Brontë sighs a cloud of mist. “No. The blood is mixed with a few sterilizing chemicals. Now will you stop touching things and park it? I’ll be done soon.”
I throw my hands up in surrender and carefully perch on his workstation, idly swinging my crossed ankles. “So, where’s my book?”
“Hm?”
“You know, the book I was destined to decorate with my flawless skin.”
“Your skin isn’t flawless, Poppy.”
“Rude.”
He snorts and flicks a knuckle against my tattoo. “You’re tainted.”
“That’s not any better.” Beneath my breath, I utter, “Fucking prick.”
“You should be nice to me if you want your Valentine’s present.”
“My what?”
Brontë tips his head toward the hall leading to the tannery. “Take a look.”
Eyebrows pinching, I hop down and wince when my stitches pull a little. He trails behind me like a looming shadow, seeming almost…apprehensive.
I flick on the light and proceed to stare at the festively wrapped package sporting an obnoxiously large pink bow resting atop his logbook on the workbench.
“What is it?”
Brontë leans a shoulder against the wall. “Open it.”
I obey, gingerly lifting the package and ripping the festive paper. “By the fucking stars…this is amasterpiece.”
It’s my copy ofInferno,bound in a charcoal hide. Scales are etched into the skin with painstaking precision, painted with cosmic hues that sparkle like stars even under the dim fluorescence. A draconicskull made entirely of pearlescent bone is centered in the front face. Glass reptilian eyes, blue as glaciers, peer back at me. A single silver tear is carved down its razor-sharp cheekbone. The rest is immaculate: glittering gemstones embedded in the hide, edges sprayed with that galactic paint, a quote from within inscribed into the back cover.
“‘E quindi uscimmo a riveder le stelle,’” I recite, swallowing a knot in my throat as I gape at him. “How did you know it’s my favorite?”
“There were years’ worth of tear stains bleeding the ink.” He shrugs, averting his gaze to the floor. “Made an educated guess.”
My thumb glides over the scales. “Whose hide is this?”
“It’s a patchwork. If you look closely enough, you’ll see the seams. Your greatest hits since we met are in there: Sebastian, Vladimir, Malakai…and Scull. Dantë helped with the bone. That’s his specialty; not mine.”
I stare at the treasure he’s just gifted me. He may as well have handed me his heart and told me his soul is mine, too.
A second ticks by.
Two.
Ten.
“If you don’t like it—”
“Damattero,” I snap. “Don’t say another fucking word.”
His jaw wires shut.
“You escaped the darkest abyss life had to offer and found your haven here.” Gently, I set the book aside and step toward him. “This city is your home and hearth, far away from your personal hell. Until I came along and tipped your life upside down. Yet you’re standing here, giving me the most thoughtful gift that youmadewith your own hands.”
Brontë bends his stiff neck. I flatten my palms on his chest and tip my chin up, holding his gaze captive.