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Alessa drew his gaze like a magnet. Sitting on a cot across the room, her face lit with joy when she saw him.

She jumped up, excused herself, and hurried toward him, leaving the soldier she’d been talking to gaping at her back. Dante fought a smile. She did that all the time, and she had no idea, flitting from one person or thought to another with no clue that anyone might not be able to keep up.

“How are you feeling?” She kneeled beside him and took his hand, silk gloves against bare skin.

“Take them off,” he said softly.

Her eyes, more green than brown today, went wide, long lashes fluttering with nerves. “Later. You’re still recovering, and—”

“Please,” he begged. “Take them off.”

She paled. Her hands shook as she removed her gloves and brushed the back of his hand with her fingers.

His muscles seized. He bit his lip, hard.Che palle.

Alessa leapt to her feet, blinking away tears. “It’s too soon. You need more time to heal. I’m going to find Adrick and Josef. They promised to help you up the stairs, and the doctor says you’re ready—” She hurried away mid-sentence.

Dante dropped his head back against the stone wall and stared up at the metal filigree over the courtyard.

No point denying it.

He wasn’t getting worse, but he wasn’t getting better. At least, no faster than anyone else.

A nurse strode toward him with a bowl of something steaming, a smile on her face that he couldn’t return.

They treated him like a normal person, and at first, he’d assumed they didn’t know. But they did. Hell, they fought over who got to tend to theGhiotte Fonte.His lip curled at the phrase.

They knew exactly what he was.

Or at least, what hehad been.

Fifty-Seven

Traduttore, traditore.

Translator, traitor. All translation is flawed.

A month after Divorando, Alessa watched as Kaleb and Dante helped each other stand, swaying until they found their balance. In bandages and loose-fitting robes, they looked like a pair of drunken pirates who’d lost their pants.

Dante caught Alessa watching, and his gaze slid away a bit too fast.

Inhaling through her nose, she tamped down the frequent urge to shake him.

Her feelings hadn’t changed. If anything, she cared even more than she had before, but Dante’s pride had taken a hit more brutal than the one to his body, and his demons refused to grant him peace, whispering threats or promises he shared with no one.

Time might not be enough to heal all wounds, but it was the only thing she could offer.

Kaleb tipped, grasping open air for a handhold, and Alessa lurched to her feet, ready to help. Dante steadied him before she could, and the two men steeled themselves to begin walking.

The other Fontes and wounded soldiers had returned to their homes to recuperate, but Kaleb claimed he’d grown too used to the luxury of the Cittadella to give it up, and technically, hewasAlessa’s official Fonte.

Dante had no home.

So, they’d stayed.

Kaleb fashioned hats out of bandages, demanding the nurses tell him he was prettier than Dante. He complained dramatically that the soup was too soupy and the cakes were too sweet until they brought him something else, then he’d eat all of his food and steal bites from Dante’s untouched tray until Dante got annoyed and ate something out of spite.

Kaleb didn’t performdespiteDante’s glares, but because of them. Dante needed a distraction, and Kaleb provided it.