Page 27 of Unrequited (Bratva Kings #6)

I nod. “All right.”

And suddenly, all the tension leaks out of me. I’m so tired I can barely stand.

But I’ve never felt safer.

My eyes feel heavy. My limbs feel heavy. I can barely move.

“Now lie down in bed,” he says gently before he turns me around and lands a smack to my ass, not soft, not playful.

It’s affectionate, yes, but it still stings in that possessive way only he can manage.

The heat rises in my cheeks, crawling up my neck.

I swallow hard. Because I know there’s more where that came from. More heat. More claim. More Seamus.

“Get up in bed. I want you next to me,” he murmurs. “I want to feel you when I roll over in the middle of the night.”

His voice is almost a growl now, like he’s been starving for this, starving for me. His eyes darken, clouded with that storm I know lives in him, that pain he’s always carried.

“I’ve dreamt of this,” he admits.

And there’s weight behind those words. Heavy, thick weight.

Pain and longing twisted together. “Every time I wanted to escape that prison,” he says.

“Every time they tortured me… hurt me… I thought of this. I thought of you. Knowing you were out here. Knowing I was going to come for you. That no matter what they did to me, after everything settled, you were mine.”

His. He says it like a vow, like a possession, like a prayer.

“Now, love, I want you to rest. Close your eyes.” He cups my cheek, his thumb brushing along my skin like he’s memorizing it. “I’m going to tell you a story, see?”

I nod.

He’s going to tell me a story. Seamus . My Seamus. Telling stories in the dark like this? Is this… cute? Does Seamus even do cute? I have a feeling I’m the only one who’ll ever witness this side of him. And I like it. I love it, actually.

“Okay,” I say. “But give me a kiss first.”

He chuckles softly, low in his chest. “Love,” he murmurs, “always a goodnight kiss, aye?”

I tilt my face toward him, and he looks at me like I’m the most sacred thing he’s ever held. His thumb sweeps over my cheekbone again, so slow, so reverent, and then he leans in and brushes his lips against mine, a soft, sweet, easy kiss that still manages to steal my breath.

It’s our wedding night. And we’re not making love. I’m tired. He’s tired. And it’s okay. It’s more than okay.

I rest my head against his chest, and he starts.

“Once upon a time in a land far, far away… there was a man who was a prince.”

I close my eyes. Let myself fall into his voice.

“He was in line for the throne,” Seamus says, “but while he waited, his father’s most trusted advisor betrayed him.

Did terrible, wicked things in the name of power.

All while pretending to serve the crown.

The king trusted him, blindly. The prince tried to warn his father, but he wouldn’t listen because he was younger, less experienced, and the king valued his advisor’s word. But the prince knew,” he continues.

“He knew that the advisor was plotting to steal the throne. And worse, that he wasn’t working alone.

There were others. Men who wanted the crown.

Men who were willing to bleed the kingdom dry to have it.

So the prince,” Seamus says, “lured his men to a place where the advisor believed their enemies were. And the prince did what had to be done. Killed them all.”

My heart stutters.

“His boss, his king, called. Asked if there were survivors. The prince knew that if he told the truth, if he said there was one left, the woman he loved would be hunted down. So he lied. Told his boss everyone was dead. But she lived,” he says softly.

“The woman the prince loved, she lived. He kept his distance. Let her believe he didn’t love her. Took the fall, went to prison. He deserved it. He wasn’t innocent. But while behind bars, he found out she was engaged. That she was moving on.”

He exhales.

“So he escaped. Came for her. But it was all to keep her. All to make her his. And he had a plan,” he whispers.

“To take the throne. To rule, with her by his side. And once he had it… he’d make peace with the Russians.

He’d do right by her family. And put an end to war. And they did end the war,” he finishes.

“Because he kept his vow. Loved her like she was a queen. And in the end, they ruled together. She was light to his dark. Kind and just, where he was brutal. And the king and queen lived happily ever after.”

I fall asleep to those words. A fairy tale of blood and crowns. Thrones. Betrayal. Power.

I wake the next morning strangely refreshed, even though I dreamed all night, vivid, violent dreams of kingdoms and broken loyalties, of bloodied hands and golden crowns.

I roll over.

Seamus isn’t in bed.

I glance around the room, instinct prickling… and then I see him.

Outside.

Oh. My. God.

I saw him last night, of course. But I was too shy, too drained to really see him. Now though?

Holy hell.

