‘How can you say that?’ The words were heavy with feelings. ‘Everything we are is because of them. Everything.’
She wouldn’t cry.
She wouldn’t.
But her hand lifted to her stomach, pressing against it gently. ‘This baby deserves better than to be born into so much hate.’
‘There is no hate here.’
‘Yes, there is.’ Her eyes laced to his, and she forced herself to see all angles. To remember everything they were—everything they’d been. ‘My father hated your father. Your grandfather hated my father. You hated my father. Everyone hated everyone.’
‘I don’t hate you,’ he said simply.
She looked away from him.
‘And you don’t hate me.’
That was true. She didn’t hate him. She didn’t know what she felt for him.
‘I hate what you did.’ The words were gravelled. ‘I hate what you did to me. I hate what you’re capable of. I hate what you took away from me. I hate that... I hate that...’
She swept her eyes shut, unable to finish the sentence.
‘Go on,’ he prompted.
But it was too awful. Even to think, let alone to say!
‘I hate...’
‘Yes?’
‘I wish I was having this baby with anyone but you,’ she finished finally, thinking it was marginally better than to admit the truth of her thoughts—that she hated that she was having a baby with Matteo. That they were to be bound together for the rest of their days.
He was silent, staring at her for so long that she wondered if he was going to say anything at all. Colour faded from her cheeks and desolation surrounded her.
It was soul-deep and wearying.
‘This marriage is crazy,’ she whispered.
And it seemed to rouse him. Matteo’s eyes sparked with hers, and his jaw clenched, determination vibrating from him to Skye in passion-filled waves. ‘Perhaps. But we are married, Skye. And I have no intention of letting you go.’ He reached for her hand and caught it, bringing it to his lips. ‘Come. Let me take you home. You said you are tired.’
She was.
Weary. Tired. Exhausted...but it was not the kind of exhaustion that could be cured with a rest. This state of weariness came from deep within, sapping her of all her strength.
‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘Fine. Let’s go home.’
* * *
Matteo stared out at the canal without seeing. The moon was obstructed by thick, silver clouds and the city was almost completely dark. Only the far away glow of cruise ships offered any break in the bleakness of the night.
Skye was asleep upstairs, and Matteo remained where he was, looking out of the window as though answers might leap through it directly at him.
She was miserable, and that was his fault. The whole damned thing.
When had he decided that he would take the hotel? When had their marriage become a part of it?
Why hadn’t he spoken to her? For surely, as soon as they’d made love, he had been confident Skye would have done almost anything he’d asked of her. But if she’d said no?