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 black. He took a drink and waited a moment, letting the strong brew do its magic.
“Alessia,” he said, his voice rusty, the whiskey burn seeming to linger, “last night … did I hurt you?”
“In what way?” she asked, leaning back in her chair, her dark eyes unflinching.
“Physically.”
“No.”
The wave of relief that washed over him was profound, strong. “I’m pleased to hear it.”
“Emotionally, on the other hand, I’m not sure I faired so well.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, let’s see, my husband got drunk on our wedding night instead of coming to bed with me. What do you think?”
“I’m sorry if I wounded your pride,” he said, “that wasn’t my intention.” What he’d been after was oblivion, which he should have known wasn’t a safe pursuit.
“Wouldn’t your pride have been wounded if I’d done the same?”
“I would have ripped the bottle out of your hand. You’re pregnant.”
There hadn’t been a lot of time for him to really pause and think through the implications of that. It had all been about securing the marriage. Staying a step ahead of the press at all times. Making sure Alessia was legally bound to him.
“Hence the herbal tea,” she said, raising her cup to him. “And the pregnancy wasn’t really my point.”
“Alessia … this can’t be a normal marriage.”
“Why not?” she asked, sitting up straighter.
“Because it simply can’t be. I’m a busy man, I travel a lot. I was never going to marry … I never would have married.”
“I don’t see why we can’t have a normal marriage anyway. A lot of men and women travel for business, it doesn’t mean they don’t get married.”
“I don’t love you.”
Alessia felt like he’d slapped her. His words were so bald, so true and unflinching. And they cut a swath of devastation through her. “I didn’t ask you to,” she said, because it was the only truth she could bring herself to speak.
“Perhaps not, but a wife expects it from her husband.”
“I doubt my father loved my mother, and if he did, it wasn’t the kind of love I would like to submit to. What about yours?”
“Obsession, perhaps, was a better word. My father loved Lia’s mother, I’m sure of that. I’m not certain he loved mine. At least, not enough to stay away from other women. And my mother was—is, for that matter—very good at escaping unpleasant truths by way of drugs and alcohol.” His headache mocked him, a reminder that he’d used alcohol for the very same reason last night.
“Perhaps it was their marriages that weren’t normal. Perhaps—”
“Alessia, don’t. I think you saw last night that I’m not exactly a brilliant candidate for husband or father of the year.”
“So try to be. Don’t just tell me you can’t, Matteo, or that you don’t want to. Be better. That’s what I’m trying to do. I’m trying to be stronger, to do the right thing.”
“Yes, because that’s what you do,” he said, his tone dry. “You make things better, because it makes you feel better, and as long as you feel good you assume all is right with your world. You trust your moral compass.”
“Well, yes, I suppose that’s true.”
“I don’t trust mine. I want things I shouldn’t want. I have already taken what I didn’t have the right to take.”
“If you mean my virginity, I will throw this herbal tea in your face,” she said, pregnancy hormones coming to the rescue, bringing an intense surge of anger.
“I’m not so crass, but yes. Your body, you, you aren’t for me.”
“For Alessandro? That’s who I was for?”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“The hell it’s not, Matteo!” she shouted, not caring if she hurt his head. Him and his head could go to hell. “You’re just like him. You think I can’t make my own decisions? That I don’t know my own mind? My body belongs to me, not to you, not to my father, not to Alessandro. I didn’t give myself to you, I took you. I made you tremble beneath my hands, and I could do it again. Don’t treat me like some fragile thing. Don’t treat me like you have to protect me from myself.”
He stayed calm, maddeningly so, his focus on his cup of coffee. “It’s not you I’m protecting you from.”
“It’s you?”
A smile, void of humor, curved his lips. “I don’t trust me, Alessia, why should you?”
“Well, let me put you at ease, Matteo. I don’t trust anyone. Just because I jumped into bed with you doesn’t mean you’re the exception. I just think you’re hot.” She was minimizing it. Minimizing what she felt. And she hated that. But she was powerless to do anything to stop the words from coming out. She wanted to protect herself, to push him back from her vulnerable places. To keep him from hurting her.
Because the loss of Matteo in her fantasies … it was almost too much to bear. As he became her reality, she was losing her escape, and she was angry at him for taking it. For not being the ideal she had made him out to be.
“I’m flattered,” he said, taking another drink of his coffee.
“How do you see this marriage going, then?”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Assume it’s too late. Where do we go from here?”
He leaned forward, his dark eyes shuttered. “When exactly are you due?”
“November 22. It was easy for them to figure out since I knew the exact date I conceived.”
“I will make sure you get the best care, whatever you need. And we’ll make a room for the baby.”
“Well, all things considered, I suppose our child should have a room in his own house.”
“I’m trying,” he bit out. “I’m not made for this. I don’t know how to handle it.”
“Well, I do. I know exactly how much work babies are. I know exactly what it’s like to raise children. I was thirteen when my mother died. Thirteen when my baby sister and the rest of my siblings became my responsibility. Babies are hard work. But you love them, so much. And at the same time, they take everything from you. I know that, I know it so well. And I’m terrified,” she said, the last word breaking. It was a horrible confession, but it was true.
She’d essentially raised four children, one of them from infancy, and as much as she adored them, with every piece of herself, she also knew the cost of it. Knew just how much you poured into children. How much you gave, how much they took.
And she was doing it again. Without ever finding a place for herself in the world. Without having the fantasies she’d craved. True love. A man who would take care of her.