Tella might have smiled if everything didn’t hurt so much.
Dante held her closer and smoothed back a piece of hair that had fallen across Tella’s face. Then his fingers returned, gently tracing the curve of her mouth as he said, “I’ve never wanted to be someone else until that moment I saw him kiss you on the dance floor.”
“You should have asked me to dance first.”
“I will, next time.” His lips swept a kiss across her forehead. “Don’t give up on me, Donatella. If you stay with me long enough to get you somewhere safe and warm, then I promise I won’t let go of you like I did that night. Together we’ll fix all of this.”
The sharpness left his face, and for a moment Dante looked so treacherously young. His dark eyes were more open than usual, rimmed in bits of starlight that made her want to stare into them forever. His hair fell like strands of lost ink in every direction, while his dangerous mouth remained parted, looking vulnerably close to spilling a wicked secret.
“You’re the most beautiful liar I’ve ever seen.” She tried to mumble more, but her mouth didn’t want to move any longer. Her muscles were so, so tired.
Dante held her hazardously closer as he reached a mausoleum and opened the gate. Tella told herself she’d only close her eyes for another moment. Dante was murmuring something else, and she wanted to hear it. It sounded as if it might have been important. But it was suddenly so much warmer in here, and hadn’t she wanted to know what it would feel like to fall asleep wrapped in his arms?
26
Tella wanted to fall back asleep the instant she woke up, if this stifling form of consciousness could actually be considered wakefulness. Her eyes would not open. Her lips would not move. But she could feel the pain, searing so sharply. Her entire world was formed of injured bones and sliced skin, punctuated by fragments of sounds and wayward words, as if her hearing couldn’t decide whether or not it wanted to work.
There were two voices, male, both echoing. Tella’s groggy head conjured images of rocky walls hidden deep underground.
“What did…”
“I—”
“Save … her…”
“I know the risks … but Fates … She won’t heal.”
“I thought the Prince … was the only Fate free?”
“These Fates … stayed hidden for years … or the spell imprisoning the Fates is weakening.”
The other voice muttered a curse.
Tella felt it then, something that wasn’t pain, wet against her lips. Thicker than water and slightly metallic. Blood.
“Drink.”
Something warm pressed more firmly against Tella’s mouth, until she could feel the damp blood dripping onto her tongue. Her first instinct was to spit it out. But it was still impossible to move, and she enjoyed the way it tasted, like power and strength and something fierce enough to make her heart race. With extreme effort she managed to lick and drink down more.
“Good girl.” It was one of the voices from before, but now that some of her pain had dulled Tella could add a name. Julian.
“That should be enough.” The second voice was lower and more commanding. Dante.
Tella’s heart beat even faster.
An instant later there was no more blood. The pain was still present but it was dulled to an aching.
“Find her sister.” Dante again. “Get her into Tella’s room at the palace. I don’t want her to wake up alone.”
A pause followed, extended in a way that made Tella fear her hearing had failed her until Julian’s voice broke the quiet. “You really care about her?”
Another pause.
“I care about finding those cards, and she’s our best hope for it, brother.”
27
It should have felt like the end of existence when Tella came back to consciousness once more. Her everything should have hurt in every possible way. She should have awoken to a world of pain, to a screaming wrist, a swollen face, and battered feet. Instead her body felt whole and rested, and her heart was beating stronger than it had the night before. Wherever she was, this new universe was delightfully cozy and sweet, as if someone had tucked her into the center of a holiday.