Page 32 of Unrequited (Bratva Kings #6)

Seamus doesn’t speak right away. His jaw locks tight, that familiar twitch in his cheek giving him away. He stares at Colm like he’s not sure whether to thank him or break something.

Then, finally, he gives a single nod. “Tomorrow, we’ll go.”

My heart stutters. Tomorrow. It’s not just a looming possibility anymore, but a promise. A plan.

We’re leaving this little pocket of stolen peace. Walking straight into the fire, into the center of all the fury and judgment waiting for us. What we’ll find on the other side, I can’t even guess.

Separation, maybe. Or worse.

Colm exhales, and there’s something gentler in him now. He turns to me with a nod. “Pleased to meet you, love,” he says, and there’s a softness in it I didn’t expect. Then he’s gone, turning on his heel and slipping out the door without another word .

The lock clicks behind him, and Seamus is already moving, bolting it. He presses his forehead to the frame, his breath shaky and low.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

I wait… letting the silence bloom around us.

When he finally turns back to me, that same weariness clouds his eyes, but they’re still alive. Still burning for me, even when everything else in him looks like it’s cracking.

“Come here, angel,” he murmurs tenderly.

So I go. I step into his arms like I’ve always belonged there. He wraps them around me, and I press my face to his chest. I fit perfectly. Like we were carved for this, made for each other in a world that wants us apart.

“Listen, Seamus,” I whisper. “We’re going to survive this, aren’t we?”

“Of course we are,” he says immediately, like the idea of failure isn’t even a possibility. That fire I’ve come to trust flares in his voice.

“Then let’s get it over with. We know what we need to do.”

He pulls back just enough to see me. His gaze digs in, searching, wanting more than just agreement; he’s looking for belief. He lifts his hand and brushes a knuckle under my chin, so soft it aches.

“Tell me,” he says. “Tell me what you think we should do.”

There’s something raw in him now, unguarded. As if this moment, this invitation to be his equal, costs more than blood. Like letting me carry even a fraction of his burden is the most intimate thing he’s ever done.

And I feel it. God, I feel it.

I swallow, my eyes locked to his. “We need to have a baby.”

His eyes widen like I just set a star in his hands. Shock cracks through him but not fear. No, it’s something gentler. Hope, maybe. Wonder.

“We do, don’t we?” he says, his voice barely above a breath.

I nod. “Even your father… even my brother. They won’t be able to argue with that. If we join our families?—”

“Right,” he cuts in, the spark catching hold. “I know it. A baby,” he repeats, like he’s still trying the word on. “I never thought I’d want one. Never been one for babies… But with you, darlin’…”

He trails off, shaking his head like he can’t believe where his own heart has led him.

“Yes,” I say quietly. “A baby. I know it won’t fix everything. I know what we’re about to face. It’s going to be dangerous. Brutal.”

I run my thumb along the line of his jaw, feeling the coarse heat of his stubble, the warmth of him. He catches my hand, presses a kiss to my thumb, and then sets both hands on my hips, grounding himself in me.

“We do,” he agrees. “My family’s wrath. Branson. And whatever your brother decides.”

“My family,” I say. “I’m stalling. As long as they think I’m safe… they won’t strike. Not yet. ”

He nods slowly. “I know you believe that.”

“But you don’t.”

“I can’t.”

And I get that. He’s not wired for faith, not when all he’s ever known is betrayal and survival. Hope isn’t a luxury he trusts.

Thunder crashes above us, so loud and sudden, it jerks me back into my body. I flinch.

He chuckles deeply and pulls me tighter. “Just thunder, baby,” he murmurs into my hair.

“I know,” I say, but even as the words leave my mouth, lightning splits the sky again, so close it feels like it might tear the roof off. “It just seems… close.”

“It is close,” he murmurs, his gaze sweeping the windowpane. Outside, the sky has darkened, thick storm clouds blotting out the light. Then comes the rain, sharp, sudden, relentless. It lashes against the glass like it's trying to claw its way in.

“Good,” he says, more to himself than to me, as if he’s pleased. “We might lose power. But it’ll buy us time.”

Then he turns, his eyes catching the soft lamplight, and there's that glint again. That crooked, wicked gleam that lives in his smile like a secret only I know. The devil incarnate, grinning just for me. “My father’s men don’t like the rain.”

“Good,” I echo, mirroring his grin with one of my own. It’s slower, warmer, a touch more dangerous. “Gives us a little time together. ”

“Aye,” he rumbles, leaning in close, brushing his lips right against my cheek in a gesture that’s more possessive than tender. “A little time to make that baby.”

