Page 31 of Unrequited (Bratva Kings #6)

ZOYA

I should move, I want to move, but my limbs are limp. Jelly. I'm locked in place by the echo of that sound.

Then he moves, fast, out of bed in a blur. One finger pointed at me like a warning shot. His eyes burn.

“You stay right there, Zoya. You hear me? I'm not fucking around.”

His voice isn't the lover’s voice I know, the one that rasps into my skin, the one that begs and whispers and curses when he’s inside me.

No, this is the commander.

This is the man people fear. The man they whisper about when they think he isn't listening. But I don’t fear him. I never have. Because I know exactly what he is. What he’ll do to protect me .

I swallow hard and nod. My throat is dry, but my voice is steady.

“I know how to use a gun,” I say.

“You fucking heard me,” he barks. “Stay there !”

He’s never raised his voice at me, not like this. I stare, wide-eyed. I’ve never seen him like this.

Controlled. Fierce. Terrifying in his love.

“Yes, sir,” I whisper.

And then pulls on boxers like it’s nothing. I don’t even know how he moves so fast.

A beat later, he’s yanking open the drawer beside the bed, pulling out the biggest fucking gun I’ve ever seen, and I know guns. Thanks to my brothers, thanks to Rafail Kopolov, I’ve seen an arsenal.

A semi-automatic. Sleek. Merciless. He loads it, cocks it, then cradles it like an extension of his own arm. Then he’s out, moving fast, and locks the door behind him. One click, two clicks, three. Then I hear it, a mechanical hum. Bars slam down over the windows.

He’s locked me behind a goddamn fortress.

And now I’m wide awake. I sit straight up in bed. My heart is racing, every nerve screaming. The adrenaline surges so fast I feel like I might throw up.

I pull the blankets up to cover my body, like I can hide from whatever’s coming. Who's out there? Has my family come to claim me? Has his? Or worse, an enemy?

Then I hear him. His voice, sharp as a blade .

“Who the fuck’s there?”

The front door groans open.

Another loud noise.

A voice, rough, distant.

Then silence. Nothing else.

It’s killing me. Is he okay?

I glance around the room and see the drawer. I need something. I need to be ready.

There.

He left me a weapon, a gesture that says everything without saying it. Trust. Preparation. Protection.

I reach for it and check it. It’s loaded, and the safety’s off.

This one isn’t for warnings; this is meant to kill.

I know what it does. I’ve seen what these bullets do to a man. They tear through flesh and twist organs into pulp. I hold it steady. My hands might be small, but thanks to Rafail, I know exactly what the fuck I’m doing.

I wait. Minutes crawl by. More voices. Another minute. Still, nothing.

His cum is still leaking from me, slick between my thighs and soaking the sheets beneath me. My breasts are red, marked by him. Every touch still lingers. The way he took me, there was no doubt. No question.

He does love me. He proved it. Every inch of him. Every kiss. Every growl and every gentle press .

I have to trust him now.

My sweet, wild man.

My beautiful, broken monster.

He has to be okay.

I clutch the gun tighter. He told me to stay. To wait. And I want to. God, I want to. But what if… what if he's hurt? What if that… no. I can’t go there. But what if someone has him, and I’m just sitting here with a weapon in hand, doing nothing?

I run to the window. Sunlight slices through the bars. There’s nothing but trees, nothing I can see.

I’m not sure I could get out, even if I wanted to.

And I start to think about disobeying him. I don’t really fear punishment, but god, I don’t want him upset with me.

But I don’t know what he’d do if I did disobey him. And honestly? I don’t want to know. I like pleasing him. I need to please him. That furrow between his brows when he’s worried, it fucking wrecks me. I’d do anything to smooth it away.

I want him. I need him.

But if someone’s got him…

And then, I hear it. Voices again.

One of them is his.

My breath whooshes out, and relief slams through me so hard I nearly drop the gun. I press my forehead against the cool wall and let myself feel it .

He’s okay. He’s alive.

I throw on one of his shirts and a pair of panties, just in time. Footsteps echo outside the door.

He opens the door.

Then he sees me by the window, dressed, with a gun gripped in both hands.

He holds up a palm..

“Easy, lass. Lower the gun. There’s no threat. Not now. Put it down, Zoya.”

I nod and gently lay the gun on his armoire.

“All right, now, lass.” I walk over to him, tentative, trying to peer over his shoulder, but he’s too damn big.

“I was scared for you,” I whisper, tears pricking at my eyes.

He takes up the entire doorway, a broad wall of protection, so I can’t see anybody behind him.

“It’s all right,” he says, though his voice doesn’t match the words. There’s something in his eyes, clouded and troubled, like a storm barely held back. “It’s all right. For now,” he amends. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. It’s my mate.”

