A Hunger for the Forbidden - By Maisey Yates Page 0,23

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.

The first time he’d gotten that drunk had been the night following Alessia’s rescue. He hadn’t been able to get clean. Hadn’t been able to get the images out of his head. Images of what he was capable of.

The stark truth was, it hadn’t been the attack that had driven him to drink. It had been what his father had said afterward.

“You are my son.”

When Benito Corretti had seen his son, blood-streaked, after the confrontation with Alessia’s attackers, he’d assumed that it meant Matteo was finally following in his footsteps. Had taken it as confirmation.

But Matteo hadn’t. It had been six years after that night when Benito had said it to him again. And that night, Matteo had embraced the words, and proven the old man right.

He pushed the memories away, his heart pounding too hard to go there.

He knew full well that he was capable of unthinkable things, even without the loss of control. But when control was gone … when it was gone, he truly became a monster. And last night, he’d lost control around Alessia.

He had to find her.

He walked down the hall, his heart pounding a sick tempo in his skull, his entire body filled with lead.

He went down the stairs, the natural light filtering through the windows delivering a just punishment for his hideous actions.

Coffee. He would find coffee first, and then Alessia.

He stopped when he got to the dining room. It turned out he had found both at the same time.

“Good morning,” Alessia said, her hands folded in front of her, her voice soft and still too loud.

“Morning,” he said, refusing to call it good.

“I assume you need coffee?” she asked, indicating a French press, ready for brewing, and a cup sitting next to it.

“Yes.”

“You know how that works, right?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

She didn’t make a move to do it for him, she simply sat in her seat, drinking a cup of tea.

He went to his spot at the expansive table, a few seats away from hers, and sat, pushing the plunger down slowly on the French press.

He poured himself a cup, left it