Beatrice collapsed in his arms as the fire covering his skin waned, and the cloud of steam drifted away on the night breeze. His movement slowed. The iron cage of his arms softened, and his hands began to stroke down her back as Giovanni murmured in a hoarse voice. She sobbed in pleasure and relief, but he only pressed her closer.

“Ubi amo; ibi patria. Calma, Tesoro. Ti amo, Beatrice. Calma.”

She blinked away the tears and buried her face in his neck, inhaling the rich smoke of his skin. She could feel her blood leaping within him, and his amnis pulsed and swirled around her. Beatrice felt Giovanni tilt his neck to the side and press her mouth closer.

“Drink from me, Beatrice. Please, drink.”

Beatrice gave a small cry before she bit into the thick vein at his neck. His blood burned down her throat, inflaming her desire again. She reached down and felt him grow hard in her hand as the muscles of his chest tensed.

She pulled away from his vein with a contented sigh, licking his rich blood from her lips and letting her fangs scrape over his chest.

“More,” she whispered.

He laid her down in the long grass and stretched out next to her. This time, they were slow. Languorous and lazy with soft hands and long strokes. She pressed her mouth to his and inhaled his breath when he entered her. Tears ran down her cheeks, but he kissed them away. They moved together as the night birds sang to warn of the dawn.

Hours later, Beatrice still felt like she could not stop touching him. They had finally taken shelter in the house when the morning chased away the stars. The bedroom lay at the very center of the home, surrounded by winding hallways that shielded it from the sun. They had laughed and joked as they wandered through the labyrinth of a house, turning first into the kitchen, then an office, a sitting room, and a library before they finally discovered a room with a bed.

“I hope you like this house, Beatrice, because I believe we’re buying it from Gavin. He said something about mental pictures.”

“Well, seeing as we… enjoyed his kitchen—”

“And his library.”

“I think you punched a hole in one of the walls in the hall.”

“You tore up some of the carpet in the study.”

“Then I can’t blame him.” She laughed. “And I like it. It’s like a maze. Only, instead of a minotaur at the middle, you finally get to the bedroom.”

“And a comfortable bed is far better than being gored to death.”

She snorted. “Is that supposed to be a joke about your sexual performance?”

He barked out a laugh, but then grew very quiet. He pulled down the sheets to inspect her. “I wasn’t too rough was I? Did I hurt you?”

“Don’t be silly.” She stroked along his shoulders, running her fingers through his hair. “I needed that as much as you did. I was a mess without you.”

He buried his face in her neck and took a deep breath. His skin was still warm, but comfortingly so. And his amnis wrapped around her tightly, curling and twisting as it met hers, binding them together as surely as their bodies were linked.

“I dreamt about you.”

“In prison?”

“Yes.” He paused and his fingers encircled her wrist. “I think it was the only thing that kept me sane.”

“Did she hurt you?”

He was silent, and the fury ran hot within her. Beatrice gritted her teeth and hissed. “She will die.”

“When we get back to Rome—” He broke off when he felt her tense up. “What is it?”

“I don’t want to talk about Livia. You should get some sleep. There will be plenty of time to talk about this stuff later. Right now, I just want to lay with you and try to rest.”

He pulled her chin around and forced her to look into his eyes. He was frowning, and Beatrice knew that he was not satisfied with her answer.

“Fine, but you’re explaining that later.”

“Okay.”

He tucked her under his arm and pulled the sheets up to cover her.

“Do you want me to sing to you?” he asked softly.

“Just sleep. Having you here is enough.”

“Try to rest, Tesoro.”

She smiled and buried her face in his chest. She felt him drift away into a bone-deep, contented sleep. Beatrice watched him for hours, wiping at the tears that fell down her face and drinking in the sight of him, determined to make it last.

“Why does chamois blood taste so much better than other goats? It’s not sour at all.”

Giovanni shrugged and continued field-dressing the dark-skinned animal they had hunted the following night.

“The meat is very good. I know the right way to cook it. You will like it.”

Though Gavin had the house stocked with blood and there were many towns nearby, Giovanni had wanted the exertion of the hunt, so they had slipped away from the balmy edge of the lake to run miles north into the mountains. Giovanni enjoyed the fresh, dry air of the Southern Alps and Beatrice enjoyed Giovanni. All she had to do was catch a glimpse of him from the corner of her eye, and she smiled.

He wore some of the clothes Gavin had at the house, small on him, but still better than the rags he’d worn away from the castle. One look at the shredded tunic he’d thrown on the dock, and her rage against Livia had bloomed again.

“Come.” He held out his hand after washing his hands in a small stream. He made a small satchel from the shirt he had worn and carried the best cuts of meat down the mountain for them to share. She grinned at her shirtless husband carrying the game they had just killed. There was still a drop of blood at the corner of his mouth.