Shit. “You must miss them.”

“My mother. I miss my mother,” she answers quietly, and takes another sip of wine.

Not her dad? I don’t push her on that. Her mood has shifted. I should change the subject, but if she misses her mother so much, perhaps she wants to return. I remember what she told me: We thought we were coming here to work. For a better life. Life in Kuk?s is hard for some women. We were betrayed— Maybe that’s what she wants. To go home. And though I dread what her answer might be, I ask her anyway. “Would you like to go back?”

“Back?”

“Home.”

Her eyes widen with fear. “No. I cannot. I cannot.” Her tone is a hushed, rushed whisper, and the fine hairs on my neck stand on end.

“Why?”

She remains mute, but I want to know. I press her. “Is it because you don’t have a passport?”

“No.”

“Then why? Was it that bad?”

She screws her eyes shut and bows her head as if ashamed. “No,” she whispers. “It’s because…it’s because I am betrothed.”

Chapter Eighteen

My chest constricts as if I’ve been kicked in the solar plexus.

Betrothed?

What medieval claptrap is this?

She looks up at me. Her eyes wide, exposing her distress. Adrenaline pumps through my body; I’m ready for a fight. “Betrothed?” I whisper, knowing full well what it means.

She’s fucking promised to another.

She bows her head again. “Yes.” Her voice is barely audible.

I have a rival. Shit.

“And you were going to tell me this…when?”

Her eyes are scrunched shut as if she’s in pain.

“Alessia, look at me.”

She lifts her hand to her mouth—to suppress a sob? I don’t know. She swallows, then raises her eyes to meet mine. Her expression is raw, her despair palpable. My anger dissolves in a second, leaving me in turmoil.

“I am telling you now,” she says.

She’s unavailable.

The pain is instant. Visceral. Shocking. I’m in free fall.

What the hell?

My world has shifted. My ideas. My vague plans. Being with her…marrying her…

I can’t.

“Do you love him?”

She draws back and gapes at me in shock. “No!” It’s a breathless, passionate denial. “I do not want to marry him. That is why I left Albania.”

“To get away from him?”

“Yes. I was to be married in January. After my birthday.”

It was her birthday?

I stare blankly at her. And suddenly the walls are closing in on me. I need space. Like when I first met her. I’m suffocating in a whirlwind of doubt and confusion. I need to think. I stand, and in one deliberate move, raise my hand to sweep my hair aside and gather my thoughts. Alessia recoils beside me. She cowers and clasps her head in her hands as if she’s waiting— What?

“Fuck. Alessia! Did you think I was going to hit you?” I exclaim, and step back, horrified by her reaction. Another piece of the puzzle that is Alessia Demachi falls into place. No wonder she always stood out of my reach. And I’m ready to kill the motherfucker. “Did he hit you? Did he?”

She looks down at her lap. Ashamed, I think.

Or maybe she has some misplaced loyalty to the fucking arsehole from Buttfuck, Nowhere, who has a spurious claim on my girl.

Fucking hell.

I clench my fists, my rage murderous. She’s so still. Head bowed. Folding in on herself.

Calm down, mate. Calm yourself.

I take a deep cleansing breath, my hands on my hips. “I’m sorry.”

Her head whips up. Her look direct and earnest. “You have done nothing wrong.”

Even now she’s trying to pour oil on my troubled waters.

The few steps between us are too great a distance. She watches me warily as I approach, and cautiously I crouch down beside her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m just shocked that somewhere out there you have a…suitor, and I have a rival for your affections.”

She blinks rapidly, and her face softens as a rosy tinge marks her cheeks.

“You have no rivals,” she whispers.

My breath catches, and warmth spreads in my chest, chasing the last of the adrenaline away. These are the sweetest words that she has said to me.

There’s hope.

“This man, he’s not your choice?”

“No. He is my father’s choice.”

I reach for her hand and bring it to my lips, planting one soft kiss on her knuckles.

“I cannot go back,” she whispers. “I have dishonored my father. And if I return, I will be forced into marriage.”

“Your…betrothed. Do you know him?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t love him?”

