Page 105 of A Dagger in the Ivy

I tuck the cloth into itself and begin to lean back on my heels, but he places his hands on my arms, and I freeze.

A moment passes between us, the silence so loud, it impales my heart.

“Dante—”

“Yes?” he whispers.

His stare is overwhelming. I force myself to back away, and my gaze drops to my clothes. “I need to wash up. This mud is caked on. And I should probably check myself for injuries.”

Is that disappointment on his face?

“There’s a washroom down the hall,” he says. “And extra clothes in the bedroom.”

I push myself to my feet and nod. “Thank you.”

Despite the pull I feel to stay by his side, I make it to the washroom without faltering. While I clean myself, my mind becomes overloaded with questions.

How did Torbin get involved with the Shadow Tsar?

How long has this been going on?

Has he been responsible for all the carnoraxis attacks?

How could he betray his own kingdom? His own family?

Does the king have a clue that Torbin has become a monster?

A small part of me still hangs onto the hope that Torbin is under a spell of some kind, but my heart is telling me that what we witnessed is his true nature, finally revealed. My head spins from the uncertainty, and my heart aches from the treachery. Either way, this betrothal will do nothing for my land if the Shadow Tsar is controlling Torbin. Delasurvia is doomed.

Unless I can convince the king to cut ties with his son. But then the king would probably carry through with his promise to sire an heir himself.

The impossibility of the whole ordeal exhausts me to no end.

Once I’ve gotten all the mud off my skin and out of my hair, I dry off and wrap a towel around myself. My bare feet pad across the hall to a door I presume is Dante’s bedchamber.

I step quietly into the room, my eyes adjusting to the dim light. Shadows stretch across the space, revealing the elegant yet understated furnishings. A grand four-poster bed dominates the middle of the room, its dark, wooden frame carved with intricate designs that catch the faint light filtering in from the hallway. Heavy curtains hang around the bed,partially drawn, their deep-burgundy fabric adding to the room’s somber atmosphere. A large wardrobe stands against one wall, its doors slightly ajar, and beside it, a dresser and a small writing desk with neatly arranged papers and a quill. A tall, ornate mirror stands in the corner, and a nearby plush armchair and a low table create a cozy nook. The room feels both intimate and imposing, a reflection of Dante himself.

I cross to the dresser and pull open one of the drawers. The shirts I find inside are all folded neatly, stacked impeccably one on top of the other. I take one from the pile and lift it to my face. I don’t know what drives me to smell it, but once the scent fills my nostrils, I close my eyes and let the bergamot and sandalwood settle within me.

I can’t deny that Dante fascinates me. He challenges me, pushing me off of familiar ground, and forcing me to confront parts of myself I’d rather keep hidden. And yet, despite the friction between us, there’s an undeniable spark, a magnetic pull that I can’t seem to resist.

“You haven’t abandoned me, have you?” Dante’s voice floats to me from the front room.

I pull the shirt away quickly and clear my throat. “I’ll be out in a moment.”

I hurry to dress, Dante’s shirt hanging to my thighs, then rake my damp hair back from my face before exiting the room.

When I reach Dante, the bottle of brandy is empty.

His eyes take me in from head to toe. “You look good in my clothes.”

Heat flares through me, but I pretend to ignore his words. “How’s the bandage?”

“It’s holding.”

“You probably shouldn’t move too much.”

“Pity. I can think of a few activities I could engage in right now, and they all require a generous amount of movement.”

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