Mister and Missus By E L James - 56

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?

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.

It’s cathartic.

I calm just holding her close. My beautiful, stoic wife needing me. Me.

My mother was right.

I am a sucker for a damsel in distress, or maybe—it’s just Alessia.

Eventually, she quiets, and I reach over to the bedside and grab a tissue. “Here. Better?” I ask.

She nods and wipes her nose and eyes, which are all smudged kohl and running mascara and even like this… she’s gorgeous.

More so.

“Good. Me too.” I kiss her forehead. “Let me get you out of this dress, and we can go to bed.” Lifting her off my lap and onto the floor, I stand behind her, brush her hair over her shoulder, and unfasten her dress at the neck. Leaning down, I press my lips to her nape, inhaling her scent, and then turn to undress myself.

She wanders into the bathroom while I strip and clamber into bed. When she emerges a few minutes later, she’s fresh-faced and wearing one of my T-shirts. She switches on the little dragon nightlight while I flip back the quilt, and she climbs in beside me and snuggles up, her head on my chest, her arm across my body.

“I love you,” she whispers, and her words unfurl inside my heart, filling the void left by my treacherous mother.

“I know. I love you too.”

I kiss the top of her head, close my eyes, and fall into an exhausted sleep.

My footsteps echo an urgent beat on the hard reflective floor, and I squint beneath the unremitting light of the fluorescents.

I’ve been here before.

“This way.” The A&E consultant stops and opens the door to a cool, stark room that is the hospital mortuary.

I don’t want to go in. I don’t want to see.

The A&E consultant stares. Scarlet lips pursed.

Rowena?

“In you go,” she says in a clipped tone that’s not to be contradicted.

Inside, on a table, beneath a sheet, is my brother.

Kit.

No! That’s not him.

It’s me— lying bruised and broken… cold… dead.

What?

From my prone position on the table, I watch Kit lean over and kiss my forehead. “Goodbye, you fucker,” he rasps, the strain of unshed tears heavy in his throat. “You’ve got this. This is what you were born to do.” He smiles, his crooked, sincere smile that’s reserved for those rare moments when he’s fucked up.

Kit! No! You’ve got this wrong.

Wait!

“You’ve got this, Spare,” he says again, then disappears. And I’m looking down at him once more, leaning over him while he sleeps. Except his battered body belies that… he’s not asleep—he’s dead.

No! Kit! No! The words stay stuck in my throat. I can’t speak. This is all wrong.

And I’m outside the room watching my mother walk stiffly away, her heels beating a terse tattoo on the tiled floor as she moves farther and farther away.

Rowena! Mother! Mama!

I wake drenched in sweat, my heart thumping a furious rhythm, my blood pumping frantically through my veins, and I’m sure I’m shaking the bed. I take a deep, cleansing breath and my heartbeat gradually slows.

It’s quiet and dark. Even the shimmers on the ceiling are absent.

Alessia mumbles something unintelligible but settles back to sleep.

Thank God she’s here.

I turn over to face her, resting my head on my arm and watching her slumber, her features delicate and lovely in the soft glow of the little dragon.

It’s just a dream.

No. A nightmare. A prophetic nightmare.

I rub my face and lie on my back, trying to drive out the images of Kit and me on the cold slab.

Was my mother’s revelation such a shock to me? Did I know? Maryanne and I share similar coloring—a straightforward blend of our parents. Kit did not. He was blond and blue-eyed, driven and imperious. He was harder, more arrogant, and meaner, maybe, than both Maryanne and me. It’s been a revelation that he made Caro attend etiquette classes. He was always a bit of a snob, and I wonder if he knew deep down.

Hell. This changes nothing. No one need ever know.

I should contact Maryanne and find out how she’s doing.

We can keep this within the family—provided my mother hasn’t blurted all to Heath.

When I turn back to Alessia, she’s watching me, her dark eyes gleaming in the soft light from the little dragon.

“Did I wake you?”

“No,” she whispers, placing her palm on my cheek and steadying me in the storm. I close my eyes, cherishing her touch and grateful that it distracts me from my fevered thoughts. “Are you okay?” she asks. “Is there anything I can do?”

With my eyes intent on hers, I try to articulate how I feel, but I’m lost in my own turmoil.

Alessia nods as if she understands and brushes her lips against mine. “You will figure this out. And until then, I’ve got you. I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you early…um…earlier.” She snuggles closer, resting her head on my chest, and I wrap an arm around her, holding on tight.

“It’s okay, baby,” I murmur. “I should have told you.”

When she’s not angry with me, she’s my guiding light, and with her so close, her scent fills my senses, soothing me.

As Alessia’s breathing settles into the rhythm of sleep, I close my eyes and join her.