Page 36 of Unrequited (Bratva Kings #6)

ZOYA

I wake to warmth. His warmth.

The early light spills through the curtains, soft and blinding. His arm is draped over my waist, heavy and grounding. His breath brushes the back of my neck in soft, even bursts.

For a fleeting second, I keep my eyes closed and let myself believe we’re normal.

Ordinary.

We’re newlyweds on a honeymoon.

We had a beautiful wedding.

There’s no one chasing us, no shadows clawing at our heels.

No enemies who want us dead.

Just peace. Just us.

Safe, finally. Blessedly safe.

But then the memories come flooding back. Dreams that felt too real to just be dreams.

I saw an angry Irishman dragging him away from me.

I screamed, reached for him, and begged, but they wouldn’t let me.

Rafail. Stern, stone-faced, and shaking his head like I’d disappointed him. Like he was already mourning something inevitable.

Seamus sighs and moves. It’s just a small shift, the slow drag of his thick, calloused palm down the curve of my hip, but it starts something in me.

A chain reaction.

My body remembers his touch. Remembers everything we did. And I respond before I can think.

He kisses the base of my neck softly, and I tilt my head back without thinking. My eyes flutter shut.

We don’t speak.

We don’t need to.

We move like this isn’t new, as if he didn’t take my virginity just two nights ago.

Like our bodies already know each other, like they’ve always known.

He rolls me onto my back, his body covering mine like a shield. I feel the weight of him, the length of his erection pressing against my belly. He cups my face, so gently, it’s like he’s scared to break me .

And then he presses down, slow and deep, his cock throbbing against me.

This isn’t about power or control or domination.

This isn’t a lesson in obedience.

This is something else entirely.

Something sweet, aching and wordless.

We say everything with our bodies because the words would shatter the moment.

I love you.

You are my safe place.

You complete me.

We breathe in tandem.

His mouth finds mine, his tongue sweeps inside, and we kiss like we’ve got forever.

But we both know we don’t.

I’m naked from the night before, nothing between us now but his boxers. I reach for the waistband. He shifts his hips to help me, and then he’s bare—hot, thick, ready.

He spreads my legs gently with his knee and settles between them. Then he positions himself at my entrance and pushes in.

There’s no pain this time. Just heat. Pressure.

I’m full. Stretched, but ready.

So ready .

He glides in and out with ease, slick with how wet I am. We move together in a slow, sacred rhythm. His left hand finds mine, fingers lacing tight, palm to palm.

We make love like this might be the last time. Like we’ll never get another morning like this.

“Seamus,” I whisper, my breath catching. “I’m going to?—”

“Come, lass,” he finishes for me. “Come. I want to feel you.”

And I do. I come apart around him. And as I do, he follows, groaning against my skin.

It’s not as rough or frenzied as the night before, but it’s just as sweet. Just as intimate.

I love being connected to him like this.

I love having him inside me.

I love the heat of his body, the weight of him.

And in that moment, I imagine a future.

A baby.

Maybe this time…

This time, maybe I’ll get pregnant.

And maybe, just maybe, that could end this war.

By the time we’re done, the sun has crested the horizon, painting the world in soft gold.

He rests his forehead against my shoulder, almost boyish in the way he clings to me. His skin is damp, his heartbeat still racing beneath it .

I trace the tattoos on his shoulders with the tip of my finger. Memorizing. Holding on.

He whispers something, a confession, a plea.

I nod… because I understand.

Time is slipping away.

The silence from my family is too sharp. It’s not peace.

It’s a pause before a strike.

Like his—too quiet, too still.

“They’re watching,” he whispers.

“I know,” I say.

We lie there, tangled in each other, saying nothing more.

“What do you want me to do, Seamus?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. He won’t put me on the front lines, never that. But maybe he’ll let me contribute in some small way, let me in on whatever they’re planning behind closed doors.

“They’re planning something,” he says, his eyes hard as ice and just as cutting.

“Be ready. Stay close. And Zoya…” His voice drops. It’s serious now, a warning, maybe. A promise. Maybe both.

He props himself up on his elbow, those brilliant blue eyes catching mine. “When I say move, you move. No questions. Do you understand me?” He says the words firmly but almost gently, like he doesn’t want to frighten me but needs me to know this is not a request. “I’m not joking, love. ”

“Yes, sir,” I whisper, and he blinks once, slow and dark. A wicked smile curls at the corners of his mouth.

“Careful with that, love.” But I know he likes it. The control. The reverence. The way I yield without truly yielding.

