A Hunger for the Forbidden - By Maisey Yates Page 0,22
You, a Battaglia. It’s news, cara. Not since Romeo and Juliet has there been such a scandal.”
“I’m not going to stab myself for you just because you’ve poisoned your damn self, so you can stop making those parallels anytime.”
“Come to me, Alessia.”
She took a step toward him, her movements unsteady, her lips turned down into a sulky frown. He wanted to kiss the expression off her face.
“You left your hair down,” he said, reaching out and taking a dark lock between his thumb and forefinger, rubbing the glossy strands. “You’re so beautiful. An angel. That was the first thing I thought when I saw you.”
She blinked rapidly. “When?”
“When we were children. I had always been told you Battaglias were monsters. Demons. And I couldn’t resist the chance to peek. And there you were, running around your father’s garden. You were maybe eleven. You were dirty and your hair was tangled, but I thought you looked like heaven. You were smiling. You always smile.” He frowned, looking at her face again. “You don’t smile as much now.”
“I haven’t had a lot of reasons to smile.”
“Have you ever?”
“No. But I’ve made them. Because someone had to smile. Someone had to teach the children how to smile.”
“And it had to be you?”
“There was no one else.”
“So you carry the weight of the world, little one?”
“You should know something about that, Matteo.”
He chuckled. “Perhaps a little something.” He didn’t feel so much like he was carrying it now.
He took her arm and tugged her forward, her dark eyes wide. “I want you,” he said.
Not waiting for a response, he leaned in and kissed her. Hard. She remained immobile beneath his mouth, her lips stiff, her entire body stiff. He pulled her more firmly against him, let her feel the evidence of his arousal, let her feel all of the frustration and need that had been building inside of him for the past three months.
“Did he kiss you like this?” he asked, pressing a heated kiss to her neck, her collarbone.
She shook her head. “N-no.”
“Good. I would have had to kill him.”
“Stop saying things like that.”
“Why?” he asked. “You and I both know that I could, Alessia. On your behalf, I could. I might not even be able to stop myself.” He kissed her again, his heart pounding hard, blood pouring hot and fast through his veins.
“Matteo, stop,” she said, pulling away from him.
“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