Page 64 of Broken Crown

Some promises were made to be broken. Arcangelo had broken his a hundred times over.

The question that kept me awake was whether Sabrina would be the hundred and first.

He picked up his espresso and drained the last of it with infuriating calm. Then he set the cup down on the mantel and met my eyes.

“I’m not your enemy, Sebastian.” A pause. That half smile again—the one that had charmed duchesses and deacons alike. “But I’m not your priest either. So don’t expect absolution for what you’re about to do to that girl.”

The moment he left, I snatched the dagger from the desk and threw it. It struck a leather volume of Dante’s Inferno with a satisfying thunk, embedding itself deep in the gilded leather spine.

I am the way into eternal pain, I am the way to go among the lost.

The memory of Sabrina’s tear-streaked face as she slapped me that day returned. You did this. You brought me into this world.

She was right. And for the first time in my life, I wasn’t sure I could control the forces I’d set in motion.

Worse—I wasn’t sure I wanted to. Not if controlling them meant letting her go.

CHAPTER 18

SABRINA

Iwas lost again.

The palazzo had a way of rearranging itself when I wasn't paying attention. Corridors that I swore led to the kitchen deposited me at a locked door. Staircases I'd never seen before appeared between rooms I thought I knew.

Sebastian's home wasn't a house. It was a test.

I retraced my steps past the twin marble globes—my only reliable landmark—and turned left instead of right, which brought me to the walled courtyard where we'd played bocce.

It was empty now. The bocce balls were packed away, the bar unstaffed. Late afternoon light filtered through the glass dome ceiling, casting long amber stripes across the oyster-shell court. The jasmine and citrus trees filled the humid air with a sweetness that was misplaced against the cold reality of my situation.

I sank onto one of the stone benches and pulled my knees up, pressing my forehead against them. Just five minutes. Five minutes of not performing.

"You look like a woman who's trying very hard not to scream."

I jerked upright.

Arcangelo leaned against the archway, arms folded, the picture of clerical ease. His black shirt was open at the collar.

"I wasn't⁠—"

"Screaming? No. But the posture suggests you were considering it." He pushed off the arch and crossed to the bar. "Coffee? Or something that will actually help?"

"I'm fine."

"That word gets a remarkable workout in this house." He poured liquor into a short glass and set it on the bar without offering it. Just placed it there, within reach.

It was such a small thing. Such a deliberate contrast to the way Sebastian operated, where everything was handed to me with the understanding that refusal wasn't an option.

I didn't reach for it.

Arcangelo didn't seem to care.

He sipped his espresso and studied the bocce court. "Sebastian is downstairs trying to murder a practice dummy with a fencing foil. In case you were wondering where your jailer was."

"He's not my jailer."

"Mm." The sound was noncommittal. Priestly, almost. The kind of noise a confessor made when he knew you were lying but wanted you to get there on your own.