Page 28 of Unrequited (Bratva Kings #6)

Hey, sweetheart. Just tell me if you're okay. If he hurts you, if he even lays a finger on you, Zoya, I swear to god, I will drop everything and come.

Then Semyon. Always different. Always distant. His mind works in straight lines and sharp turns, and his texts sound like they were drafted for a military debrief.

Semyon

Zoya. Are you alright? Do you need assistance? Is there anything I can do?

And then, finally, Ruthie.

Ruthie

Sweetie, your brothers are losing it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Rafail cry. But he did. He’s terrified that you’re only there because you had to be. That you told us you loved Seamus to stop the bloodshed. Are you okay? I don’t think you made it up. Did you?

My hands are shaking now as I answer.

To Rafail:

I didn’t make it up. I do love him. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.

To Rodion:

I love you so much. I’ll tell you if anything happens, but trust me, he takes care of me.

To Semyon:

I’m here of my own will. Please believe that.

To Ruthie:

I’m so sorry. I feel like I betrayed all of you. But it’s true. I do love him .

I put the phone down and step back like it’s burned me. More texts start to come in, pings and buzzes vibrating on the counter, but I can’t bring myself to look. Not now. I need space from the guilt, the love, the war between loyalty to my family and my vows to him.

Seamus is my husband now. That has to mean something. Doesn’t it?

I need to cool down. I need to stop thinking about the window and the way my body reacted to seeing him shirtless, the way my chest still burns from the heat of it. I step into the hallway. It’s oddly narrow for a house this size. The floor creaks beneath my bare feet as I pass by closed doors.

And then I pause.

One door is different. Not just shut, but locked. Solid. Old. The kind of old that knows things.

My curiosity flares. Why this door? Why locked? Why does it feel… sacred? Or secret?

I try the handle—no give. Firm and locked tight.

What’s in there?

A private office? Something personal? Secure documents?

Or something darker?

Maybe I’ve watched too many true crime documentaries, but a chill crawls up my spine. Could be bodies. Could be secrets. Could be a red room of pain.

God.

I shake it off and head toward the kitchen. I need to ground myself. I need to do something .

Feed him. That’s what I do. I take care of the people I love.

In the kitchen, I find more eggs. Oatmeal. Bread but nothing else to bake with. No matter, I can make something.

There are two wide windows above the sink. The view is breathtaking, the Irish coastline bathed in morning light. It looks like something from a dream. Nothing Seamus ever described to me did it justice.

And then, movement.

My eyes catch on him outside. Running shirtless, sweat gleaming on his skin. He’s just finished lifting, probably, and now he’s sprinting toward the house like he’s chasing something.

Like he’s chasing me.

God, he’s beautiful. He always is, but when he runs, when he’s wild and free and open like this, it’s almost unbearable to watch. My heart thunders. My pulse flutters.

For a moment, I let myself believe.

Maybe this is real. Maybe this is my husband.

And then he's inside, windblown and flushed, his chest heaving as he brushes the sweat from his brow. His longish dark hair is damp and messy.

“Good morning, beautiful,” he says, his voice low, roughened by exertion.

I’m already walking toward him, tea in hand. Ready to serve him. Ready to love him. Ready to fight every part of me that still doesn’t know if she belongs here.

But maybe… maybe I do .

“You told me you like cream in your tea, no sugar, right?”

“Aye,” he says. “Thank you, lass.” He takes the tea, lifts it to his mouth, and takes a long sip. Exhales like the weight of the whole world is leaving his lungs.

His breathing begins to slow.

“You don’t know what it’s like to wake up and not be alone here anymore,” he says quietly. There’s something so raw in the way he says it, like he's afraid to name it, like saying it out loud will make it too real.

I don’t say anything. Just reach for his hand.

It's maybe the first time I’ve initiated touching him, at least since we came here. My fingers curl gently around his, and I feel him still under my touch. Time feels suspended, hung in the air like dust in sunlight.

Two heartbeats.

“Any word from your family?” I ask softly as we sit on the stone steps outside.

The waves crash on the distant shore, and the scent of salt clings thick in the air. It’s all wind and sea and salt air.

“Aye,” he says, but doesn’t offer any details. Just that one word, like it’s enough. “And yours?”

“Yes.” I nod. “They just want to make sure I’m okay. That I’m not here against my will.”

He sets his cup down beside him, turns to me, and reaches for my hand again.

“And are you, Zoya? ”

I let out a breath, long and shaky, like I’m about to hand him a piece of me I’ve kept tucked away.

“You’re the only man I’ve ever wanted, Seamus. Things haven’t gone the way I would’ve chosen… but maybe I can hope a little anyway.”

Because it’s true. All of it.

“I’m here because I want to be,” I tell him. “With you.”

He doesn’t hesitate. His hand tightens around mine.

“And I will have you fall in love with me, Zoya.”

I rest my head on his shoulder. His arm curls around my waist, drawing me into him like a secret he wants to keep close.

“You know, I used to want a bakery,” I say, curled into his warmth. One foot is tucked under me, the other brushing against his leg like it’s accidental. It’s not.