“No.” Her vehement, monosyllabic response tells me all I need to know. Perhaps he’s old. Or unattractive. Or both.

Or he hits her.

Fuck.

Standing, I pull her into my arms, and she comes willingly, putting her hands on my chest. I fold her against my body and hold her. And I don’t know if I’m comforting her or myself. The thought of her with someone else, someone who mistreats her, is horrifying. I bury my face in her fragrant hair, grateful that she’s here. With me. “I’m sorry that you’ve had to put up with so much shit,” I murmur.

Looking up at me, she brushes her index finger over my lips. “That is a bad word.”

“It is. It’s a bad word for a bad situation. But you’re safe now. I’ve got you.” Leaning down, I brush my lips against hers and it’s like a spark to dry kindling, my body comes alive. It takes my breath away. She closes her eyes and tilts her head back, offering her mouth to me. I cannot resist. In the background, RY X is still singing in his husky, melancholy falsetto about only falling in love. It’s soulful. And rousing. And relevant.

“Dance with me.” My voice is hoarse. Alessia gasps as I tighten my hold on her and start to sway with her in my arms. She splays her hands on my chest and glides them over my shirt, feeling me. Touching me. Reassuring me. And curling her fingers around my upper arms as she moves with me.

Slowly.

We shuffle from side to side to the unhurried and seductive rhythm of the ethereal song. Her hands slide up my arms and over my shoulders and into my hair. She nuzzles my chest.

“I have never danced like this,” she murmurs.

My hand skims down her body to the base of her spine, holding her to me. “I’ve never danced with you.”

With my other hand, I gently tug on her plait, lifting her lips to mine. I kiss her. Long. Slow. Tasting her. Rediscovering her sweet mouth with my tongue while we sway together. I unfasten the elastic tethering her hair and slide it off. I groan as she shakes her head, and her hair falls wild and free down her back. Cradling her face, I kiss her again. I want more. So much more. I need to reclaim her. She’s with me. Not with some violent bastard from a godforsaken town a world away.

“Come to bed,” I whisper, my voice low.

“I have to wash the dishes.”

What?

“Fuck the dishes, baby.”

Her brow furrows. “But—”

“No, you don’t. Leave them.”

And the thought pops into my head. If I married her—she’d never have to do another dish again.

“Make love with me, Alessia.”

She sucks in a breath, and an inviting, shy smile curls her lips.

* * *

We flow together. My hands cocoon her head as I move, slowly savoring every delectable inch of her. She is soft and strong and beautiful beneath me. I kiss her, pouring my heart and soul into her mouth. It’s never felt like this. Each stroke is bringing me closer to her. Her legs hold me in place, and her hands run over my back. Her nails etching her passion on my skin. I lean up and study her dazed face. Her eyes are wide and her pupils the darkest, most carnal espresso. I want to see her. All of her. I stop and press my forehead against hers.

“I need to see you.” I ease out of her and roll us over so that she’s on top of me. She’s breathless and unsure. With my arm under her behind, I slide her up my body so her legs are on either side of my hips. And I sit up so she’s astride me, her arms on my shoulders. I clasp her face and kiss her. Moving my hand down to caress her breast, I deliberately tease her nipple between my thumb and finger as my lips skim from her mouth along her jaw to her throat. She tips her head back and lets out a husky moan of pure pleasure. My erection throbs in response.

Yes.

“Let’s try this,” I murmur against the fragrant skin of her shoulder. I wrap my arm around her waist and lift her, my eyes on hers as I lower her slowly onto me.

Fuck.

She’s tight. And wet. And exquisite.

Her mouth drops open as she gasps, her eyes large with want. “Ah,” she breathes, and my lips seize hers, my fingers in her hair as I claim her mouth again.

She’s panting and gripping my shoulders when I pull back.

“Okay?” I ask.

She gives me a frantic shake of her head. “Yes,” she breathes, and it takes me a moment to realize she’s reverted to the Albanian form of yes. I take her hands and lean back until I’m lying on the bed, staring at the woman astride me. The woman I love.

Her hair spills down over her shoulders and breasts in a riotous, sensual tumble. She leans forward and spreads her hands on my chest.