A Hunger for the Forbidden. Maisey Yates

Antonioni Battaglia all over. Watching proceedings, ensuring all went well. Watching her. Making sure she did as she was told.

      A drop of sweat rolled down her back and another flash of memory hit her hard.

       His sweat-slicked skin beneath her fingertips. Her nails digging into his shoulders. Her thighs wrapped around lean, masculine hips …

      She blinked and looked up at Alessandro. Her groom. The man to whom she was about to make her vows.

      God forgive me.

      Had she not been holding the roses, she would have crossed herself.

      And then she felt him. As though he had reached out and put his hands on her.

      She looked at the Corretti side, and her heart stopped for a moment. Matteo.

      Her lover. Her groom’s enemy.

      Matteo was arresting as ever, with the power to draw the breath from her lungs. Tall and broad, his physique outlined to perfection by his custom-made suit. Olive skin and square jaw. Lips that delivered pleasure in beautiful and torturous ways.

      But this man standing in the pews was not the man who’d shared her bed that night a month ago. He was different. Rage, dark and bottomless, burned from his eyes, his jaw tight. She had thought, had almost hoped, that he wouldn’t care about her being promised to Alessandro. That a night of passion with her would be like a night with any other woman.

      Yes, that thought had hurt, but it had been better than this. Better than him looking at her like he hated her.

      She could remember those dark eyes meeting hers with a different kind of fire. Lust. Need. A bleak desperation that had echoed inside of her. And she could remember them clouded by desire, his expression pained as she’d touched him, tasted him.

      She looked to Alessandro but she could still feel Matteo watching her. And she had to look back. She always had to look at Matteo Corretti. For as long as she could remember, she’d been drawn to him.

      And for one night, she’d had him.

      Now … now she would never have him again.

      Her steps faltered, her high heel turning sideways beneath her. She stumbled, caught herself, her eyes locking with Matteo’s again.

      Dio, it was hot. Her dress was suffocating her now. The veil too heavy on her head, the lace at her throat threatening to choke her.

      She stopped walking, the war within her threatening to tear her to pieces.

      Matteo Corretti thought he would gag on his anger. Watching her walk toward Alessandro, his cousin, his rival in business and now, because of this, his enemy.

      Watching Alessia Battaglia make her way to Alessandro, to bind herself to him.

      She was Matteo’s. His lover. His woman. The most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life. It wasn’t simply the smooth perfection of her golden skin, not just the exquisite cheekbones and full, rose-colored lips. It was something that existed beneath her skin, a vitality and passion that had, by turns, fascinated and confused him.

      Her every laugh, every smile, every mundane action, was filled with more life, more joy, than his most memorable moments. It was why, from the first time he’d sneaked a look at her as a boy, he had been transfixed.

      Far from the monster he’d been made to believe the Battaglias were, she had been an angel in his eyes.

      But he had never touched her. Never breached the unspoken command issued by his father and grandfather. Because she was a Battaglia and he a Corretti, the bad blood between them going back more than fifty years. He had been forbidden from even speaking to her and as a boy he had only violated that order once.

      And now, when Salvatore had thought it might benefit him, now she was being traded to Alessandro like cattle. He tightened his hands into fists, anger, anger like he hadn’t felt in more than thirteen years, curling in his gut. The kind of rage he normally kept packed in ice was roaring through him. He feared it might explode, and he knew what happened when it did.

      He could not be held responsible for what he might do if he had to watch Alessandro touch Alessia. Kiss her.

      And then Alessia froze in place, her big, dark eyes darting from Alessandro, and back to him. Those eyes. Those eyes were always in his dreams.

      Her hand dropped to her side, and then she released her hold on her bouquet of roses, the sound of them hitting the stone floor loud in the sudden silence of the room.

      Then she turned, gripping the front of her heavy lace skirt, and ran back down the aisle. The white fabric billowed around her as she ran. She only looked behind her once. Wide, frightened eyes meeting his.

      “Alessia!” He couldn’t stop himself. Her name burst from his lips, and his body burst from its position in the pews. And he was running, too. “Alessia!”

      The roar of the congregation drowned out his words. But still he ran. People were standing now, filing into the aisle, blocking his path. The faces of the crowd were a blur, he wasn’t aware of who he touched, who he moved out of his way, in his pursuit of the bride.

      When he finally burst through the exterior doors of the basilica, Alessia was getting into the backseat of the limo that was waiting to carry her and her groom away after the ceremony, trying to get her massive skirt and train into the vehicle with her. When she saw him, everything in her face changed. A hope in her eyes that grabbed him deep in his chest and twisted his heart. Hard.

      “Matteo.”

      “What are you doing, Alessia?”

      “I have to go,” she said, her eyes focused behind him now, fearful. Fearful of her father, he knew. He was gripped then by a sudden need to erase her fears. To keep her from ever needing to be afraid again.

      “Where?” he asked, his voice rough.

      “The airport. Meet me.”

      “Alessia …”

      “Matteo, please. I’ll wait.” She shut the door to the limo and the car pulled out of the parking lot, just as her father exited the church.

      “You!” Antonioni turned on him. “What have you done?”

      And Alessandro appeared behind him, his eyes blazing with fury. “Yes, cousin, what have you done?”

      Alessia’s hands shook as she handed the cash to the woman at the clothing shop. She’d never been permitted to go into a store like this. Her father thought this sort of place, with mass-produced garments, was common. Not for a Battaglia. But the jeans, T-shirt and trainers she’d found suited her purpose because they were common. Because any woman would wear them. Because a Battaglia would not. As if the Battaglias had the money to put on the show they did. Her father borrowed what he had to in order to maintain the fiction that their power was as infinite as it ever was. His position as Minister for the Trade and Housing department might net him a certain amount of power, power that was easily and happily manipulated, but it didn’t keep the same flow of money that had come from her grandfather’s rather more seedy organization.

      The shopgirl looked at her curiously, and Alessia knew why. A shivering bride, sans groom, in a small tourist shop still wearing her gown and veil was a strange sight indeed.

      “May I use the changing room?” she asked once her items were paid for.

      She felt slightly sick using her father’s money to escape, sicker still over the way she’d gotten it. She must have been quite the sight in the bank, in her wedding gown, demanding a cash advance against a card with her father’s name on it.

      “I’m a Battaglia,” she’d said, employing all the self-importance she’d ever heard come from Antonioni. “Of course it’s all right for me to access my family money.”

      Cash was essential, because she knew better than to leave a paper trail. Having a family who had, rather famously, been on the wrong