A flush blooms low and heavy in my belly, heat spreading like honey on hot skin, thick and unhurried. I match his grin without hesitation.

“Aye,” I whisper back, letting the word roll from my tongue just like I know he loves it, soft and Irish and laced with something more than just affection.

He chuckles, a gravelly sound that stirs something primal in my chest.

“But first,” he says, stepping back just enough to flash me a look. “Let’s eat. I’m famished. Let me cook for you this time,” he offers, a little too eager, like he’s trying to prove something. There’s affection behind the offer, sure, but also mischief.

I try, god, I try, not to grimace. But my face betrays me, and he sees it, clear as day.

He throws his head back and laughs. A real one, deep, rich, and unfiltered. It fills the room and warms the air.

“Come on now. You can teach me, can’t you? Just rest a bit, love. I can handle pasta. Who can fuck up pasta?”

“Who indeed?” I mutter under my breath, smirking. I swat his ass as he turns toward the kitchen, and he yelps, grinning like a lunatic.

He pulls out a box of pasta, some off-brand thing I’ve never seen before, chucks it in a pot, and sets it to boil.

Five minutes later, it’s chaos .

Somehow, he burns it. I don't even know how. One minute, the water's simmering like it should be, and the next, the fire alarm is wailing. And right in the middle of the madness, he grabs me and kisses me like the world’s ending, and our food isn’t ruined.

I double over laughing, uncontrollably, nearly wheezing. I almost pee myself from how baffled he looks, standing there with a wooden spoon like it's betrayed him.

“What the hell did I do wrong?” he says, dragging a hand through his hair.

“You let yourself get distracted by your new wife.” I giggle, still catching my breath.

He groans like a man suffering in silence. “Fine. We’ll come to an agreement. You cook, I clean, for all the meals, eh?”

“I like that deal,” I say, my lips curling into something sly.

He pops open a bottle of red, something dark and probably expensive, and pours us each a glass.

I rummage through his cabinets, find some meat in the fridge, a can of tomatoes, and a head of garlic that looks half alive.

The basics. A few minutes later, the kitchen is thick with the smell of onions sautéing in butter, the beef browning in a swirl of herbs and cracked pepper.

“Simple food’s the best food,” I tell him, stirring the sauce.

“It is,” he agrees, watching me like I’ve conjured some form of edible magic.

I find a crusty loaf of bread in the fridge, smear it with garlic and butter, sprinkle it with herbs, and toss it under the broiler until it’s golden, crisp, and perfect .

“This looks incredible,” he says, his eyes wide and reverent. “Forget having kids. Maybe you should just cook for me, love.”

I laugh, but there’s something under it, something smaller and quieter that doesn’t quite go away.

“I’ve heard stories about Keenan McCarthy,” I say softly, not looking at him. “I hope what you said is true, that your mother can soften him.”

“My da’s not a bad sort, Zoya,” he says, setting his fork down. “We’ve talked about this, aye? His issue with me… It’s because he listens to his best mate’s advice.”

“Why would he do that?” I ask, frustration creeping into my voice. “You seem reliable.”

“I am reliable. But not manipulative. And his friend is. There’s a difference.”

“It makes sense,” I murmur. “I’m glad Rafail’s never had to deal with anything like that.”

“My father’s old now. Tired. He’s ruled the family for a long time. But when his friend promised him a kingdom, he took the bait.”

“I know it,” I say, and I do. I feel it, how old men still dream of crowns, even when their hands are shaking.

He eats with focus, like he’s thinking between every bite.

But when we talk, he’s fully present. He sets his utensils down.

He gestures, expressive, telling me stories of his youth, of Belfast summers and family dinners.

Of loyalty and loss. I tell him mine in return, pieces I’ve never given anyone else .

We fit, somehow.

“We’re oddly suited for each other, aren’t we?” he says with a wistful kind of grin.

“Definitely,” I say.

“Now, all that’s left is convincing our families to see it too.”

“I wouldn’t say it’s our only problem,” he sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “But it’s definitely the biggest, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” I say, rising from the table and sweeping the dishes into my arms. I don’t meet his eyes, not yet. I walk to the sink, and the sound of plates clinking against stainless steel fills the silence between us.

Then, without thinking, my mouth curls into a smirk, sharp and teasing. I glance over my shoulder, just enough to catch him watching.

“I think our biggest problem might be that my husband thinks he can cook.”