ALSO BY E L JAMES

  The Mister

  Fifty Shades of Grey

  Fifty Shades Darker

  Fifty Shades Freed

  Grey

  Darker

  Freed

  Copyright © 2023 by Erika James Ltd

  Cover and internal design © 2023 by Sourcebooks

  Cover design by E L James and Brittany Vibbert/Sourcebooks

  Cover images © E L James

  Internal design by Ashley Holstrom/Sourcebooks

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Bloom Books, an imprint of Sourcebooks

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  sourcebooks.com

  Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file with the Library of Congress.

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Epilogue

  Music of The Missus

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  For D with love.

  Chapter One

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

  “This way.” The A&E consultant stops, and she ushers me into a cool, stark room that is the hospital mortuary.

  On a table, beneath a sheet is the fractured, lifeless body of my brother.

  My shock is seismic, pressing on my chest and squeezing the last of my breath from my lungs. Nothing could have prepared me for this.

  Kit, my big brother.

  My touchstone.

  Kit, the twelfth Earl of Trevethick.

  Dead.

  “Yes. This is him.” The words are like cotton in my mouth.

  “Thank you, Lord Trevethick,” the doctor murmurs.

  Shit. That’s me now!

  I look down at Kit.

  Except it’s not him. I’m on the table—lying bruised and broken… cold… dead.

  Me? How?

  From my prostrate position, 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. “You’re lucky number thirteen.” His smile slips, and he 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! My words stay stuck in a throat that’s crowded with too much sorrow.

  No! No!

  I wake, my heart pounding.

  Where am I?

  It takes a nanosecond to orient myself as my eyes adjust to the half-light. Alessia is curled around me, her head on my chest, her hand splayed on my stomach. As I take a deep, cleansing breath, my panic recedes like the gentle wash of a tideless sea.

  I’m in Kukës in Northern Albania, at her parents’ place, and across the lake, dawn is a whisper in the sky.

  Alessia’s here. With me. She’s safe, and she’s fast asleep. Carefully, I tighten my arm around her shoulders and kiss her hair, breathing in her scent. The faint balm of lavender, roses, and my sweet, sweet girl soothes and stirs my senses.

  My body rouses; desire, hot and heavy, flowing south.

  I want her. Again.

  This is new—this need, but it’s become ingrained, a part of who I am, and it’s heightened when I’m with her. She’s so enticing and lovely that I crave her like an addict. But I resist waking her—she’s been through nine circles of hell.

  Again.

  Fuck.

  I bring my body under control and close my eyes as my anger and regret resurface. I let her slip through my fingers. I let that violent arsehole, her “betrothed,” steal her away. What she’s endured, I don’t want to know, but her cuts and bruises tell their own awful tale.

  I’m never going to let that happen again.

  Thank God she’s safe.

  Let her sleep.

  Gently, I toy with a strand of her hair, marveling as ever at its softness. Drawing it to my mouth, I brush it against my lips in a tender kiss.

  My love. My beautiful, brave girl.

  She’s overcome so much in such a short time: trafficking, homelessness, finding paid employment… and falling in love with me.

  My sweet daily.

  Soon to be my bride.

  Closing my eyes once more, I snuggle closer, seeking her warmth, and doze.

  I wake suddenly, prompted by—something, an external source.

  What was that?

  It’s later—the light in the room is brighter.

  “Alessia! ”

  Her mother is calling her.

  Shit! We’ve overslept!

  “Alessia! Wake up. Your mother’s calling.” I kiss her forehead, and she grumbles as I extract myself from her arms and sit up. “Alessia! Come on! If your dad finds us, he’ll shoot us both.”

  The memory of her father, and his pump-action shotgun from last night, rises unwelcome in my mind.

  You’re going to marry my daughter.

  Her mother calls again, and Alessia opens her eyes, blinking the sleep away. She looks up at me, all tousled and sleepy and arousing, and beams her brightest smile. For a moment, I forget the grim threat of her father with his trigger finger on that shotgun.

  “Good morning, beautiful.” I stroke her cheek, avoiding the scrape that’s still there. Closing her eyes, she leans into my touch. “Your mother is calling you.”

  Her eyes spring open, and her smile disappears, replaced with an expression of wide-eyed alarm. She sits upright, wearing nothing but her little gold cross. “O Zot! O Zot!”

  “Yeah. O Zot!”

  “My nightdress!”

  There’s a muffled but urgent knock on the door. “Alessia!” Mrs. Demachi hisses.

