpent-charmer?”
I tilt my head, and although Nonna taught me not to provoke purelings, I cannot help but hiss, “I’ll never be yours.”
“Let me rephrase myself.” Dante’s blue eyes flash with hostility. “Are you ready for yourbloodto become mine?”
“My blood’s useless, so whatever floats your gondola.”
A nerve agitates the skin beside his temple as he turns his attention back toward Meriam. “Proceed,strega.”
“Slash your palm and Fallon’s, then join hands so blood can meet blood.”
Dante makes quick work of cutting the inside of his hand before bringing the bloodied blade toward me. I ball my fingers into fists and stick them behind my back.
“Your palm.”
I shake my head.
Dante seizes my arm and all but pops my shoulder out of its socket as he pulls my hand toward him. “Don’t make me break your fingers. Or Antoni’s.”
A weak gasp springs up my throat, and I uncurl my fingers. His blade races across my skin. Like the wake behind a ship, my flesh splits apart and oozes a line of blood no wider than the seam of winter tights.
Just before Dante shoves his sword back into its scabbard, Meriam nods to her index finger. “Please prick my skin, Your Majesty.”
The Faerie scrutinizes her extended finger as though he expects her to trick him.
I pray that she will.
Eight
Dante lifts his sword point toward her, his knuckles straining over the hilt of his weapon as though to keep her from seizing it. But Meriam doesn’t attempt to steal his sword. She merely presses her finger to the sharp tip until blood bubbles.
The tears pooling behind my lids trip out.I hate you, Bronwen. I hate you so fucking much. I hope Lore eviscerates you.
“Now join hands and step nearer.” Meriam tilts her head toward the hand resting on her throne’s armrest, and her auburn mane swishes over her jagged shoulder. In spite of its length, the Shabbin resembles a human beggar in dire need of a wash and fattening fare.
“This is a trick!” I sputter as Dante takes my hand.
A groove forms between his brows. “Rossi?”
“It’s no trick, sire. I’d swear a bargain, but it wouldn’t be of much use.”
In some corner of my distressed mind, I ponder what he’s just said. What does he mean, it wouldn’t be of much use?
“Lastra, feed the general salt,” Dante commands.
“I can feed myself salt.” Justus roots around his jacket pocket for the gold snuffbox he’d tendered my way the day I was brought to Isolacuori for my hearing. The rubies embedded on the lid sparkle as he thumbs it open and pinches out a few flakes.
Once Justus has swallowed them, Dante asks, “Is this a trick, Rossi?”
I stare at Dante’s hardened face—a face I know all at once too well and not at all. So many questions blister my tongue, the first being:How long have you been plotting to use me?
“This is no trick, Maezza. You will walk out of this vault bound to my granddaughter like I am bound to Meriam.”
