The Roman (The Florentine 3)

William smiled, for her reaction pleased him. He dipped the pitcher into the bathtub and held it aloft. “Ready?”

“Yes.” She closed her eyes.

William smoothed her hair down her back. Slowly and deliberately, he poured the warm water, his fingers following.

He scratched at her scalp. “Are you sure the temperature is right? I have difficulty discerning it.”

“It’s perfect,” she hummed.

He chuckled and continued to wet her hair.

William used both hands to apply the shampoo and worked his fingers from her scalp to the ends of her hair as if it was his sole purpose in life.

“How does it feel?” He massaged her scalp using a firm, circular motion.

“Heavenly.”

“Women are mysterious,” he mused.

She laughed. “In what way?”

“They’re a study in contrasts: soft and strong, fierce and gentle. They can do everything, of course, and yet one feels compelled to do everything for them.”

“You sound as if you’ve just entered the Enlightenment, my friend. Welcome to the revolution.”

He tugged gently at her hair, and she laughed again.

He continued washing, and after the final rinse, he carefully squeezed moisture from the long tresses. He rested his chin on her shoulder, covering her breasts with his arms.

Raven sighed heavily.

“What was that for?” He kissed her shoulder.

She lowered her lips to his arm. “I have you, and my sister lost Dan.”

“You, of all people, know the world is unjust. Things are given, things are taken away. It’s beyond our control.”

“I should have found another way.” She bowed her head.

“Maximilian could have killed her. She is still alive.”

Raven didn’t answer.

“Let me turn you,” he whispered, his body tense behind her. “Then you will be safe, and we shall be together. Forever.”

“No.”

His grip on her loosened. “You didn’t even consider it. Not for a moment.”

“We spoke about this before. I don’t want to live forever.”

His mouth found her ear. “But you would be with me.”

“I love you, William. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. But I don’t want a thousand years of this world. It’s riddled with loss and pain and guilt.”

William released her.

She turned and placed her hand to his cheek. “You won’t live forever. You know that. Your thousand years will end, and I’ll be condemned to century after century without you.”

His hand covered hers, his eyes strangely aglitter. “We would have more time.”

“If it were just time with you, of course I’d want it. But that’s not what we’re talking about. We’re talking about death and feeding and battles.” She shook her head, her wet hair spilling over her shoulders. “I don’t want that.”

He laced his fingers with hers, pulling her hand to his mouth. “You would feel differently after the change.”

“Are you so very different from William Malet, the Norman? Is your character completely changed?”

He opened his mouth to argue and shut it abruptly.

She placed her other hand atop their conjoined ones. “You, of all people, know the power of choice. You must respect mine.”

“Think of what my life will be when you are gone.” His eyes were pained.

“You have choices, too, William.”

“This is not the life I would have chosen for either of us.”

“Then don’t ask me to choose it.”

“No suicide,” he murmured. “Promise me, no matter what, that you won’t take your own life.”

“I don’t intend to kill myself. Why are you worrying about it?”

“You don’t believe in an afterlife, but I do. And suicides…” His body shuddered.

“I promise. But you’re worrying about something that doesn’t exist.”

He hummed in her ear but did not acquiesce. “I pray my teacher will continue to watch over you.” He breathed a resigned sigh against her skin before burying his face in her neck.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

“COULDN’T YOU SECURE more comfortable accommodations?” Aoibhe threw back the hood of her cloak as she surveyed the simple room in which Ibarra was living.

The garret was in a partially renovated building that stood on the bank of the Arno, across from the Uffizi. Saw horses and tarps littered the ground floor, and most of the ceilings and walls were in various stages of repair. Dust and grime coated many of the surfaces, as well as the staircase.

Ibarra squatted under the roof. He’d tidied the room somewhat and moved in some furniture. The garret’s only entry was a leaded-glass skylight; the door had been boarded shut from the outside, making it a very suitable place for a vampyre to hide.

“We could meet at your home instead.” Ibarra gave her a wolfish grin.

“And have the Prince cut off my head? No, thank you.” She lifted her crimson skirts high above her ankles as she crossed the dirty floor. “You should have quit the city by now. It’s only a matter of time before the Prince finds you.”

“I’m not leaving until I have my revenge.” He pulled her into his arms and kissed her soundly. “Now, what news?”

“A policeman stumbled onto Teatro. Gregor was quite worried, but the Prince has emerged from his precious villa and ordered him to have the police take care of it.”

“Interesting.”

“There’s more.” She kissed him and withdrew, taunting him.

“Tell me.”

Aoibhe twirled, the folds of her red velvet dress peeking from beneath her black cloak.

“This particular policeman has an interesting history. He’s been investigating a robbery at the Uffizi, and he’s taken an interest in the Prince’s pet.”

Ibarra scoffed. “The pet seems very popular. Does it bleed gold and silver?”

Aoibhe laughed, tossing her long, red curls. “No, but once again, there’s more. It seems this officer is looking for William York.”

Ibarra’s dark brows lifted. “The Prince? How is that possible?”

“It seems he’s been involved in the human world, and somehow the policeman has learned his name. Apparently, he’s a suspect.”

“The Prince would never be so careless.”

“Ah, but it’s well known he has a weakness for art. Perhaps he stole from the Gallery.”

“That wouldn’t be enough to give a policeman his name.”

“No.” Aoibhe rubbed at her chin. “That is rather puzzling.”

“And interesting.” Ibarra pulled her close once again, his dark eyes dancing. “Finally, something to our advantag

e.”

“In what way?”

“In the way in which human beings have always been useful, as a tool for our agenda.”

She pushed him away. “The coup failed. The Curia isn’t coming, and the Princess of Umbria withdrew her troops from our borders. If we are patient, the Prince’s time will elapse, and he’ll weaken. Then we can strike.”

“Aoibhe, I’m not waiting for the Prince to gain his thousand years.”

“I won’t be party to another coup,” she snapped. “I nearly lost my head in the last one.”

“There won’t be a coup.”

Her brown eyes narrowed. “Then how do you suggest we seize the throne?”

“We allow our enemies to dispose of the Prince, and then we take control.”

“What makes you think we’d survive a war with Venice? Or Umbria?”

“Ah, that is the beauty of my plan. We don’t provoke a war. We simply motivate our enemies to assassinate the Prince.”

She flounced across the room. “That was Lorenzo’s strategy. See how successful it was.”

Ibarra straightened his spine. “I am more cunning than Lorenzo.”

“The Prince was made by the Roman. He has his protection. No one will move against him now.”

“Now, perhaps not.” Ibarra smiled. “But with the appropriate tinder…” He gestured upward. “An explosion.”

Aoibhe gazed at him suspiciously. “What are you planning?”

Ibarra’s eyes gleamed. “A bonfire of vanities.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

WILLIAM WAS ALWAYS SERIOUS, always focused. But after the unexpected conversation while he washed her hair, Raven observed a new cast to his movements as he carried her to bed.

His naked body was taut with determination and resolve. He spread himself atop her on the large bed, his forearms bracketing her shoulders.

She looked up into the gray eyes of a panther, assessing and unblinking. The muscles in his chest were hard and unyielding as they grazed against her breasts.

Raven found his silence unnerving. She bit at her lip, waiting for him to speak. But he remained silent.