Page 23 of Unrequited (Bratva Kings #6)

SEAMUS

Jesus feckin’ Christ, I’ll regret this.

But if I had it to do over again, I wouldn’t change a goddamn thing, not one, even though the consequences will be severe.

I had to. I had to.

Zoya McCarthy is mine.

“This is your home?” she asks, her voice soft and uncertain. Gentle and sweet as anything.

I don’t deserve a woman like her.

I always imagined I’d be wed to someone my father handpicked. That’s the Irish way. Hell, it’s the way for most of us raised in power and expectation.

But I broke every damn rule to get her into my bed. And I’d break them all again .

I nod. “Aye. Bought it years back. No one comes here unless I let them.”

She swallows, and her eyes go wide. She’s starting to see, it’s not just a house. It’s a sanctuary. A choice.

I park the car and catch her trying to open the door.

“Ah-ah,” I warn gently. She freezes. Smart girl, obedient without being meek.

I get out, walk around, and open her door myself. Then I hold out my hand, and she places hers in mine. It’s small, delicate, chilled from the night air.

I bend down a little. “Why didn’t you tell me you were cold, lass?” I ask, taking both her hands in mine, rubbing warmth into her skin.

Once I feel the cold leaving her, I kiss her fingers before letting go. She stares up at me, wide-eyed.

“It’s chilly here,” she whispers, giving a little shiver.

“Aye, it is,” I say. “Ballyhock nights are damp and seep into your bones, even this time of year. I’ll get a fire going.”

“You have a fireplace?” she asks, smiling just a bit, her eyes still wide with wonder.

I shrug. “One of those electric jobs, not the real thing, but no mess either. We’ve a fire pit out back, but…” I trail off, looking at her. “I want you inside till I say otherwise.”

She nods, swallowing hard. Doesn’t push back. I don’t press her either. Not tonight.

“Come on,” I tell her gently. “This is my home, for now. We’ll be here a little while. ”

She doesn’t ask how long.

I may not have married the woman my father chose, but I married right.

Zoya is gentle as a doe, but there’s steel in her spine. She knows the ways of men like me.

She moves quietly through the house, careful, taking everything in with those wide eyes.

Stone floors catch her attention. She asks about them. I nod, get the fire going, and put the kettle on.

I’d open the windows so she could hear the sea, but I don’t want her getting cold again.

I like her here with me. I imagined her here with me.

This is the one place in the world where I don’t wear a mask.

My cousin Colm shows up just before dark. He’s loyal, brutal, and knows his place.

I step outside and speak to him quickly. He doesn’t ask questions. He knows better.

I cut him off when he pries, and out of the corner of my eye, I catch Zoya watching us through the window. Her eyes are wide, curious and wary, and I can’t help but wonder what she sees when she looks at me. The cutthroat commander? The man who gives orders like gospel?

But when I step inside, I soften. I give her the gentlest voice I’ve got. Like a skittish fawn, she’ll bolt if I raise it. I reach for her arm and brush my fingers over it, light as air.

“You hungry, love?”

She blinks once, then nods.

“All right, darling. Let’s get you snuggled up here. I’ll cook something.”

“You cook?” she asks, a tiny tilt to her lips. It's the first hint of anything playful since we got in the car. Back then, I could see it clear as day—she was bracing herself against me, building walls. I wasn’t sure if she’d ever forgive me for taking her from her family.

And I know what I did. Christ, I know. I shattered whatever future her brothers imagined. Burned their bridges to ash. There’ll be retaliation, eventually. But I’ve got to move first.

Right now, though, in the quiet shelter of my home, it feels like maybe, just maybe, we’re starting to patch things up. Starting to find our way back to something that once felt like hope.

Does she remember how she felt about me before I left? Because I remember every feckin' second I spent thinkin’ of her in that fuckin’ cell.

I shrug. “I try to cook. Know a little bit.” I scratch my head. “A bit shite at it, but you’ve had a long day. It’s all right. Sit down and I’ll fetch us some grub.”

“Seamus,” she says gently. “I’ve cooked for my entire family for years. I like doing it. I’m good at it. Just show me the kitchen.”

I shake my head, sharp, but not unkind.

“What did I say on the plane, Zoya?” I remind her, calm but firm .

She sighs and drops back onto the couch. Lips pursed, but she doesn’t fight me on it. I grunt under my breath and march into the kitchen.

And promptly make a goddamn mess. Haven’t done any shopping in a bit, so the choices are scant.

Burnt eggs. Dry toast. I even manage to butcher half the berries, tryin’ to slice them for the side. “Goddamn it,” I mutter. Should’ve just ordered food like a sane man.