He’s drenched in sweat, shirtless, gleaming under the early sun, wearing nothing but a pair of black sports shorts and trainers. His body is carved, every muscle pulled taut, every inch of him straining with energy. He moves like a predator who’s just been uncaged.

I watch him run. Then I see him stop, grab a pull-up bar I hadn’t even noticed yesterday, and lift himself, body flexing, muscles bulging. Again. And again. Arms trembling, veins taut, chest heaving. It’s mesmerizing.

This is my husband. This living, breathing, sweating god of a man is mine .

My breasts feel full. My thighs ache. I can feel that pulse low in my belly, needy and warm and desperate. I swallow again and just watch him, helpless against it.

He lets go of the bar and drops to the ground, crunches, elbow to knee, elbow to knee. Controlled. Brutal. Perfect. He’s back up, doing tricep dips against a thick bench, over and over, pushing behind him like it’s nothing. Then he’s off, sprinting around the property in hard, fast laps.

Some men hit the gym.

Seamus? He builds his kingdom with his bare hands under open skies.

The earth is hard-packed beneath him, a mix of sun-scorched gravel and patches of grass.

There’s a homemade training setup near the edge of the property, ropes hanging from a tree, kettlebells, and tires flipped on their sides.

He doesn’t need machines. He is the machine.

This man was forged for war, for survival.

I don’t know if he sees me watching from the window, but my god, I see him.

And I can’t look away .

I should pull myself away, make breakfast, explore the kitchen, do something useful. There has to be more food in this house, and I want to feed him. But… I can’t move.

Because this man is a paragon of masculine perfection.

My king.

My monster.

My husband.

I think of the story he told me of the prince, the usurpers, the woman, and her family.

The war. The peace. He made peace.

Can I trust him?

God, I want to. I want to so badly, my heart aches with it. My soul reaches for him like a magnet pulled to its twin.

But I don’t know if I can. Not yet.

And then he’s off again, running like the wind, muscle and sweat and fire. Untouchable. Untamed.

There’s something wild and tender all at once about the way he trains. It’s not just strength, but survival. And as I watch, my whole body responds.

I’m watching a man become mine. And with every movement, every flex, every breath, my body burns hotter.

And hotter.

So aroused. So deep in this. My nipples are tight, beaded like pebbles, and my mouth is desert dry. I can’t stand the suspense another second .

I remember the way he touched me that first time, how careful he was, how gentle, and I remind myself that this is who he can be with me. Who cares what he's like with everyone else?

I was raised by brutal men. Vicious, wild, unrelenting. But to me? To me, they’ve always been tender. That contradiction is carved into my bones. I watch him now, my breath catching in my throat.

Heat unfurls low in my belly, blooming, spreading, consuming me like wildfire. I’m burning from the inside out.

I’ve never felt anything like this. It’s not just lust, it’s something electric, something sharp and sweet. Every nerve ending is singing. My mouth is dry, but my thoughts spiral into want, into need, into a depth I’ve never tasted before.

Am I afraid? Maybe. Or maybe fear’s just something I’m used to, something I’ve always mistook for anticipation. But this… he was gentle with me. He listened.

When I trembled, he didn’t mock me. He steadied me. His hands, iron-strong but unyielding in their care, held me steady while his eyes, god, those eyes, looked through me. Past the fear. Past the front. He saw me.

And now? Now I’m aching. I want to be claimed by Seamus McCarthy. I need to be.

I pull myself away from the window, still raw and vibrating from watching him.

I pick up my phone. It’s been off all night, charging on the side table. I hesitated turning it on, terrified of what messages might wait for me. Ember. Anissa. Ruthie, Vadka’s wife. People I loved, people I left behind. People who saw.

Ruthie had been soft with me, like a sister. She had her own story, her own pain. And now she’s pregnant. Of course she’d reach out. They all saw me get taken, but I told them, I told them I loved him. Would they even believe me?

My hands shake as I turn on my phone. I brace for a flood, but it’s only four.

One is from Rafail.

Rafail

Even though you're married to Seamus McCarthy, I will protect you, Zoya. I'm one phone call away. I know you said what you did to prevent bloodshed. But if he still lets you keep your phone, if you're still in contact with me, I need you to use it. Please. Text me. I should’ve reached out sooner.

My heart stutters. He thinks Seamus took my phone. Why would he think that? Would Seamus do something like that? Or is that what Rafail would do?

Another text.

Rodion