This Vicious Grace (The Last Finestra #1)(53)

At his first step, she skittered backward. “Your face.”

Dante rolled his eyes but glanced around the room until he found a display of colorful scarves hanging from pegs by the door. Snatching a bright purple scarf, he tucked one end into the top of his shirt and wound it around his head. His gloved fingers plucked at the folds, trying to pick them apart so he could see. “Dammit, where’d you go?”

Alessa pinched her tongue between her teeth.

One dark eye became visible, and he opened his arms and waited.

Courage, desperation, or pure drunken stupidity drove her into his embrace.

The moment they touched, every muscle in her body pulled so tight she couldn’t have moved if she wanted to.

He was warm.

It was all she could think. She’d forgotten that people felt warm.

She tried to rest her hands on his back, but jerked away reflexively. His arms came around her, strong and unafraid, so she tried again, placing her palms on the flat planes of his back.

Bit by bit, muscle by muscle, she eased into him until her cheek rested against his chest.

The steady beat of his heart accelerated.

She tried to find the strength to move—she didn’t want him to fear for his safety—but he didn’t pull away, and nothing had ever felt so good. Nothing. This hug was officially the best thing that had ever happened to her.

Pathetic.

She didn’t care. It felt like breathing after being underwater for years. Lulled by warmth and comfort, she let the world fall away, every sense soothed by the strong arms holding her up, the firm heat beneath her cheek— She jerked her head up.

Dante’s voice rumbled through his chest. “Did you just fall asleep?”

Alessa blinked. “Maybe.”

“Really?”

“Only for a second.”

“Huh. Not what a man usually wants when a woman’s in his arms, but I guess that’s a good sign?”

The fabric of his shirt rubbed against her skin as she nodded.

“Better?” he asked. “Satisfied?”

Satisfied? Not even close.

Better? Yes.

She mumbled something meant to be meaningless.

“What?” One arm tight around her, Dante fumbled to adjust the absurd scarf with the other.

“Nothing.” She burrowed deeper into his embrace. “Don’t worry, I’ll let go in a minute.”

Dante paused. “Take your time.”

She only wobbled a little when she stepped back. “Will you please tell me your name?”

He rubbed his lip. “Tell you what. You save the world, I’ll tell you my name. How’s that for motivation?”

“Seems like a very high bar for basic information about an employee.”

“Take it or leave it.” Dante yawned. “I’m going to take a shower. Drink more water. You’ll thank me.”

Alessa weaved to the sink to fill a large glass. Sloshing more than a bit on the floor, she made her way to bed and resisted the urge to lie down.

Her nightclothes were in the closet off the bathing room, and she wasn’t about to barge in while Dante was showering, so she stripped to her slip and kicked her dress away before climbing into bed. It took some maneuvering, but she kept the sheets pinned to her chest while she reached for the glass again.

She gulped half of it through sheer force of will. The rest would take more motivation. She frowned at the tepid water. Getting ice would require sprinting across the room—bad idea sober, treacherous in her current state—before Dante returned.

Lukewarm tap water would have to do.

As she steeled herself for one more sip, Dante walked out in nothing but a towel.

Alessa lowered the glass from her still-parted lips.

“Sorry. Forgot a change of clothes.” He cocked his head. “You okay?”

Oh. She was staring. And didn’t really feel like stopping. She held up a hand. “Don’t move.”

He scanned the room for trouble, then crossed his arms. “Why am I standing here?”

“You told me to be bold.”

“And?”

“And a half-naked man is in my bedroom, so I’m boldly looking.”

He ran his fingers through his hair, bemused. “That’s … not what I meant.”

“You don’t get to dictate what someone does with your advice. I’ll work on other kinds of boldness later. For now, I’m ogling. Unless you’re shy.”

“Shy?” He ran his tongue over his teeth, not entirely hiding his smile. “Hardly.” Palms out, he spun in a slow circle. “There. Seen enough?”

A dangerous question. “I suppose I’ll let you put your clothes on now.”

He snorted. “Like you could stop me.”

“I could kill you with my pinky.”

“I’m shaking.”

She threw a pillow and he caught it, tucking it beneath his arm as he headed for a stack of clean clothing on the couch. “Keep throwing these at me and you’ll have none left.”

A smile playing on her lips, she sank into a pile of pillows. At least one person treated her like a regular person. It was more than she’d dared to hope for in a very long time.





Twenty-Five


Le bestemmie sono come la processione: escono dal portone e ritornano dallo stesso.