She laughs. Finally. And Christ, it hits me square in the chest like a hammer. That sound. I love her laugh. And more than that, it means something. She’s relaxing. Letting her guard down.

Why does that matter so much to me?

“Seamus,” she says, getting up. The fire’s going, and she’s shrugged off the coat, still in her wedding dress. “Please, let me do this.”

She nudges me aside, and I let her. I let her . I don’t let anyone push me around. Haven’t since I was a lad, and only then ’cause mam had the final say.

I watch her, amused, as she puts on the kettle. Her movements are confident. Easy. Like she belongs.

The eggs come out perfect. The toast is golden and buttered. She works some kind of kitchen magic with the odds and ends in the fridge, turns the meal into a work of art.

“Here,” she says softly. “Let’s eat.”

She settles into one of the little chairs I pull out for her, and I sit across from her. The food’s brilliant, but I barely touch it because I’m too busy watching her. I feel as if I blink too hard or fall asleep, I’ll wake to find she’s vanished, that I only imagined her here with me.

“Something the matter?” she asks.

Is something the matter? Christ. The whole feckin’ world’s the matter. But none of that means anything right now. Now that she’s here with me.

I reach for her hand and brush my thumb over her knuckles.

“No, I just…” I look away, my throat tight. “I’ve made some terrible decisions. But this, you, this isn’t one of them.” My voice cracks.

“Be careful, Seamus,” she says, and her voice breaks too.

I tilt my head. “Why, lass?”

“Because you’re making it very difficult to stay angry with you,” she whispers.

And then she blinks, and a single tear slides down her cheek.

“Zoya, why’re you crying, love?” I ask gently.

“Because I hate that you’ve made me choose between you and everyone I love.”

She swallows hard, then looks away. I nod, but don’t speak. Just clear the dishes.

“Here, I’ll?—”

“No,” I say firmly. “We’ve got a rule. Actually, we’ll have many rules.

But this one starts now—one cooks, the other cleans.

” I glance back at her. “I watched my mam work her fingers raw. My da was old-school, you know? Not a tyrant, nothing like the bastard I’m named after, but he didn’t lift a finger in the kitchen.

Didn’t want to. Ma didn’t want him to either. ”

I shake my head. “That’s not how it’s gonna be with us, Zoya. I might be the one in charge, but I can wash a feckin’ dish. Period.”

She lets out a soft laugh. “All right.”

“Why don’t you change out of that dress and take a shower? You’ll feel better, won’t you?”

She nods. “I think so.”

I show her to the bathroom, and she looks around with wide eyes.

“This house is beautiful, Seamus. Nothing like I expected from you.”

I don’t ask what she did expect. Just nod and shrug. Her words make me feel… bashful. Christ . No one ever makes me feel bashful.

Around Zoya, I almost forget who I am. I almost forget who she is too. And that’s dangerous.

While she showers, I leave some clothes on the little table outside the door. Mine, of course. Way too big on her, but fuck, I can’t wait to see her in them. I looked forward to this more than I did seeing her in that wedding dress.

When she comes out, her hair’s still wet, skin flushed from the heat. She walks to the fireplace and sinks down without saying a word. I join her.

We sit in silence for a long while.

“So,” she says eventually, “you bought this house with… I don’t know. What do you call it? Blood money?”

I don’t flinch. Just shrug.

“Aye. First job that ever mattered.”

She stares at the fire. “I believe you.” Her voice isn’t accusing, it’s accepting, soft like an exhale.

It’s nothing less than what her brothers have done, really. I’ve heard stories. “Your brother became the guardian of all of you when he was still just a lad, eh?” I say gently. “I don’t envy him that.”

“Right,” she murmurs. “It was rough, you know. I was only a child.”

She trails off, her eyes dim. “I only remember bits and pieces.”

“Do you remember the night your parents died?” I ask, quiet as a breath.

“Yes,” she replies, even quieter. A whisper. “One of those memories I sometimes wish I could forget.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?” I ask her, and to my surprise, I want to hear it. Every brutal, blood-soaked detail. Not for the gore, god no, but because I want to know her. All of her. Even the parts that hurt to hold.

“Why?” she asks, almost to herself.

“What happened?” I press, gently now. “I want to know. ”

She draws a breath. “We found out years later that my mother was having an affair,” she says, her eyes distant. “And the man she was seeing… he came to kill my father. She wouldn’t leave my father for him, so he killed them both. He was disturbed. Madly in love or whatever.”

She stumbles over the words, like they’re stones underfoot. Her gaze goes somewhere far away.