A Hunger for the Forbidden(23)

“Why? Are you afraid of me, too, Alessia?”

She shook her head. “No, but you aren’t yourself. I don’t like it.”

“Maybe I am myself, and in that case, you’re wise not to like it.”

He released his hold on her. And he realized how tight his grip had been. Regret, the kind he usually kept dammed up inside of himself, released, flooding through him. “Did I hurt you?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Don’t lie.”

“I wouldn’t.”

Suddenly, he was hit with a shot of self-realization so strong it nearly buckled his knees. He had done it again. He had let his defenses down with Alessia. Let them? He didn’t allow anything, with her it was just total destruction, a sudden, real demolition that he didn’t seem to be able to control at all.

“Get out,” he said.

“Matteo …”

“Out!” he roared, images flashing before his eyes. Images of violence. Of bones crushing beneath his fists, of not being able to stop. Not being able to stop until he was certain they could never hurt her again.

And it melded with images of his father. His father beating men until they were unconscious. Until they didn’t get back up again.

“What did they do?”

“They didn’t pay.”

“Is that all?”

“Is that all? Matteo, you can’t let anyone disrespect you, ever. Otherwise, it gets around. You have to make them an example. Whatever you have to do to protect your power, you do it. And if people have to die to secure it, so be it. Casualties of war, figlio mio.”

No. He wasn’t like that.

But you were, Matteo. You are.

Then in his mind, it wasn’t his father doing the beating. It was him.

“Out!”

Alessia’s dark eyes widened and she backed out of the room, a tear tracking down her cheek.

He sank down into a chair, his fingers curled tightly around a bottle of whiskey as the edges of his vision turned fuzzy, darkened.

Che cavolo, what was she doing to him?

Alessia slammed the bedroom door behind her and tore at the back of her wedding dress, such as it was, sobbing as she released the zipper and let it fall to the floor. She’d wanted Matteo to be the one to take it off her. She hadn’t realized how much until now.

Instead, her groom was off getting drunk rather than dealing with her.

“It’s more than that,” she said out loud. And she knew that it was. He was getting drunk instead of dealing with a whole lot of things.

Well, it was unfair because she couldn’t get drunk. She was pregnant with the man’s baby, and while he numbed the pain of it all, she just had to stand around and endure it.

There was nothing new to that. She had to smile. Had to keep it all moving.

She sat down on the edge of the bed, then scooted into the middle of it, lying down, curling her knees into her chest. Tonight, there was no fantasy to save her, no way to avoid reality.

Matteo had long been her rescue from the harsh reality and pain of life. And now he was her harsh reality. And he wasn’t who she’d believed he was. She’d simplified him, painted him as a savior.

She’d never realized how much he needed to be saved. The question was, was she up to the challenge? No, the real question was, did she have a choice?

There wasn’t a word foul enough to help release the pain that was currently pounding through Matteo’s head. So he said them all.

Matteo sat upright in the chair. He looked down at the floor, there was a mostly empty whiskey bottle lying on its side by the armchair. And there was a dark star-shaped whiskey stain on the wall, glass shards gathered beneath.

He remembered … not very much. The wedding. He was married now. He looked down at the ring on his left hand. Yes, he was married now.

He closed his eyes again, trying to lessen the pain in his head, and had a flash of lilac memory. A cloud of purple, long dark hair. He’d held her arm and pulled her against him, his lips hard on hers.

Dio, what had he done? Where had it stopped? He searched his brain desperately for an answer, tried to figure out what he’d done. What she’d done.

He stood quickly, ignoring the dizziness, the ferocious hammering in his temples. He swore again as he took his first step, he legs unsteady beneath him.

What was his problem? Where was his control? He knew better than to drink like that, knew better than to allow any lowered inhibitions.