Legendary
“So,” she said cautiously, “is all this your way of telling me you’re the villain?”
His chuckle was dark. “I’m definitely not the hero.”
“I already knew that,” Tella said. “It’s my story, so clearly I’m the hero.”
His mouth tipped up at both corners, and his eyes sparked, growing as hot as the finger now reaching out to trace her jaw. “If you’re the hero, what does that make me?”
His finger dipped to her collarbone.
Heat spread across her chest. This would have been the moment to pull away; instead, she let a hint of challenge slip into her voice. “I’m still trying to figure that out.”
“Would you like my help?” Dante dropped his hand to her hips.
Tella’s breathing hitched. “No. I don’t want your help.… I want you.”
Dante’s gaze caught on fire and he took her mouth with his.
This was nothing like the drunken kiss they’d shared on the forest floor, a rough combination of lust and desire for temporary entertainment. This kiss felt like a confession, brutal and raw and honest in a way kisses rarely were. Dante wasn’t trying to seduce her; he was convincing her just how little goodness mattered, because nothing he was doing with his hands could have been considered good. Yet every brush of his lips was sweet. Where others had demanded, Dante asked, slowly sweeping his mouth across hers until she parted her lips, letting his tongue slip inside as he pulled her onto his lap.
Maybe the fountain’s enchantment was at work because Tella imagined by the time she finished kissing Dante, she’d forget every other boy who’d ever touched her mouth.
Dante’s lips moved to her jaw, gently nipping and licking as his hands found the rope he’d tied around her waist. Knotting his fingers with it, he pulled her closer, until everything was made of just the two of them. Of their hands and their lips and the places their skin met.
They hadn’t even broken apart and Tella was already thinking of kissing him again, and again, tasting not merely his lips but every single one of his tattoos and scars, until the world ended and they were nothing but shadows and smoke, and Tella could no longer remember the sensation of slipping the cloak from his shoulders and running her hands along his back. Or how it tasted when his lips spoke words against her mouth that felt like promises she hoped he’d keep.
And for the first time in her life Tella wanted even more. She wanted the night to stretch into forever, and for Dante to tell her more stories about Fates, and his past, and anything else he wanted to say. In that moment, inside of that kiss, she wanted to know everything about him. She wanted him, and it no longer scared her.
He was right. Tella had wanted to blame the Fates for her misfortunes, but she was the one who’d always run from the possibility of love. And deep down she knew it wasn’t really about the Fates. It was about her mother and how she’d left without ever looking back.
Tella claimed she didn’t want love—she liked to say love trapped and controlled and ripped hearts apart. But the truth was she also knew love healed and held people together, and deep down she wanted it more than anything. She enjoyed the kisses, but a part of her always wished that whenever she walked away from a boy he’d run after her, beg her to stay, and then promise he’d never leave.
She’d accepted the cards she’d been given and turned them into her fate because it felt like the only way to protect herself after her mother left. But maybe if Tella chose to reject what she’d seen in the cards then she could have a new destiny. One where she didn’t have to be afraid of love.
When the kiss finally ended, their cloaks were both puddled on the ground, their arms were around each other, and the sky had moved back to where it should be, to the black hour just before sunrise. Only the moon lingered, undoubtedly wishing it had lips after witnessing what Tella and Dante had just done.
Dante spoke against her mouth, this time loud enough for her to hear his words. “I think I’d like you even if you were the villain.”
She smiled against his lips. “Maybe I’d like you even if you were a hero.”
“But I’m not the hero,” he reminded her.
“Then perhaps I’m here to save you.” This time she kissed him first. But it wasn’t as sweet as before. It tasted acrid. Metallic. Wrong.
Tella broke away, and in that moment she swore the stars returned and shined a little brighter simply to be cruel. Light fell over Dante illuminating the blood dripping out of the corner of his mouth. Slow and red and cursed.
34
Tella shoved up from the fountain and turned away. She didn’t even pay attention to where she went as she wiped her lips with her hands. Blood kept pouring out of the corners of her mouth, mercilessly bringing her back to the reality of her situation, and to the game that she and Dante were on different sides of. Her mother might have no longer deserved saving, but Tella still needed it.
Beat …
Nothing.
Beat …
Nothing.
Beat …
Nothing.
It was almost as if Jacks were watching, waiting for Tella’s one moment of happiness so that he could rip it away.
In between her dying heartbeats, she heard Dante’s heavy footsteps as he rose from the fountain and followed until he stood directly behind her.
“Tella, please, don’t run.” His voice was as gentle as the hand he placed on her bare upper back. Her entire body had gone suddenly cold except for where his palm rested. Such a contrast to Jacks’s forever cold touch and unbeating heart. And yet at the end of it all Jacks would be the one to triumph.
Tella might have been the only person capable of retrieving her mother’s Deck of Destiny from the stars’ vaults and winning Caraval, but Jacks and the Fates he planned on setting free would be the true victors. Once she gave Legend to Jacks, Tella would no longer be cursed, but she’d be enslaved to the stars for using her mother’s ring. The freedom she’d fought so hard for would vanish. And there was a good chance Legend and Caraval would disappear as well.
Tella really was the villain after all.
She still might have felt as if giving Legend to Jacks was the right path to take if she believed her mother was worth saving. But in that moment, Tella preferred the idea of keeping Paloma trapped in a card.
“Tella, please talk to me,” Dante said.
“I’m not going to run. But I need a moment.”
Without letting Dante see her face, Tella returned to the fountain. She cupped the wine in her hands, careful not to swallow any as she rinsed the blood from her mouth. Once she finished, she spat it out into the bushes and picked up her cloak to wipe her lips before placing it back on her shoulders. She was stalling. Dante had seen her crying, he’d seen her bleeding, seen her on the verge of death. A little blood on her mouth wasn’t about to scare him away.
“You still don’t trust me, do you?” he asked.
Finally she turned around.
The night had grown darker, but Tella could see Dante’s forehead was covered in lines and his hands were stiff at his side, as if holding back from touching her.
“I don’t trust myself,” she admitted.
Dante took a slow step closer. “Is it because you now believe it’s not a game?”
“Does it matter what I say? Would you tell me the truth, if I asked if it was all real?”
“If you have to ask, I’m guessing you wouldn’t believe me.”