This Vicious Grace (The Last Finestra #1)(73)

“Whose recipe is this, Saida?” Josef bumped Kaleb’s chair, looking a bit too innocent, on his way to help Saida pass out plates.

Saida grinned. “This one is from my own family. Good, isn’t it?”

It was. Sweet and slightly sticky, with the faintest hint of something floral. “Is there rosewater in this?” Alessa asked.

“Nice catch.” Saida looked impressed. “Dante, do you have any special family recipes you’d be willing to share?”

A series of emotions flickered across Dante’s face before he shook his head.

“Get up.” Kamaria gestured for Kaleb to swap seats with her, so she could sit beside Alessa.

“I swear, Kamaria,” Kaleb said. “If you touch my cards, I’m claiming your winnings.”

“Man-child,” Kamaria shot back.

As Josef explained the mechanics of card counting, while swearing he’d never actually cheat because he had morals, Kamaria leaned close to Alessa. “Nina may be as gullible as a goldfish, but I’m not.”

Alessa coughed. “Huh?”

Kamaria licked her finger. “Your little wrestling match with Signor Crankypants. I mean, you are getting better, so I believe that he’s helping you with your power—but he was enjoying your hands on him, and he shouldn’t have been. Sorry. That came out harsh. Not your fault you pack a punch. But … why is he different?”

Alessa held her gaze. “He’s helping us. Does it matter?”

Kamaria seemed to consider. “Fair enough. But be careful. If I’m wondering, someone else might, too.”



* * *



After an hour in Dante’s arms the night before, Alessa was addicted. She stalled on her way to bed, watching Dante fold his shirt and stretch out on the couch, hands behind his head.

At her sigh, his eyelashes fluttered as though she’d ruffled them from afar.

Alessa walked toward her bed. Stopped. Turned back. Sighed again.

“Will you get over here already?” Dante said, his voice thick with sleep.

She popped back out. “I thought you were going to sleep. Did you change your mind?”

“No. But if the only way you’ll go to sleep is near a warm body, then cut to the chase and come here. Don’t worry. I’ll keep my hands to myself.”

Of course. He’d scoff at every other rule of polite society, but when it came to touching her, he’d be a saint. She wasn’t about to give him a chance to change his mind, though.

“Sheesh, you really don’t know how to do this—” Dante made a show of grumbling as he arranged her in front of him, but soon they were snuggled together like spoons in a drawer.

She shivered as his breath tickled the nape of her neck.

“Cold?”

“A little,” she said, hoping he didn’t notice her voice squeak.

He snagged a blanket draped over the back of the couch and draped it over her.

She could have offered her bed, but inviting Dante there felt like an entirely different proposition than lying beside him on a couch, so she kept quiet. Plus, the couch was narrow, which meant she had to be close to him or she’d fall off. A perfect excuse to get closer. She shifted, wiggling her hips, and her bottom snuggled up— Oh. Maybe wiggling was dangerous. She would not wiggle. No wiggling. Not even a little wiggle. She wouldn’t move at all. She’d stay still and try not to feel anything. Or … try to feel everything. Without wiggling.

She stared into the darkness, wondering if he was as aware of her as she was of him. Or if he was regretting the invitation. But eventually, his warmth and the steady beat of his heart dragged her under.

She floated, mired in the space between light and dark, thoughts and dreams. A blanket on the sand, a calloused palm brushing across her rib cage. With lips like his, Dante had to know a thing or two about kissing.

He made a low sound deep in his throat, and her eyes flew open.

She was either asleep and having the best dream ever, or he was asleep and—his hips moved, pressing against her, and her cheeks flamed—he was asleep and having a very nice dream. Or … they were both awake, and he wanted to see if she was interested in not sleeping. Which she was, but she hadn’t responded, so he might think she was saying no.

His breath tickled her ear, and she lost track of her thoughts,

Breathe, she reminded herself.

His lips brushed the sensitive spot just below her ear, kindling a fire below her navel. Her thoughts scrambled as his fingers grazed the underside of her breast. This felt so right—nothing had ever felt more right—but Dante had made it clear he planned to keep his hands to himself. Which he most certainly wasn’t.

Speak. She opened her mouth, and a whimper slipped out.

Dante wasn’t a liar. Which meant he probably wasn’t awake.

“Dante?” It came out barely more than a breath.

Try harder, Alessa.

She said his name again. Louder.

Dante tensed like she’d dumped a bucket of ice on him, then vanished, vaulting over the back of the couch.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I don’t know what happened. How long—I mean, how many—No, don’t answer that. My fault. Not yours. This is my fault.”

Something crumbled inside her at the horror on his face.

Why had she expected anything else?