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“Someone left several patches for me in the infirmary. I never found out who.”
But when they tried to take your uniform, Dante fought them. So they tied him to the mast and lashed him. Ten times.”
Suddenly, she felt something warm against her hand. She looked up, startled, to find Dante sitting inches away, his fingers pressed over hers. His silver-blond curls dripped down into his eyes like liquid moonlight; his eyes were dark and teasing. “Dance with me,” he said.
“How was that for noble?” he asked. “Nobility does not boast,” she quoted. “I don’t recognize that one. Who said it?” “Ximena Reale.”
