She felt five different shades of berry-colored foolish as she walked away. All this time she had been worried about Tella, but obviously her sister had not been concerned about her. She probably hadn’t even thought about her. Not when she had a young man in her bed.
Scarlett shouldn’t have been surprised. Her sister had always been wilder; Tella liked the taste of trouble. But it wasn’t the wildness that hurt Scarlett. Tella was the most important person in the world to Scarlett, but it always broke Scarlett to know her sister did not feel the same way.
When their mother, Paloma, had abandoned them, all the soft parts of Scarlett’s father seemed to disappear along with her. His rules went from strict to severe, and so did the consequences for failing to obey. It would have been so different if Paloma had just stayed on Trisda. Scarlett vowed she’d never leave Tella alone the way their mother had left them. She would protect her. Even though Scarlett was only one year older, she didn’t trust anyone else to take care of her sister, and as Tella grew up, Scarlett didn’t trust Tella to take care of herself. But while she had sheltered Tella, she’d also spoiled her. Tella too often thought only of herself.
At the end of the hall, Scarlett slumped to the floor. Rough wooden boards rubbed awkwardly beneath her. It was colder on this lower level than it had been up the stairs. Or maybe she only felt chilly because of Tella’s dismissal. She’d chosen someone else over Scarlett. A young man whose name Tella probably didn’t even know. While Scarlett often feared men, Tella was the opposite, always chasing after the wrong ones, hoping one might give her the love their father withheld.
Scarlett thought about returning to her room, warmed with fire and full of blankets. But all the heat in the world would not entice her to share a bed with Julian. She could have gone down and asked the innkeeper for another room, but something told her that was not a wise idea, not after making such a fuss about how Julian needed to be let in. Stupid Julian.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. … She repeated the word in her head until her eyes drifted shut.
“Miss—” A warm hand rocked Scarlett’s shoulder, returning her to wakefulness.
Scarlett startled, clutching her hands to her chest as her eyes shot open, only to quickly close again. The young man in front of her held a lantern rather close to her face. She could feel its warmth licking her cheek, though he stood a safe distance away.
“I think she’s drunk,” said a young woman.
“I’m not drunk.” Scarlett opened her eyes again. The young man with the lantern appeared a few years older than Julian. But unlike the sailor, this young man was made of polished boots and neatly tied-back hair. He was attractive, and the care he took with his appearance made Scarlett think he knew this as well.
Dressed entirely in sleek black, he was the type of boy Tella would have called uselessly pretty, while secretly thinking of ways to gain his attention. She noticed all the ink covering his hands and moving up his arms. Tattoos, carnal and intricate, arcanists’ symbols, a mourning mask, lips curved into an alluring pout, bird talons and black roses. Each of them was at odds with the rest of his refined appearance, which made Scarlett more curious than she ought to have been.
“I was accidentally placed in a room with someone else,” Scarlett said. “I was on my way to ask the innkeeper for another suite, but then—”
“You just fell asleep in the hall?” This from the girl who had called Scarlett drunk. She was farther away from the lantern, and the rest of the hall’s lights had gone out, so Scarlett couldn’t clearly see her face. She imagined her to be sullen and unattractive.
“It’s complicated.” Scarlett faltered. She could have easily told them about her sister, but even if this couple never met Tella, Scarlett didn’t want to expose her sister’s indiscretions. It was her job to protect Tella. And Scarlett wasn’t sure she really cared about what either of these people thought of her, even if her eyes kept falling on the young man with the tattoos. He had the sort of profile meant for sculptors and painters. Full lips, strong jaw, coal-dark eyes sheltered by thick, dark brows.
Being cornered by a young man like this, in a dimly lit hall, ought to have made her uncomfortable, but his expression was concerned rather than predatory.
“You don’t have to explain,” he said. “I’m sure you had a good reason for sleeping out here, but I don’t think you should stay. I’m in room number eleven. You can sleep there.”
From the way he said it, Scarlett was fairly certain he didn’t intend to stay in the room with her—unlike another young man she knew—yet Scarlett was so used to hidden danger, she couldn’t help but hesitate.
She studied him again in the lamplight, eyes falling on the black rose that inked the backside of his hand, elegant and lovely and a little bit sorrowful. Scarlett didn’t know why, but she felt as if that tattoo somehow defined him. The elegant and lovely part might have scared her away—she had learned that this too often disguised other things—but the sad part drew her in. “Where will you sleep?”
“My sister’s room.” He nodded to the girl at his side. “There are two beds in her suite. She doesn’t need them both.”
“Yes I do,” said the girl, and although Scarlett still couldn’t see her clearly, she swore the girl looked Scarlett over with disgust.
“Don’t be rude,” said the young man. “I insist,” he added, before Scarlett could protest again. “If my mother found out I let a shivering young lady sleep on the floor, she would disown me, and I wouldn’t blame her.” He held out an inked hand to help Scarlett up. “I’m Dante, by the way, and this is my sister, Valentina.”