Page 26 of Unrequited (Bratva Kings #6)

ZOYA

I feel like I’m betraying my family just for enjoying even a second of this. But I am. God, I am.

The way Seamus holds me, it makes me feel protected in a way I never felt, even at home. Yes, my brothers would’ve killed anyone who dared touch me, but this… this is different.

This is my husband.

I’ve taken his name. Have I taken a new identity too?

I look up into his deep blue eyes. If I didn’t know who he was, if I hadn’t heard the whispers and the warnings, I might’ve said he looks almost boyish, just now anyway. Almost. But the rugged scruff along his jaw, the way his lips press in that tight, serious line, remind me who he really is.

“It’s been a long day,” he murmurs. “Let’s get you to bed, lass. ”

I like it when he calls me that. Lass. Love. All those little endearments, dipped in that Irish accent. I’ll give myself a moment to grieve everything I’ve left behind, but maybe, just maybe, I can still make something out of this.

“Let’s get you to bed,” he says again.

The rest blurs after that because all I can think is—what if he touches me? What if things go further?

I remember his apartment. The way he held me. The way he kissed me like I was already his. It felt… right. And now? After everything?

He doesn’t push. He just lifts me as if I weigh nothing. Carries me like I’m precious.

“To bed with you,” he says once more.

Gentle. Quiet. Protective.

And for the first time, I start to wonder… maybe this is who he really is. Maybe the Seamus McCarthy the world fears isn’t all there is.

Maybe… this is the man I’ve married.

This man, this man is the one who says he loves me.

Does he though? He says he does. Swears it, even. Says he’ll prove it.

And here I am, standing in the middle of it all, dressed in his huge T-shirt. Not a stitch of makeup on. Hair a complete disaster.

And still, he looks right at me and says I’m beautiful. Says I’m his .

I wasn’t prepared for the house. For the bedroom. For how it would all feel.

It’s nothing like I imagined. Nothing like the man who’s brought me here. The outside is all old stone and ivy, with coastal views that hit you like something out of a dream. This place feels like it’s been carved into the edge of the world, tucked between sea and forest. Ancient. Safe. Hidden.

Seamus’s.

Inside, it's clean and sharp. Everything intentional. He told me he doesn’t come here often. That catches me. Where else does he go then, if not here? That thought clings.

His bedroom is a study in contradiction. Spartan and expensive. Cold in the way it looks, but not in how it feels. Like him, it doesn’t invite you in; it dares you to stay.

One whole side of the room is glass. Towering windows that stretch up, looking straight out over misty cliffs and the wide-open sea. I can’t wait to crack them open, to breathe in the salt and brine. He’s talked about the ocean so vividly, and now, I see why.

Heavy blackout curtains hang off to the side. Thick enough to blot out the world, but they’re open now, as if he likes to see into the night. To be ready. To know what’s coming.

The bed’s massive, of course it is. King-sized, dark wood, low frame, no headboard. Iron fixtures. Stark. Utilitarian. Masculine. Him.

The sheets are charcoal gray. There’s only a handful of pillows, nothing decorative, nothing soft or fussy.

No clutter. Just the essentials. There’s an electric fireplace humming quietly, and beside it, a single leather chair, scuffed and broken in.

It looks like it’s lived a life or two. Maybe it belonged to someone else once.

Maybe it was gifted. Either way, that chair has a story, and I can already picture him in it, watching the fire flicker in the hearth.

The hearth is old stone, rough and warm to the touch. Across from the bed, there’s a dark oak armoire. Everything else fades into quiet. Dark floorboards. Unassuming light fixtures. The faint scent of leather lingering in the air.

There’s nothing personal here, no photographs, no knickknacks. Except…

One thing on the nightstand catches my eye. It stops me.

My pink hair tie?

He looks almost sheepish when he sees me staring at it. “Aye,” he says. “You left it at the pub once. I wore it around my wrist for a bit when no one was looking. Kept it in my pocket after that. Like a little good luck charm.”

“You kept my hair tie?”

“Aye. That a problem?”

And then that glint in his eye, that challenge in his voice. “Darling, when are you going to get it through your pretty head? I escaped jail for you, Zoya. And you’re surprised I kept your hair tie?”

I wonder if he thought of it behind bars. If he wished he could have his little talisman.

I had let myself get angry with him. I gave in to that sharp, pulsing heat that flared inside me when he didn’ t show up. That tightness in my chest, that sting behind my eyes, I felt it all.

It felt like my greatest fear came true.

He had used me. Just used me. Like I was nothing more than a pawn on his board. Like I was just a means to an end. That he never wanted me at all. Not really. Not Zoya Kopolova, the girl, not the woman, not the heart beating behind the name.

