Free A Hunger for the Forbidden by Maisey Yates Page A

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.