  “Shit! Hide! I’ll get this.” My heart is beating a frantic tattoo.

  Alessia bounces out of bed, all naked limbs and loveliness, while I jump up and slide on my jeans. Honestly, I want to laugh—it’s like we’re in some ridiculous British farce. It’s insane. We’re both consenting adults, and we’re soon to be married. With a quick glance at Alessia, who is wrestling into her gothic nightdress, I pad over to the door, open it a crack, and feign sleepiness. Her mother is on the other side. “Mrs. Demachi, good morning.”

  “Good morning, Count Maxim. Alessia?” she asks.

  “Has she gone again?” I try to look concerned.

  “She is not in her bed.”

  Alessia’s feet patter over the cold tiled floor, and she slips her arms about my waist as she peeks around me. “Mama, I’m here,” she whispers in English for my benefit, I think.

  Bloody hell.

  We’ve been discovered, and now I’m framed as a liar to my future mother-in-law. I give Shpresa an apologetic shrug, and she frowns without a trace of humor in her expression.

  Shit.

  “Alessia!” she hisses and looks nervously over her shoulder. “Po të gjeti yt atë këtu!”

  “E di. E di,” Alessia replies and in answer to my scowl, she gives me a sweet, contrite look and raises her lips to mine, offering me a chaste kiss. She slips out of the door, shrouded in her Victorian nightdress, and regards me with a heated over-the-shoulder look as she follows her mother up the stairs. I forgive her for outing me as a liar to her mother, and stand and listen as they hiss at each other in Albanian. I don’t hear her father.

  I think we got away with it.

  Well, he did say she’s my problem now. I shake my head as I shut the door, angered
by the thought. Alessia is not my problem, for fuck’s sake. She’s a woman who knows her own mind. How could he even think that? It grinds my gears. Culturally, her dad and I are poles apart, and as much as I want to be respectful to him, he needs dragging into the twenty-first century. It’s obvious why Alessia is wary of him. She obliquely alluded to his volatile nature when she mentioned him during our time in Cornwall. She said then that she didn’t miss him—only her mother.

  Hell. The sooner we leave here, the better.

  How long will it take to get married?

  Perhaps we should make a break for it.

  Elope?

  We could hole up at the Plaza Hotel in Tirana while we wait for her new passport and discover the delights of the capital together. How long will it take to get a passport anyway? Long enough for her father to come after us with his shotgun? I don’t know, and somehow, I don’t think Alessia would like the idea. But this furtive running around like we’re kids—it’s crazy. It’s as if we’ve traveled back several centuries, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to tolerate this for long.

  I check the time, and it’s still early, so I strip out of my jeans and lie down. As I stare at the ceiling and reflect on the last few days, thoughts of my most recent dream drift into my consciousness.

  What the hell was that about?

  Kit?

  He approves of me inheriting the earldom.

  Is that it?

  Would he approve of my hasty proposal and this shotgun wedding?

  No, I don’t think he would. Perhaps that’s what it meant. Come to think of it—I’m not sure anyone in my family will approve. I close my eyes, imagining my mother’s response to the news. Maybe she’ll be happy to see me married… finally.

  No. She’ll be furious. I know it.

  Perhaps my dream meant Kit is offering his solidarity.

  Could be…

  Yes.

  That’s what the dream was about.

  * * *

  Her mother is angry, and Alessia doesn’t know what to say to pacify her.

  “What do you think you were doing?” Shpresa growls.

  Alessia raises a brow in answer.

  “Alessia!” her mother snaps, knowing full well what Alessia is trying to convey. “Just because that man has had a bite of your cherry doesn’t mean you shouldn’t wait until after you’re married!”

  Mama!

  “If your father catches you!” She sighs. “I think he’s gone out, maybe to look for you. He would probably have a heart attack if he knew what you were doing.” She tuts in exasperation as they make their way down the hall, but her expression softens when they reach the living room. “I suppose you’re pregnant already, so…” She lifts her shoulders, resigned.

  A slow flush creeps over Alessia’s face. Should she tell her mother it was a lie?

  “So, your handsome count, he’s in good shape.” Shpresa eyes her daughter with a teasing smile.

  “Mama!” Alessia exclaims.

  “He has a tattoo.”

  “Yes. It’s his family’s coat of arms.”

  “I see.” She sounds disapproving and she purses her lips.

  Alessia shrugs. She likes his tattoo.

  Her mother smiles. “He is good to you… in bed?”

  “Mama!” Alessia’s voice rises several octaves in shock.

