This Vicious Grace (The Last Finestra #1)(85)

Even as her thoughts dissolved, Alessa decided Dea had surely spent extra time and effort crafting Dante, because she couldn’t find a single flaw. Although, if he had one, it wouldn’t be a flaw to her. Still, every line and plane, ridge of bone and lean muscle, was more perfect than the last. To her eyes, to her hands.

Dante let her explore until it seemed he couldn’t take it any longer. Then, moving with a feline grace, he rolled her beneath him.

Somehow, every second of her life seemed to have led to the moment he settled himself above her. In the short time she’d known him, she’d learned to stand on her own, to take up space, and love herself, but she still had so much to learn, starting with what it meant to be one with another, even temporarily. She made a soft sound at the first bite of pain, and he stopped, soothing her with slow kisses until she begged him to continue. He moaned, and her breath hitched. Her eyes flew open. “Did I hurt you?”

“That’s—” He stopped to breathe. “That’s my question.”

It didn’t seem appropriate to laugh, but his eyes were smiling, so maybe it wasn’t so strange to laugh in a moment like that, or maybe it was, but she didn’t care—before she could decide, his hips flexed, and she forgot all about laughing.

She could feel the strain of his control, but his lips were soft and coaxing, and bit by bit, she relaxed. And then there was no more pain, or only brief flashes, but the tiny hurts were banished almost immediately by his shared gift. “I can’t—”

She silenced him with a kiss, wordlessly urging him on. She wouldn’t—couldn’t—reach the peak again, but it didn’t matter. She wanted to watch him, to memorize his expression.

When he relaxed, so boneless and heavy she thought he might be asleep, she ran her fingernails up and down his back, rubbing her smooth cheek against his rough one.

She’d given him that. For once, her body—her touch—had shared pleasure, not pain. Power had been a bad thing for so long, something she needed to suppress, control, and fear. But this … this was power, too. The power to give, to connect, to convey the thoughts and feelings she had no words for.

For five years, she’d been told she was a window to the divine, and for the first time, watching Dante’s face, she’d believed it.

His muscles bunched as he gathered himself to move away. She whimpered a protest and clutched him to her.

Lifting his head, he kissed her nose. “I’ll crush you.”

“I’ll die happy.”

Rolling to the side, he pulled her with him and laid her head on his chest. “You can’t die tonight. You have to save the world.”

The moment was too precious to darken with doubts and fears, so she wiggled deeper into his arms as he murmured soft sweetness against her forehead in the old language. Some things didn’t require translation.

She woke to utter darkness and a cool draft instead of Dante’s warmth. Reaching, her fingertips found his back. He was sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Come back to me,” she whispered.

The clouds had rolled in while she slept, so their second time was only touch, taste, and sounds. Kisses leaving trails of heat and murmured words that weren’t really words but feelings shaped into sighs mingling between parted lips.





Thirty-Eight


A gran salita, gran discesa.

The higher the rise, the greater the fall.

DAYS BEFORE DIVORANDO: 13


Alessa would’ve made the night last forever if she could, but she expected the sun to rise in the morning.

It didn’t.

The sky outside was dark, and her bed empty when she woke with nothing but tangled sheets beside her. She scrambled for the lamp, pulled the string too hard, and had to grab it before it tipped.

Dante was sitting on the couch.

“Come back to bed,” she said. “It’s still dark.”

“It’s morning,” he said. “Technically. Happy wedding day.”

The wall clock confirmed it was long past time for the sun to rise. Crollo had sent her a full day of darkness as a wedding gift.

Dante ran a bath for her, and she coaxed him into joining her. Lying back on his chest, Alessa watched as bubbles popped on the surface of the bath water, ripples distorting the lines of her bare legs. Dante’s were too long for the tub and his knees jutted from the surface like golden islands on either side of her bare hips. He bathed her with the reverence of the faithful, and for once, she accepted it as her due.

“Tip your head,” he said, hands cupped above her.

Alessa closed her eyes and let him rinse the suds away. With lazy fingers, she moved her fingertips over his muscular thighs, swirling the dark hair. His breath frayed, but in true Dante fashion he refused to be distracted from his task. After soaping up again, he took her hands in his, massaging her palms with his thumbs, his fingers sliding slick and smooth between hers.

“My family had an orchard,” Dante said. “Right by the beach. It bothered me, at first. That you were a complete stranger but smelled like home.”

He worked his way up her arms to her shoulders, gently at first, then with more pressure, kneading the taut muscles.

“And now?”

Dante’s hands slid forward to trace her collarbone, and she tipped her head to one side.

His lips brushed the flushed skin of her temple. “It’s perfect.”