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“I thought… I thought perhaps this was how you always behave,” she says quickly.
What? No.
“There are so many,” Alessia whispers, and in those four words, there’s a world of hurt that I don’t really understand, and can’t do anything about.
“Alessia. We’re married. I have a past. You know this. But I only want you. No one else. I don’t care what my mother says. I don’t care what the world says. The press… fuck them. I just want you. And you fucking left me when you know how anxious I am about your safety.” I rest my forehead against hers and close my eyes.
Fuck. This night.
“Look, it’s really late. We’ve had enough drama tonight. Let’s just go to bed.” I kiss her forehead.
* * *
Alessia feels like a scolded child. She wishes she hadn’t looked away when she was on the mezzanine, just to verify Maxim’s story. It sounds so plausible that it’s probably true. She wants to believe that it’s true. Then she finds out he’s been wrestling with all these issues, which he hadn’t shared with her.
Does he think she’s incapable of handling this news?
Does he think she’s a child?
She’s young and inexperienced. But she’s no child.
“What?” he asks, bright green eyes burning into hers.
“You should have told me about your brother.” She sounds sulky even to her own ears.
“I didn’t want to worry you until I knew for certain what I was dealing with. Please. I’m tired. It’s been a shitty few hours. Let’s go to bed.” He releases her, steps back once more, and they stare at each other.
They’re raw. And sad. And on either side of a huge divide that Alessia doesn’t really understand.
Was it always there, or did the divide suddenly appear?
Maxim closes his eyes, and when he opens them, they’re dim with defeat. “You look beautiful. Every inch a countess, no matter what my mother may have said to you. And I know she said something else and for that I’m sorry. I’m here. I love you, but if that’s not enough, I don’t know what more I can do. I’m tired, and I’m going to bed.” He turns and walks from the room, his footsteps echoing down the hall toward his bedroom, leaving Alessia reeling and utterly alone.
Chapter Twenty-One
In our bedroom, I strip off my jacket and toss it on the sofa. So much for my lucky suit. I think I’ll burn it. Like an idiot, I turn toward the closed door and will Alessia to join me. If she doesn’t, I don’t know where we go from here, and if she does, she can remove my cuff links and undress me, and we’ll go to bed and fuck and spoon and hold each other. The little dragon catches my eye, unlit and spiritless. He looks how I feel—dim and glum. But wherever Alessia sleeps, she’ll need him, so perhaps she’ll come and fetch him.
Hopefully.
I don’t know how long I stand there dazed and confused, staring at a small piece of molded plastic, but there’s no sign of my wife. She’s abandoned both my dragon friend and me.
I remove each cuff link and start on the buttons, fatigue wrapping around me like a shroud. Sinking onto the bed, I sit with my head in my hands and try to process the last couple of hours.
This evening has been… intense.
I’ve dealt with a drunken ex, my missing wife, my faithless mother and her revelations, and her meddling fuck toy. I wonder if Heath was the one who tipped off the press. He has the connections.
Fucker.
And then there’s Kit. My half-brother.
Did he know? Rowena didn’t answer the question. I cast my mind back to the New Year when we were at the Hall. “Not now, Maxim!” he’d snapped as he stormed out of the kitchen back door into the dark, icy night. And I’d turned and watched my mother stalk down the corridor, her heels tapping their brisk percussive beat, as she walked stiffly away from Kit’s office.
Had they been talking? Fighting? I don’t remember hearing any raised voices.
But maybe I was my usual oblivious self.
If she had told him—he’d have known he was an impostor, and he might lose everything. He would have been shocked and dumbfounded and furious, and that’s probably what spurred him onto his Ducati.
Anger. At Rowena.
And now she has to carry that guilt.
His death is on her.
He’d lost everything. Except he hadn’t. Not really—only he and Rowena knew.
Fuck a duck.
That’s it. She feels responsible for his death. Her favorite child. The eerie sound she made this evening—the half-sob, half-cry—was proof enough. I’d not seen her shed a tear for him until tonight when the truth was finally aired.
Perhaps, before then, she grieved in private.
I’ll never know.
Unless she and I talk.
And that’s not going to happen anytime soon.
How the hell do we come back from this?