  “It’s important. I want you to be happy, and you must keep him happy. And it won’t be long before the child arrives, and, well…” Her mother huffs, her disappointment rolling off her in waves while Alessia stares back at her blankly.

  What can she say? That she lied to her parents?

  And is this how it was for her mother after Alessia was born?

  Alessia doesn’t want to think about that. Besides, it’s too early in the morning to be having this conversation.

  “I think he’s happy,” she says eventually.

  “Good. We can talk more on this.”

  “I don’t want to talk more on this,” Alessia retorts, mortified.

  “Don’t you have questions?”

  Alessia pales at the thought. “No!”

  “I suppose it’s a bit late for that now. But if you have questions, your father and I—”

  “Mama! Stop!” Alessia puts her hands over her ears. “I don’t want to know.”

  Her mother laughs good-naturedly. “It is good to have you back, my heart. I have missed you so much.” Her laughter fades, and her eyes narrow, her expression shifting—becoming serious. “Last night, I tossed and turned in bed. I was thinking about the ramifications of something that Lord Maxim said. I couldn’t sleep with worry.” Her voice fades away.

  “What is it, Mama?”

  She takes a deep breath as if what she’s about to say is particularly unpalatable. “He said something about sex trafficking.”

  Alessia gasps. “Oh, Mama, I have so much to tell you, but first I’ll have a shower.”

  Her mother gathers her into her arms. “Sweet child of my heart,” she says softly in her ear. “I’m so glad you are home. And safe.”

  “Me too, Mama. And no more Anatoli.”

  Shpresa nods. “And your fiancé, does he have a violent temper?”

  “No. No. He doesn’t. Quite the opposite.”

  Her mother beams. “You light up like summer when you talk about him.” She takes Alessia’s hand and, raising a brow, admires the beautiful engagement ring. “He has money and taste.”

  Alessia nods and stares at the sparkling diamond on her finger.

  This beautiful ring is now hers.

  She can hardly believe it.

  “Go shower. I will make bread and coffee.”

  Alessia stands beneath the shower in the family bathroom, reveling in the hot water. It’s not as fast flowing as the showers in Cornwall, but she welcomes the warmth as she scrubs her skin clean. This is the first moment she’s allowed herself to reflect on all that’s happened over the last few days.

  Anatoli. Her kidnapping. The long journey here. His brutality.

  She shudders. He’s out of her life now, and for that, she’s grateful.

  And she was welcomed home; even her father admitted he missed her.

  Alessia closes her eyes as she vigorously rubs the shampoo into her hair, trying to erase her guilt. She’s lied to her parents, and her dishonesty chafes like a burr on her conscience.

  She’s not pregnant, but should she tell them the truth?

  What would her father say if he knew? What would he do?

  She raises her face to the cascade and lets it wash over her.

  And then there’s Maxim.

  She grins into the stream of water. He crossed a continent to find her and brought a ring with him to propose. It’s far more than she could ever have dreamed of or hoped for. Now, she needs to find out how Maxim really feels about having an Albanian wedding forced on him.

  He didn’t object last night.

  But she wishes her father were less insistent.

  Alessia would be happier back in London and worries Maxim will feel the same. How long will it be before he becomes bored of being in Kukës? He’s used to a very different life, and there’s not much to entertain him here. Perhaps they should flee Kukës together. They could marry in England.

  Would Maxim consider this idea? Alessia rinses her hair and stops.

  No. Mama!

  Alessia cannot leave her mother at the mercy of her father. She must bring her mother with her. Could she? Would Maxim object? After all, Shpresa speaks fluent English. Her mother, Alessia’s beloved grandmother Virginia, was English. She must have family in England. Alessia doesn’t know. Her Nana never spoke of her English family because they disapproved of her marriage to an Albanian man.

  Will it be the same with Maxim’s family?

  Will they disapprove of her?

  A shiver skitters down her spine. Maxim’s marrying his cleaner, a penniless foreigner. Of course they won’t approve. Alessia’s mood sours.

  What can she do?

  Perhaps they shouldn’t marry until she’s met his family, and she’ll know if they accept her, or not, because in the depths of her heart—she wants their blessing.

  But first, she must navigate her father and his expectations, and he’s a stubborn, temperamental, proud man. He said he wanted them married by the end of the week.

  Is that even possible?

  She scrubs her face. There is much to think about and much to be done.

  When Alessia enters the kitchen, her mother looks up from kneading dough and studies her. “You look different,” she says, setting the dough aside to rise.