I like it too.

Still, something cold curls in my stomach, a slither of fear that won’t go away no matter how warm his touch is. “We’re going back to your family home in Ballyhock?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just studies me, silent and still, like he’s deciding what version of the truth I can survive. Finally, he nods. “Yes.”

A beat passes.

“The more you know, the more danger you’re in. So please”—he reaches for me, brushing my hand—“forgive me for not telling you everything.”

That should terrify me more than it does. But I nod anyway. I trust him. I don’t know why. I just do.

He sits up and throws the blanket off like he’s shedding something. “Time for some training.”

“Training?” I blink, still drowsy and tangled in warmth and confusion. “Now? What do you mean training? Are you going to…” But I don’t finish the question.

He grins, that rare, feral grin that says I’m in trouble in the best possible way. And despite myself, I feel that answering tug low in my belly, even though I should be too exhausted to feel anything .

“Come,” he says. “You’re helping.”

Helping, as it turns out, means lying on the bed like a human dumbbell while Seamus uses me for strength training.

I yelp the first time he lifts me straight into the air like I weigh nothing.

But his grip is steady, his palms flat on my waist, locked like steel.

I’m not a person to him in that moment. I’m resistance. Challenge.

And I’m laughing. It’s absurd. Ridiculous. “You’re out of your mind! Seamus, what are you even doing?”

“Quiet, love,” he says, furrowing his brow like he’s trying to scold me, but his lips are twitching, threatening another grin.

“I need to keep my strength up, don’t you know? You see a gym around here?”

I laugh out loud, breathless. “You love this.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just keeps lifting me, keeps moving. It’s wild, reckless and intimate in the strangest way—the way his muscles bunch beneath me, the way his eyes stay locked on mine like I’m all that matters, the way sweat glistens on his chest and neck.

First, he bench-presses me, before he squats with me on his shoulders, then does some bizarre tricep dip that feels like a ride at a theme park. But I never feel unsafe. I never feel like I’ll fall.

“Seamus,” I gasp, giggling as he lifts me straight over his head and squats again.

“I can squat more than your weight, darling,” he says, all smug and flushed and glistening.

“I bet you can.” But still, it’s impressive. His body is carved from strength, legs like tree trunks, chest wide and powerful. It’s mesmerizing to watch.

I bend to kiss the crown of his damp hair. “I love you.”

“Don’t distract me,” he says lightly, but his voice is warm and soft. Everything about him in that moment says he feels it too.

Eventually, he lays me on the bed and collapses beside me in a breathless, half-naked heap. “Let’s get changed.”

Every second that ticks by now is one less we have before whatever is coming next. The showdown.

Later, in the shower, the silence is different, thicker and heavier, like we’re standing in the eye of the storm and pretending it’s calm. I wash his back. He rinses my hair. When he turns me to face him, the water running over his stubble and dripping down his chest, he says it.

“It’s time to go.”

I nod. I don’t ask where.

I just follow. Always. It feels natural and right.

He leans down, kisses the side of my mouth. “Whatever happens, Zoya… remember this. I love you.”

Then he adds, “Trust me,” and that’s how I know it’s serious. Seamus McCarthy isn’t a man who deals in hope. He doesn’t peddle promises he can’t keep. So if he says trust me, it’s because there’s no other choice.

I expected the drive to the McCarthy home to be longer. I don’t know why. Maybe I thought if it were this close, someone would’ve come for him sooner.

“Are we here already?” I ask as gravel crunches under the tires and the car stops.

Outside my window, the McCarthy estate looms, perched on a cliff that looks like something out of a dream. Craggy rocks jut from the shore below, seafoam-green waves crashing against them. It’s breathtaking. But my heart is pounding.

We’re here.

The mansion sprawls wide and proud, unapologetic in its wealth and weight. I wish I were coming here for different reasons. I wish he were proud to show me this place.

I wish I didn’t feel like a weapon. A trophy. A warning.

He claimed me.

We made love. Said things people like us don’t say without blood on our hands. Stay. Mine. Forever. I love you.

But as we cross the threshold, the air thickens, like it knows I don’t belong. Like it’s warning me.

His hand tightens on mine for just a moment before he lets go.

“We may be separated for a bit,” he murmurs, right before anyone else enters the hallway.

“What?” I ask, but then he’s here.

Keenan McCarthy .

I don’t need to be told who he is. I know. He looks like Seamus but with silver at his temples, a bearded jawline with hints of salt and pepper. The kind of man who doesn’t need to raise his voice.