This Vicious Grace (The Last Finestra #1)(23)

“Hey,” Alessa said, hurrying to the balcony. “Those roses were planted by the first Finestra.”

“Then they’re hardy enough”—he pulled his lip between his teeth—“to survive”—a final tug—“the fall.” The trellis parted from the wall with a scream of metal and clattered to the paving stones below.

Two guards ran around the side of the building, looked at the broken trellis on the ground, then up at her.

“Everything all right, Finestra?”

She gave them a small wave. “Sudden gust of wind!”

While Dante stalked around the room, she sat on the edge of her bed to pull off her boots, softly swearing at the laces slipping through her gloved fingers. She didn’t hear his approach, so when he cleared his throat nearby, she nearly fell off the bed.

“Having trouble?”

Alessa calmed her breathing. “Everything’s more difficult in gloves.”

“So, take them off.”

Bracing himself on her bed, he checked underneath it, his long fingers digging into the soft duvet.

She jumped up as though burned.

Satisfied that no one was hiding under there, he opened the small door in the corner and stared into the darkness. “What’s through here?”

“The stairs to the salt baths.”

He gave her an incredulous look.

“Not the public baths. The Cittadella has its own chambers, and the only other way in is through the Fonte suite. Which is empty. Obviously.”

He scowled at the door to the baths as though it personally offended him, before giving the room one last scan. Passing the table, he paused to pick up a large, engraved envelope.

“For you.” He held it out for a second, realized she wasn’t going to take it from his hands, and tossed it back on the table.

She’d known the envelope was coming, but the sight stole her breath.

Alessa didn’t want his keen eyes on her when she read it, but the letter refused to be ignored, like a persistent buzzing in her ears. She picked it up, turning it over a few times before breaking the seal and scanning the flowery script. When she finished, she crumpled the paper in her fist, squeezing until sharp corners jabbed her palm through her thin gloves.

Dante eyed the mangled paper in her grip. “Love letter?”

“A summons.” Alessa dropped the crumpled ball into the trash. “The Consiglio is convening tomorrow.”

He raised his eyebrows. “That was fast.”

“Very.” She swallowed hard. “I thought I’d have a few more days, but it seems they’ll have the next poor soul trussed up and delivered by tomorrow evening.”

Dante turned to her bookshelf, running a hand down the leather spines as if the books were precious or potentially dangerous.

“My guards usually stand outside the door at night,” she said, walking toward the privacy screen. “But you can take a chair if you’d be more comfortable.”

Studying the faded spine of one book, he gestured at the couch. “I’ll sleep there.”

Alessa cut off a yawn. “No, you won’t.”

“I didn’t come to a castle to sleep in a chair.”

“Then drag the cushions into the hall. You can’t sleep in here.”

“Why not?”

“These are my rooms.” Her sanctuary, where she shed her layers and didn’t have to worry about her every movement terrorizing others. But she couldn’t say that. She refused to bare her pain to a rude stranger.

His biceps tested the linen fabric of his shirt as he crossed his arms. “How’d the guy who tried to kill you get in?”

She blinked. “The door?”

“Or the balcony.”

“You think he scaled the side of a four-story building?”

“There was a trellis.”

“Which is gone, thanks to your delicate handiwork. I can’t have a man in my rooms. There are rules.”

“You’re the Finestra. If you can’t change the rules, who can?”

“You don’t understand how my position works.”

“And you don’t understand how bodyguards work. See, I”—he pointed to himself—“guard your”—he pointed to her, tracing curves in the air—“body.”

She half-scooted behind the screen. “You work for me. I give the orders.”

“I don’t half-ass any job. You want me to guard, this is how I do it.”

If she had to close the balcony doors to get him in the hall, she’d spend the night tossing in a hot, stuffy bed, with visions of leather-clad hands squeezing her windpipe. “Fine. But I’ve killed three people already, and if you try to sneak up on me while I’m sleeping, you’ll be the fourth.”

Dante kicked off his shoes. “Same.”

She squinted at him. Was he saying he’d killed three people? That he’d kill her if she sneaked up on him? Both?

Eyes locked on her like he knew exactly what she was thinking, Dante began unbuttoning his shirt. Panicked, she fled before she made an even bigger fool of herself.

How was she supposed to relax with only translucent panels between her and a half-dressed stranger?

“Dea,” she breathed. Surely he wasn’t taking everything off.