Chapter 23
EMBERLINE
By the time Isola dei Lupi came into view, the fog had turned to light rain, and my fingers were numb from gripping the metal rail like it was my only lifeline to a past that had already slipped away.
Castello Dominico rose out of the lagoon like something carved from bone—all Istrian stone and dark roofs, pointed turrets and arches, and a bell tower that disappeared into the low-hanging clouds.
This island was the kind of place you’d never leave unless the person with the key let you out.
“Keep breathing, Emberline,” Nico counseled. “And loosen up that grip. You’re going to crack your knuckles if you squeeze any harder.”
I forced my fingers to unclench from the railing.
We were going old school tonight and taking a boat to the island, something about grand entrances and tradition and blah, blah, blah.
I’d stopped listening after Nico informed me—without a hint of sarcasm—the Dominico females would be dressing me for my own wedding.
Like… what the fuck?
“I’m perfectly calm.”
“You look like you’re about to jump and swim back to Venice.”
“As tempting as that thought is,” I muttered. “I can’t fucking swim.”
“Amazing you never fit that into your extensive resume.” He huffed out a laugh that never reached those strange-colored eyes. “No jumping overboard then; this is my favorite suit, and I have no desire to get wet.”
My babysitter was dressed not like a soldier but as a proper Dominico male—understated, expensive black suit, long black coat, black tie. Still ruthlessly efficient, with a knife hidden in every pocket and seam. I, on the other hand, was not wearing white.
Plain black dress. Simple coat. Combat boots.
No lace. No jewels. No veil.
Weapons hidden in every nook and crevice, something I was waiting for Nico—Draconi soldier extraordinaire—to notice. So far, he’d restrained himself.
Clothing had been my one small rebellion—arriving in full mourning, not like a cake topper my uncle had special ordered from the local bakery. Too bad they were going to try to turn me into one.
Their mistake, I guess.
“You know you’ll have to change once we’re inside,” Nico reminded me again. “They’ve been planning this circus for days, salivating over who gets to dress you. I believe the eldest aunt and her daughter have the honors.”
“I’m well aware, Nico,” I said tightly. “You’ve told me enough times, and my ears still work. Let me savor these last moments like someone who still has a chance at a fucking life. In silence, if you don’t mind.”
He managed to stay quiet for one entire heartbeat, then he leaned down beside me, his long braid falling over the railing. “For what it’s worth,” he confided softly, “you’re not the only one walking into this with a knife to your back.”
I shot him a sideways look. “That’s your idea of a pep talk?”
“Not really,” he admitted. “But it’s the truth.”
The boat bumped softly against the private dock.
The Dominico crest—wolf and crown—was carved into the stone mooring posts, the dock…
everywhere I looked, as though there was any chance I might forget where I was.
Beneath a sea of black umbrellas, figures waited at the top of the stairs: men in expensive suits, women in deep jewel-toned gowns, servants toward the back.
And at the center stood Don Marcello; no sign of Gabriel.
He was probably off somewhere getting drunk.
I certainly wished I was.
Nico stepped off first, reaching for me as the boat rocked slightly. “Careful, the dock is slick from the rain,” he cautioned. “Can’t have you falling and chipping the merchandise.”
I took his hand, mostly so I didn’t have to look at our audience. “Call me merchandise one more time,” I threatened softly, “and I’ll toss your smart ass in the lagoon.”
“That’s the spirit,” he said, mouth quirking. “You and I are going to get on so well, principessa.” His thumb traced over my knuckles, so lightly I might have imagined it, but coupled with the flash of heat in his eyes… I yanked my hand from his.
“I’m perfectly capable of walking on my own, thank you,” I huffed, cheeks burning as I tore my gaze away, suddenly feeling off kilter.
We climbed the stone steps together, Nico remaining a respectful half a step behind me. The throng tracked every inch of our ascent, faces expressionless. My pulse spiking, feet made of lead, I dragged myself stubbornly up those stairs, knowing I was navigating a dangerous gauntlet.
Lines of vampires flanked me as I approached the summit, intimately aware of how close Nico stayed, of how the crowd’s greedy eyes tracked our passage. These creatures were always hungry—starving for blood, violence, and the misfortune of others.
“Signorina DiRavello.” Don Marcello dipped his head in greeting when I reached the top.
His voice was smooth, polished over centuries of making us kiss his fucking ring.
“Welcome to our home.” As if he read my mind, he added, “You will see my son in a few hours. It is, after all, bad luck for the groom to see the bride on her mating day.”
