Page 89 of Ruling Destiny

He looks at me in a way that doesn’t quite match his words. That glaze in his eyes is much closer to lust than anything resembling lovestruck. And I really wish he’d just stop.

“You’re so terrified of the heat,” he says, “that you insist on hiding yourself away in the cold. But I offer you this—here in Florence, it’s just you and me. So, why not give your undecided heart a chance to see what it truly wants? If it’s not me, I’ll back off, and no one will ever be the wiser. I do know how to keep a secret, Shiv. Trust me on that. Also, I’m an adult. I know how to deal with a broken heart should you decide against me. So, what do you say—won’t you give us a chance?”

He cups a hand to my cheek, tracing a tender line around the slope of my ear, all the way down to my jaw.

His touch is warm—the warmest thing I’ve felt all day. But I don’t like what he’s asking, and I have no intention of cheating on Braxton.

I’m about to tell him as much when a gang of street urchins appears, and though it would’ve been bad enough to be caught in what probably seems like a public embrace in a time that’s waging a war on pleasure and romance, considering that I’m dressed as a boy, this situation is a hundred times worse—and a thousand times more dangerous.

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“Sodomites!” one of the boys cries out.

His gaze fevered, face enraged, he points at us and shouts it again.

In a matter of seconds, the others join in. Forming a circle around us, they chant, “Sodomites—burn in hell!”

Their filthy hands grasp at Killian, plucking at his gold rings, his silk cloak. And it’s only now that I realize just how big a risk Killian has taken by setting out to find me. He must’ve woken from his nap, realized I was gone, and rushed out without bothering to change into something plainer. And now, because of it, because of me, he’s being targeted by a gang of baby-faced crusaders.

“Bugger off!” Killian shouts, forgoing his Italian.

He pushes back at their grasping hands, but they keep at him, the chants growing louder. And when one of them goes after me, Killian curses under his breath and pulls out his dagger.

“I said, bugger off!” He brandishes the blade, and though they do back away, it’s not far enough. These boys are brazen, completely brainwashed, and I fear that violence, or at least the threat of it, is all they’ll respond to.

I pull my blade as well, and together, Killian and I walk backward, waving our weapons before us and managing to hold them off just enough for us to spin on our heels and break into an all-out, gut-busting run.

At first the kids start to follow, shouting, calling us heretics, heathens, and threatening the eternal damnation to come. But luckily, our legs are longer, we’re faster, and we soon outpace them until they give up the chase and go in search of other sinners. Still, the chill of their taunts trails us all the way back to the villa.

Once we’re safely inside the palazzo walls, Killian yanks down my hood. And as my hat tumbles to the ground, he grasps my face in his hands, his palms hot and damp against my heated cheeks.

“Don’t,” he says, his voice shaking in a way I never expected to hear. “Don’teverdo that again.” His gaze burns fiercely on mine as my body trembles from the terror of what nearly happened and the uncaged look in his eyes. “Promise me, Shiv, you’ll never sneak out like that again.”

“I won’t,” I say, though I’m not entirely sure that I mean it. I just want this to end. To put some much-needed distance between us.

“Okay,” he mumbles, catching his breath. “Okay, then.” Reluctantly, he lets go of my face, swipes a hand through his hair. “I’ll call for someone to prepare you a bath.”

The words take me by surprise, and I gaze down at myself. I know I need to change, but am I really that bad?

“And wear something nice,” Killian says. “After all, you’re going to meet Leonardo da Vinci tonight.”

I stare at him in confusion. “But Leonardo left Florence in 1482 to go to Milan. He’s busy paintingThe Last Supperas we speak.” I follow Killian to our suite of rooms.

He glances over his shoulder at me. “Who told you that, Shiv?”

“Um, countless sources. It’s a known fact.”

“A known fact.” Killian laughs. “Perhaps Napoleon was right when he saidhistory is a set of lies agreed upon. Either way, you can take it up with Leonardo. I’m sure he’d love nothing more than to listen to you dispute his current whereabouts. Because despite what your history books say, here, in this current space-time continuum, he’s left Milan to spend a few days in Florence, in the interest of ensuring his work isn’t burned. He arrived not long after you snuck out. Shame you missed it. But, like I said, you’ll meet him at dinner.”

“Have you met him before?” I ask, relieved to have returned to a friendlier banter. “Before this, I mean.”

“Of course.”

“And—does he remember you?”

“Why? Do you consider me someone who’s easily forgettable?”

I look at him. Even red-cheeked, sweaty, and short of breath, Killian is so resplendent, there’s no chance of that. “I just meant that if you met him in the future, then he wouldn’t know you when you meet him in the past, as it hasn’t had a chance to happen yet.”

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