Page 137 of Tide of Treason
Suspicious, I squinted at him. This wasn’t his normaltalking-to-my-assassinstone. Said suspicion bloomed teeth whenhe ended the call with a final murmur—“até logo, irmão”—and tucked the device into his pocket without a hint of guilt.
“You’re scheming,” I accused.
“Am I?” he drawled, smiling.
He was absolutely scheming.
Two hours later, Mamma caught me sneaking a second slice of lemon ricotta cake and told me to “dress nicely but comfortably.” A suspicious directive, given Mamma thought “comfortable” meant being tortured by corset stays and the willful compression of all major organs into my throat. Still, I showered, shaved, plucked, lotioned, and flung half my closet onto the bed before settling on a pale silk dress.
The fabric slipped over my hips like a sigh, caught on the curve of my ass, and clung. I wrestled it down, cursed myself for shaving so thoroughly I now felt like a raw chicken breast, and slid into a pair of low, strappy heels I could technically run in if the situation called for it.
Outside, the afternoon had dimmed into a November kind of grey, sunless and hollow, bleeding gold only where it kissed the tops of the trees. A heavy jacket settled around my shoulders, cinched and zipped by hands rougher than my own. The zipper caught the end of my hair, and I bit back a noise. Inked hands freed it with a tender pull.
“Come with me,” Lucius said simply.
I narrowed my eyes. “Is this going to end with me on a shovel?”
“No, baby. You wouldn’t fit on a fucking shovel.”
I stared at him. He stared back, wholly serious.
“You have such a way with words,” I muttered.
The corner of his mouth tugged. “You married me.”
“Engaged you. There’s a difference.”
“Technicalities.” He steered me down the stone path with a palm warm and insistent on the small of my back. “You’ll do it again. Properly this time.”
We cut across Il Cigno’s back terrace, down a narrow gravel path I barely recognised, until we hit a stone arch I knew for a fact hadn’t been there yesterday. Beneath the arch, a wrought-iron gate swung inward with a groan, and beyond it—
God.
November wrapped its teeth around the horizon, but here, summer clawed back, stubborn in the roots and petals.
Ivy scaled the high, enclosing walls, dragging their spindly fingers through the chill wind. Blood-red camellias bloomed obscenely against black soil—Sicily. Vining orchids spilled from hidden crooks in the stone, pink and white and soft as a bitten lip—Bahia. Tucked near the corners, coffee plants huddled low to the ground—São Paulo and Tuscany, both.
Two folded maps folded into the same paper heart.
Us.
The realisation hit me so hard it stole a few heartbeats, and for one terrifying second, I thought I might cry. I blinked furiously and kicked the emotion in the shin. If I started sobbing every time Lucius did something that made my chest feel too small for my ribs, I’d need an IV drip of electrolytesand a therapist who charged by the minute. But it seemed that was too late. My mood depended on him. If he smiled, my day would improve tenfold. If he touched me, I’d fall back into his bed without a moment’s hesitation. If he got upset, my entire day was ruined. I wanted him to be happy all the time. I wanted him to always smile.
We passed beneath the second arch.
A marble bench rested in the hidden nook at the center, veins of grey and gold streaking through white stone. An inscription curled across the back in delicate script, almost too soft to read unless you leaned close:
Whatever you are made of, I want more.
I looked up at him.
A dozen shades of blue shimmered under a sweep of ink-black lashes.
“Um pouco mais de você, um pouco mais de tinta, e não consigo imaginar um lugar mais lindo para viver. Eu te amo, principessa.”A little more of you, a little more ink, and I can’t imagine a more beautiful place to live. I love you, principessa.
My throat bobbed. “Pretty words from a pretty boy. You bribed my family for this.”
“Your Nonna didn’t need much convincing. She’s been team Lucius ever since you tried drowning me in a fountain.”