“Mating day?” I repeated, unsteady for a second, then remembered this was only an act. Who cared what they called this travesty? I managed a small, appropriate smile. “I understand. Thank you for your gracious hospitality, Don Marcello.”
His gaze flicked over my dress. Plain. Black. Suitable for mourning. Something sharp flashed in his eyes. “A practical choice for traveling,” he stated mildly. “My attendants will escort you to your chambers. There is much to prepare.”
A flock of minions rushed forward, beckoned by their master’s hand.
“Nico,” he commanded. “You will remain posted outside her bower. I expect tonight’s event to proceed without incident.”
Event. Like my fate was a choreographed catastrophe.
“Yes, Don,” Nico acquiesced in a mild tone.
I was tempted to make some smartass crack about him guarding my bower when two females stepped forward—one with silver-flecked hair, one younger, with an equally constipated expression.
Ah. The lucky winners of the who-gets-to-dress-the-reluctant-bride contest.
“Come, Emberline,” the older woman ordered, taking my arm in a commanding grip before I could object. “I am Zia Elisabetta. This is my daughter, Rina. We will dress you properly before you are presented to the family. We must make a good first impression on your future husband.”
Of course, we must.
Then the heavy doors closed, and the wards rolled over my skin, cold and final. Somewhere outside, Nico’s presence receded beneath the hum of Dominico magic.
And that quickly, I was trapped.
The rooms were beautiful, as all Venetian rooms were, filled with beautiful, delicate, expensive things—paper-thin glass from Murano, high ceilings painted with gilded frescoes, tall windows overlooking the dark lagoon, a massive four-poster bed draped in white.
In fact, everything in the entire room was white.
So. Much. Fucking. White.
For some inexplicable reason, cold fingers of dread curled in my gut.
“What a hideous mess,” Rina sniped, clucking her tongue as she eyed my dress like some people eyed a pile of horse shit. “Black. Good for nothing but funerals. Your father allowed this?”
“My father’s dead,” I told them with a chilly smile. “I chose this for my special day.” The only fucking thing about today I had chosen, and now, even my clothing was about to be ripped away, replaced with something… proper.
Suddenly, I realized I had a problem.
“Is there a bathroom I might use?” When they both just stared, I let my smile wobble. “I have to pee. The boat ride was longer than I expected, and my nerves are… getting to me, I’m afraid.”
The older female looked even more annoyed, if that was possible, jerking her head to a door on the far wall. “We are already short on time. Make it fast, girl. We are not serving at your beck and call.”
“I’ll be quick.” I dipped my head in appreciation, crossed the room, and shut myself into the small lavatory, which was, again… all white Carrara marble, shot through with pale veins of gray.
Outside, the storm picked up, thunder booming, rain sheeting down the window, drumming on the roof overhead. The sound would have been calming if I wasn’t facing down a crucible of judgy, dour aunts and impossible choices.
Fast as I could, I stripped off my weapons.
Knives of all sizes, a long, slender pick—perfect for penetrating an eye socket without leaving a mark—stuffing them behind the mirror, on top of the cabinet, and behind the commode, managing to find hiding places for everything.
There. My own personal armory, I thought, stepping back, making sure everything was well out of sight.
“Thank you for your patience,” I whispered, slipping back into the room. “My stomach hasn’t been the same since these arrangements were made.” Best they think of me this way. A nervous, high-strung female with no survival skills at all.
Easily manipulated, easily dismissed.
“Of course.” Zia Elisabetta smiled coldly. “Every bride is nervous on their wedding eve. But you should not be afraid, ragazzina. Gabriel is a good boy.”
Boy. I almost laughed out loud, given I’d seen him crush a vampire’s heart with his bare hand just a few days ago, after he’d hunted him through the streets of Venice like prey.
“He will be a good husband,” she continued. “And a strong Don, if he has a strong wife by his side.”
I kept quiet. Wife. What a fucking travesty this all was. Even worse, everyone was going along with it, playing their part, like actors in a play. Well, at least I wasn’t the only one pretending.
“What we must concern ourselves with now,”—Zia Elisabetta briskly clapped her hands—“is making you presentable. Turning the duck into a swan. Honoring our… traditions.”
Rina went to a wardrobe and drew out a mass of fabric that glittered like fresh snow under the candlelight.
This wasn’t a dress.
It was nightmare fuel.
A tulle-inspired monstrosity.