Gabriel's Promise (Gabriel's Inferno 4)

Gabriel’s Inferno

and

The Raven

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Outtake from The Raven by Sylvain Reynard

WILLIAM, PRINCE OF FLORENCE

We’d missed St. Valentine’s Day.

I first met Raven in May and soon after, she captured my heart. Our future was uncertain, threatened by enemies both inside and outside the city of Florence. For these reasons, I determined to live each moment with her to the fullest. I would not wait until February for a grand display of my affection.

Raven entered our bedroom at the end of a long day working at the Uffizi Gallery. I noticed she was leaning heavily on her cane, which meant she was tired. No doubt her disabled leg was causing her pain.

“Welcome.” I bowed, speaking in English because she’d taken a shine to my Oxonian accent.

She smiled, like the rising of the sun. Then she stopped short, taking in the changes I’d made.

I’d positioned a high-backed chair at the foot of our bed, like a throne. Before it, I’d placed a silver basin with steaming water, a pile of clean towels, and a few other accoutrements.

She limped toward me, curious. “What’s this?”

“A surprise.” I bent and kissed her firmly on the mouth—a greeting. I put her cane aside and escorted her to the throne. Once she was seated, I pulled out a low stool and sat at her feet.

“I don’t understand.” She smoothed her black hair behind her ears and rested her green eyes on me.

I’d already lost myself in their depths. Raven’s eyes mirrored her soul and were always full of feeling, courage, and compassion.

“This is a gift.” I placed my hand on her knee, slipping a thumb under the hem of her dress. She shivered in reaction.

“Relax,” I whispered.

I draped a towel over my lap and lifted one of her feet, carefully unstrapping her shoe and removing it. I repeated the same procedure with her other foot, allowing myself the luxury of touching her skin, trailing up the back of her calf.

She sighed, a hazy look on her face.

I fought back a smile.

I placed her feet in the silver bowl, which was filled with warm, soapy water. The scent of roses lifted.

“Too warm?” My eyes sought hers.

She shook her head. “It’s perfect.”

She leaned forward and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Am I dirty?”

I blinked. “Don’t you know the story of Mary Magdalene? Washing Jesus’s feet with her tears? Drying his feet with her hair?”

She sat back. “Is that what this is?”

“My hair isn’t long enough to dry your feet.” I winked at her and she laughed.

I liked the sound of her laughter. I adored it.

“You’re washing my feet,” she remarked, her voice filled with wonder. “I’m not a Christ figure, William.”