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* * *
Alessia slumps onto the couch, tears welling in her eyes.
What has she done?
Somehow, during their fight, she’s been made to feel like the villain.
How? She’d watched her husband kiss another woman, and she left because she didn’t want to witness his betrayal. Is that so unreasonable? Then she arrived back at his apartment, and she’d been berated and found thoroughly wanting by her mother-in-law.
And insulted too!
As if Alessia is motivated by money!
It had taken all her resolve not to rip the earrings from her ears and toss them at Rowena.
All Alessia wants is Maxim’s love.
You have that! The still, small voice of her conscience reminds her. He’s told her often enough. And again! Just now.
What has he done to make her think he doesn’t love her?
He’s explained the kiss. He can’t help how women react to him. He’s probably had to contend with that kind of attention since he was in his teens. And what hot-blooded male wouldn’t take advantage?
He only changed when he met Alessia.
She saw the proof… or lack, in the wastebasket in his bedroom.
No one since I saw you clutching the broom in my hallway.
I’ve only felt it since I met you.
Her ire dissipates, leaving a burning hole in her chest.
He didn’t have to marry her. He could have left. He stood up to his mother on her behalf, and that’s not something an Albanian man would generally do.
Maxim’s given her the world.
Is that not enough?
Why is she so insecure?
The other women.
All of them. Including the ones she’s met. Caroline. Ticia. Arabella.
Alessia. Alessia. Alessia.
Enough!
She must stop comparing herself to all the women he’s bedded.
She has to learn to trust him. And now he’s explained about that kiss—he’s given her no reason not to. And if she does doubt him, she has his permission to question him. He’s asked for that… Confront me. Talk to me.
It’s not the first time he’s said that… You need to tell me what you want to do. This is a partnership.
The hole in her chest deepens and darkens. He’d received such troubling news, and he didn’t think he could share it with her because he thought she might leave.
Does he think she’s so faithless and lacking in compassion?
Where’s the sense of partnership in her reaction?
Guilt slices like a scythe through her heart. She’s been so absorbed in her own misgivings that she missed all these clues to Maxim’s state of mind.
Maxim’s in a new, demanding role that he wasn’t expecting; he’s fallen in love, he’s rescued her from kidnappers, he’s newly married, and he’s been harboring the news that he might have a potentially life-altering illness.
He’s protected her from this.
And Alessia’s just consumed by the number of women he’s slept with and his ex-girlfriends. Remorse follows the scythe through her heart, filling the gaping hole and almost choking her.
O Zot. Fool! Go to him!
* * *
And I have my wife’s insecurities to deal with. My beautiful, stoic, talented wife who thinks she’s less than the women who came before. Rowena can be a complete bitch sometimes. Did she say something that’s making Alessia reassess our relationship?
I hope not.
But I’m not giving up. I just need a moment to get my head together.
My sweet, sad wife.
Emotion gathers in my throat. Maybe she’ll never get beyond my past. It preoccupies her in ways I don’t understand. Perhaps it is our cultural divide, and in my defense, I can categorically say I’ve never looked at another woman since I met her and I’m as obsessed with her now as I was then.
But I didn’t expect to feel this… vulnerable.
Or this… miserable.
What if she leaves?
Fuck! It’s unthinkable.
I’ll be crushed.
I remember when the Arsehole spirited her away and how devastating that was. I rub my face, trying to scrub the feeling away, and catch a whisper of her scent and hear the rustle of silk. An ember of hope lights up the cavern that is my heart, and I open my eyes. On the floor beneath my gaze are her bare feet, her toes painted scarlet. I look up, and she’s standing in front of me, and the sight of her tearstained face rips through my soul.
“Oh, love,” I murmur and stand in one swift movement.
“I’m sorry.” Her voice is barely audible.
“Oh, baby, so am I.” I pull her into my arms, breathing in her scent and holding her fast and hard against my body. As she nestles against me, her tears dampen my neck. “Hey, love, please don’t cry.”
She tightens her arms around me and starts weeping.
Hell. This is my fault. I’ve done this, and I remember her sobbing in the room next to mine at the Hideout. She was overwhelmed then and maybe now.
Frankly, so am I. I tighten my hold on her and let her cry. Perhaps that’s what she needs. Sitting back on the bed, I cradle her in my lap, rocking gently, and it’s soothing. Perhaps this is what we both need—an outward expression of the frustrations of the last few hours.