And while my family has never made me feel that way intentionally , that kind of fear still lived in the corners. Maybe it comes with the territory. The youngest. The smallest. The one they kept on the sidelines, out of the blood and bone and tragedy that make up our legacy.

My brothers and sister have always known things before I did. Always protected me in their own way. In that cold, unyielding Bratva way that still feels like love, even when it cuts.

So when Seamus disappeared, after the supposed attack on my family, and I kept coming back, week after week, praying for a sign of him… I knew. I knew the truth that gutted me. He was done with me. I was a game piece he’d moved off the board.

But now… now I’m in his home.

“Let’s get to bed, love,” he says, thick and husky, like smoke and velvet.

Morning will come soon. And I know, it settles deep in my chest, that our time together is limited. That something’s going to break. I can feel it hovering just out of reach .

He looks away, his brows furrowing, like he’s trying to stop himself from saying what we both know. That this, us, is going to go fast. Too fast.

I nod, biting back everything I want to scream.

“Bed,” he says again. Firmer now.

But doesn’t he want to come too? Isn’t this the part where there are rules?

I stand there frozen, unsure, and he comes to me. Moves like a shadow over moonlight. He bends, brushes a strand of hair behind my ear, and his voice is a quiet growl that curls down my spine.

“My love,” he murmurs. “I thought I explained my expectations to you. When I tell you to do something, I expect obedience.” He pauses. “Is there a problem?”

My lips tug downward into a frown even as my pulse hammers. I swallow hard, the words caught in my throat.

“Another rule,” he whispers, so soft it’s almost cruel. “When I ask you a question, I expect an answer. Doesn’t have to be your life story. Doesn’t have to be much. But one answer, love. Or there will be consequences.”

He kisses my cheek. Gentle. His mouth is to my ear. “It’s our first week together. I’ll let this one slide. But don’t make me repeat myself again.”

I nod, then swallow. Barely a whisper escapes. “Yes, sir.”

His eyes flash, dark and knowing. He likes that. I can feel it.

My cheeks go up in flames. My belly swoops and tightens, and I swallow again .

“I’m going to take it easy on you tonight,” he says, stepping back just a bit. “I won’t punish you. Not on our wedding night. But I did ask a question.”

He tilts his head, watching me closely. “So let me ask again. You seem like you don’t want to go to sleep. What’s the problem, love?”

I can barely get the words out. “It’s our… our wedding night.”

Doesn’t he want me? Shouldn’t we…? I fidget, flushed and nervous. “Aren’t there… rules?” My voice breaks on the last word.

He chuckles, low and dark. Clearly amused.

“Ah, angel,” he says, and kisses my cheek again. “Aren’t you a sight.”

Then he nods, just once. “Yes. There are rules. We’re expected to consummate the marriage. Both the Irish and the Russians will expect it to be official.”

“I… I know,” I whisper. He laughs then, really laughs, and god, my heart can hardly stand it. It’s so rare to see his face light up like that.

“You’re wondering why I haven’t taken you to bed,” he says, his words thick with something unnamable. “Because I saw the way you looked. I saw the fear in your eyes.”

He pauses. That shadow returns. “And I don’t want you to fear me.”

A beat.

“Unless you disobey me. Then? It’s appropriate. ”

The heat that swells inside me is terrifying in its own way. It’s not just fear.

It’s something deeper. Darker. Something I’ve never felt before.

“Don’t you want me?” I whisper.

He doesn’t hesitate. Turns me to face him, sits on the edge of the bed, spreads his knees, and pulls me into the space between them.

“My sweet,” he says, so gently it shatters me.

And that’s when I feel it. The strain of his arousal pressing against his trousers. The hard, undeniable truth of what I do to him.

He’s big. God, so big. And I can see now, see it in his restraint, in the tightness of his jaw, that he’s holding himself back.

“Don’t you understand?” he says. “It’s because of the way I feel about you that I’m exercising self-control. You’re the only woman who’s ever made me feel like I might lose all of it, all my control. Every damn thread of it. Understand?”

I nod. Swallow. “Yes.”

“Good,” he says. “I don’t want our first night to be anything but perfect. And by my logic, we’ve got at least a day before anyone comes looking. I’ve got surveillance on every entrance. No one’s getting in.”

He cups the back of my head, presses his mouth to my cheek .

“So tonight, we sleep. I get to fall asleep with you beside me. And when I wake, you’ll still be here.”

He kisses me, warm and tender.

“Tomorrow, we’ll consummate our marriage.”