He walks toward me, his muscles tense, voice edged in warning as he growls over his shoulder, “Stay back. My wife’s not dressed. You’ll not see her like this.” Then louder, harsher, “Stay the fuck back, or I’ll blow your fucking bollocks to bits.”

“Easy, McCarthy. Jesus,” comes another voice. It’s rough, a little higher pitched than Seamus’s .

“Let’s get you dressed,” Seamus says, like it’s a casual thing, but I can hear it in his tone—if he could wrap me up from head to toe, hide every inch of me, he would.

Funny thing is, he’s hardly dressed himself. I shoot him a glance. “You’re walking around in boxers,” I tell him.

“Zoya,” he says, his words thick with warning, like he’s dragging my name across coals.

And even now… even with all that tension humming through the air, it makes my heartbeat race. I like it when he gets like that with me, stern, possessive. Makes me feel small. Protected. Desired.

I grab a pair of leggings and slide into them. I glance at him. He’s watching me, eyes narrowing like he’s trying to figure out if I’m wearing a bra.

My breasts are too small for that to matter. “Nobody’s going to see me,” I mutter, grabbing my sweatshirt.

“Take my sweatshirt,” he says firmly, as he pulls on a pair of jeans.

I open my mouth to sass him, maybe say something snarky about him walking around half naked, too, but I shut it just as fast. Probably not the time.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, and damn, I like the way he rolls the Rs. “Come meet my best mate.”

I follow him into the living room. Seated at the table is a large man with light-brown hair that curls at the ends, his brown eyes dancing with something unreadable.

He’s built like Seamus, broad and imposing.

He wears a faded tank top and worn jeans.

Muscular arms, tattooed sleeves. Tough, but there’s something warm in the way he looks at me.

“My cousin, Colm,” Seamus says. “Colm.” He lifts his chin a bit when he says it, pride in the word.

“My wife, Zoya.”

“Very pleased to meet you, Zoya,” Colm says, giving me a respectful nod.

“Pleased to meet you too,” I reply softly. “I was just about to make Seamus some breakfast. Are you hungry?” I ask, still standing.

“Zoya. Sit.” Seamus barks the order, and I sit without thinking, hands folded in my lap. Colm’s eyes sparkle, like he knows exactly who Seamus is and what I’m learning about him too.

Apparently, he knows Seamus’s ways well.

Seamus rests his larger hand atop mine. “I know, beautiful. And I promise, I’ll give you another chance. But for now, I want you to sit.” His voice is low, protective, not patronizing. He’s not treating me like a child. He’s shielding me. There’s a difference.

“Now, angel,” Seamus says, “Colm’s come to tell me what’s going on.”

“I think if it weren’t for you, ma’am, your father would’ve stormed the damn castle already,” Colm adds, half-joking, half-serious.

Seamus lets out a breath, then turns to me. “Me mom has a way of gentling me dad like no one else could. At least a little. ”

“I think your dad suspects something’s up,” Colm says. “But you’ve got a lot of explaining to do, don’t you?”

“No,” Seamus says, quiet but final. “I’ve got very little explaining to do to anybody. What I have a lot of is work.”

He turns to me, his steady gaze locking on mine. “I won’t apologize for taking Zoya. She’s mine. She belongs to me. There is none other.”

Colm smiles and nods once. “Okay.”

That’s so very him. So very Seamus.

“My plan is to stay here with my wife as long as I can,” Seamus says, with calm determination. “And when it’s time… when it’s time for me to go, I will. I reckon we’ve got at least one more night.”

Colm winces. “I think your mom probably talked your dad into that, eh? Branson’s gone for now.”

“Fuck Branson,” Seamus growls.

God. I remember the story he told me about the king and his trusted advisor, the one who tried to usurp the throne.

I know exactly who Branson is.

Colm holds Seamus’s gaze without flinching. “It’s time,” he says.

Seamus doesn’t blink, but something inside him gives, something quiet and worn thin. That weight, the fatigue of it, slides into his features.

“I figured,” he answers. There’s no fight in it, but there’s no surrender either. Just inevitability. Colm’s eyes flick to me again, sharp and cold, but not unkind. He’s measuring me, calculating, adding up the cost of who I am and what I’ve already changed.

“They know,” Colm says. “Or they will. You made it clear when you took her.”

“Aye,” Seamus replies. No apology in it. Just fact.

“Then get ahead of it, Seamus. Show your face before they start knocking down doors. You know how this works.”

His voice shifts, deeper now, more serious, like the gravity just increased in the room. “You know your father. And you’ll lose whatever grace you’ve got left if you don’t move now.”