He looks at me like he’s waiting for the punchline.

“You? A bakery?”

I nod, smiling. “I liked the smell of baked things. Bread. Cinnamon. Sugar. Things that prove something soft can survive heat.”

His eyes sharpen. There’s something about that that gets to him.

“Aye. You can have that, if you want.”

“Do you have one here, in Ballyhock?”

“No. ”

He starts listing the places they do have. His voice goes soft with familiarity; he knows every corner, every person behind every counter. It draws something from me.

“Aye, well, there’s a place called the Ice Cream Shoppe,” he starts. “Self-explanatory. And there’s coffee… let’s see. Let me tell you about Ballyhock.”

Time halts again, a little.

“I’m eager to get to the actual city,” I tell him.

“So we have a place called the Cottage Brew, right? Cozy coffee. Soda bread. Then there’s The Blimey Pub, which kinda speaks for itself. Do you like Guinness?” he asks.

“I’m not sure. I’ve never had one.”

“Wait, what ? You’ve never had a fucking Guinness?” he says, utterly baffled, like I’ve just confessed a mortal sin.

I laugh softly.

“We’ll fix that, love, we will.”

“My brothers didn’t really like me drinking,” I confess.

He laughs, shakes his head like he can’t believe it. “They practically wean us on Guinness in our bottles.”

I laugh as he continues.

“There’s ice cream there now. Gelato. We’re getting fancy, thanks to the Italians. D’Agostino owns the Italian shop. And there’s this place called The Cheeky Mackerel Coastal Eatery. But no bakery. Not yet.” He pauses.

“Do you want to open one?” he asks. “Like Anya.”

The mention of her hits strange… two worlds colliding .

I think about Anya’s bakery, the one that’s nearly caused war between rival factions, because location is everything.

“Do you want to open a bakery?” he repeats.

I hesitate. “I don’t know. Give me time, please.”

Because it feels like betrayal. Leaving my family. Marrying Seamus. Starting over with flour-dusted dreams and a storefront window.

I don’t say all that, just keep it tucked inside.

“You want me to open a bakery in the middle of a feud?”

He shrugs. It’s slow and deliberate.

“I’ve seen stranger things.” Then he leans back.

The light catches his jaw, the faint stubble there. He’s not smiling, not exactly, but his face is softer than I’ve ever seen. If I reached out, I think he’d welcome it.

“Did you ever want anything silly?” I ask.

He looks away, and his jaw tightens.

“Yeah,” he says. “Peace.”

That silences me. Not because it’s dramatic, but because it’s real.

So real.

“Let’s say we had children,” I continue, turning my gaze to the window. “Do you like kids, Seamus?”

“I’d like mine .”

There’s honesty there again, the kind you don’t argue with .

“You planning something, love?”

“I am.” But I don’t tell him what.

“If I had children, it’d be a union of two families, wouldn’t it?” I tease, rolling my eyes toward him. “It’s hypothetical. Humor me. What would you name a boy?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Never really thought about it. But I know a girl’s name.”

“Yeah?”

“Caitlin. After mam. Once you meet her, you’ll understand.”

“That’s beautiful.” I breathe the name. “Caitlin. You love her?”

“Of course I do. Anyone who meets her does.”

I look away then, suddenly nervous, like I’m breaking open in front of him.

“What’s the matter, Zoya?”

I don’t answer, not until he squeezes my knees, and not gently.

“Remember the rules,” he says softly. “Tell me the truth. What are you thinking, love?”

So I do. I tell him.

“What if your family doesn’t love me? What if they don’t like me? What if I don’t fit in? I’m different, you know.”

He turns to face me fully. His eyes hold mine, unwavering.

“Anybody who doesn’t love you,” he says, “is a goddamn fool.”

And I believe him.

Because it’s Seamus. Because he says it like it’s the most obvious truth in the world.

A long silence falls between us. It’s not awkward, but comfortable. Natural.

“I like this,” I whisper when he brushes his thumb across the top of my hand. His eyes flick to mine, then tilt toward the sea. He cants his head. “What’s ‘this’?” he murmurs. “The quiet? The talking? The solitude?”

I don’t answer. I just look out at the sea with him.

It’s endless and constant.

“I like this too,” he says, his voice quieter now. Thoughtful.

“I don’t want to be negative, darlin’, but I have to tell you. This quiet, it’s the calm before the storm.” His jaw tightens, and his breath catches like he already knows it too.

I nod.

“You know, I’ve got fears of my own,” he says after a long pause.

“Tell me.” The tea’s grown cold in my mug, and my belly growls with hunger.

“I want to keep you.”

He looks away. Then looks back.

“I know,” I tell him with a shrug. “But what’s wrong with that? ”

“I don’t know how to keep something safe unless I’m holding it so tight it might suffocate.”

I reach out and touch his hand.

“You don’t have to hold me so tight,” I whisper. “Choose me, Seamus, if you have to. Then let me choose you back.”

His fingers wrap tighter around mine, not a prison. And for the first time, he doesn’t try to answer with words. He just holds me.

“I need a shower,” he says finally. “Join me?”