Page 37 of Unrequited (Bratva Kings #6)

His eyes narrow on Seamus.

Seamus pulls me a little closer.

“Whatever happens next,” he whispers, barely audible, “I will come for you. You’ll be safe. Hold your own, Zoya. I know you can.”

Then he looks at me, steady and clear.

“You were Zoya Kopolova when I met you. You’re Zoya McCarthy now. No one stands in your way, lass.”

Keenan plants his hands on his hips. “Zoya, my father. Keenan McCarthy. Dad—” Seamus starts, but Keenan cuts him off with a look.

“You brought a fucking Kopolov into my house,” Keenan says. Not loud. Just final.

Seamus stiffens. I see the tightness in his jaw, the fight he wants to wage. But he says nothing. This is still his father’s kingdom, and even the heir has to bow.

Keenan flicks his fingers at Seamus. “You. With me.” Then his eyes cut to me. “You. With the women.”

No goodbye. No kiss. No look back.

Seamus lets go of my hand and walks.

And I feel the echo of every lonely night I waited for him in that damn pub, when he didn’t show. The ache of wanting someone who might not want you back. But now I hear his voice like steel in my mind: You are Zoya McCarthy now .

And I know what that means.

“Come. This way, please, ma’am.”

A woman with bright eyes and a sharp ponytail leads me away without introducing herself. Hired help. Efficient. Cold.

She opens a door, and I step into a room with three women. They don’t look alike, not really, but for the eyes. Those are McCarthy eyes, just not Seamus’s.

“And you are?” one of them says, sizing me up.

She’s tall, though not as tall as Seamus, but commanding in her own way. I remember what he told me about his sisters. Bronwyn and Kyla. One sweet. One savage.

“Nice to meet you,” the tall one says, but her smile is pure venom. “How did you manage to trick my brother into marrying you?”

Well, that sorts out who’s sweet and who’s savage.

Bronwyn, the younger one with a rounder face, flushes pink as Kyla continues. “You fucked him, didn’t you? Smart girl. Use your body to get what you need, eh?”

I flinch, shocked. My mouth opens, but I can’t speak.

“That’s enough,” Bronwyn says quietly, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. But Kyla keeps circling.

I finally smile and find my voice. “Ah. You must be Kyla. Seamus spoke so highly of you.”

Her lips press together, and she doesn’t respond, not yet.

Her clothes scream money. Power. Precision. She’s thin, dressed in tailored designer from head to toe. And every inch of her says, You don’t belong here.

Meh. Not yet , I think.

But I sure as fuck will.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

“What I’ve done?” I blink slowly, take a breath. “It seems to me, you and I have a very different take on what happened between me and Seamus.”

“ Seamus ?” She spits the name like it’s poison.

She turns and looks at her younger sister, Bronwyn.

“You call him Seamus? No one outside our family fucking calls him Seamus.”

“Well, apparently his wife does,” I say calmly, holding my ground, squaring my shoulders like I’ve been trained for this moment my whole life. I don’t flinch. I don’t blink.

Bronwyn just smiles, like she’s already decided how this is going to end. “Oooh,” she whispers.

“If you’d care to be kind enough to me,” I say, not flinching, not folding, “you might learn a thing or two. You don’t have to throw me a family welcome party, but why don’t you at least listen to the actual story?”

Kyla glares. “I know he betrayed us,” she says bitterly. “That he took a Kopolov by name. That he’s been holed up in that goddamn house of his, and he came back and put everything at risk. ”

“Did he?” I ask softly, evenly, deliberately not answering any of it. Not giving her a single piece of ammo. I can’t risk it. Not right now. She keeps circling, predator slow.

“We bleed for our family here. We marry for them. We kill for them.” Her words fall heavy. “You think a warm pussy and big eyes like yours got you a seat at this table?”

I shake my head and let out a short, dry laugh.

“I’m so pleased to meet you too,” I tell her. “As far as the warmth of my pussy and size of my eyes, I think that’s something you’d best take up with your brother.”

I flash her something that could almost pass for a smile if you didn’t know better. It’s tight and polite. “Interesting,” I say while shaking my head. “Seamus speaks so highly of you .”

And for a second, just a beat, her face shifts. There’s a flicker in her eyes. Regret, maybe. Sadness.

She straightens and crosses her arms over her chest. “Why don’t you tell me your side of the story then?” she says, quieter now.

“Sure,” I say with a shrug. “Might as well hope for the best.”

I tell her everything, bare bones but honest. “We met in a pub. I fell in love. So did he. He went to jail, and I thought he was gone.” I let that hang there for a second.

“While he was away, my oldest brother arranged for me to be married to someone else. It seems Seamus wasn’t having it.

” I shrug. “He broke out of jail to come and get me because, apparently, I mattered to him.”

Their eyes widen .

And then, softly, “It was actually on my wedding day that Seamus killed him and took his place.”

A beat.

“And now we’re married.”

I give her a sweet smile that doesn’t touch my eyes.

Her jaw drops. “He did what ?”

“How does that match with your version?”

But before she can answer, the kitchen air shifts when someone else walks in.

She has long, dark hair streaked with silver. A woman, still beautiful though aged, in that timeless, maternal kind of way. Her presence is calm but unyielding. Her eyes land on me, and her voice is soft, laced in velvet but backed with steel.

“Kyla,” she says sharply, and her tone alone demands silence. “Your argument is not with Zoya. Leave her. Please. Be kind. Just because you’re bitter about your life doesn’t mean you get to take it out on your new sister-in-law.”

Kyla visibly bristles. But she obeys. Barely.

“Sweet girl,” the woman says gently, walking over to me, her hand out. “Come. You’re shaken. Let me make you some tea. I’m so sorry for your welcome here,” she adds, almost in a whisper. “I think if you understood… It’s been a rough few days.”

She trails off, eyes flicking away like she isn’t sure herself how to finish.

“Maybe you will. Maybe you won’t. But let’s have a cup of tea, shall we?”

I nod slowly, my throat tight. “And you are…?”

“Oh, lass,” she says with a soft chuckle, “I forgot myself. It’s a shame things happened the way they did. You’d have already known me by now.”

She gives me a smile that’s all warmth.

“My name is Caitlin McCarthy,” she says, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “I’m Seamus’s mother. Your mother-in-law. Welcome.”

She kisses me on both cheeks, soft and gentle and real. It’s the kindest thing anyone has done since I got to Ireland, and I nearly cry from the sheer tenderness of it.

Almost.

“I like her,” Bronwyn pipes up, stepping back into the kitchen like she hadn’t just vanished. She’s younger, bright-eyed and mischievous.

She’s got a round face, curves like her mother’s, and thick hair hanging all the way to her waist. She’s young, but there’s wisdom in her eyes.

“We’re all still reeling, Zoya,” she says gently, offering me her hand. “My name’s Bronwyn.”

I take her hand, and she squeezes lightly. “This wasn’t what we expected. My dad… oof.” She grimaces. “He’s been fuming for days. It’s only ’cause of Mom he didn’t storm Seamus’s house. ”

“Mmm,” Caitlin says with a sigh. “My husband has a way about him.” Her eyes meet mine, soft and regretful.

“But you’ll see. He’s just very… What’s the American term? Ride or die?” She smiles. “Loyal, you know. Protective. I imagine you and Seamus had time to… catch up?”

She looks away as if the reality of what her son has done just landed. That he took me. Brought me here. Kept me.

Like a beast and his beauty, locked away for three days and counting.

I clear my throat. “Obviously, we’ve had some time to… catch up.”

I glance around the kitchen, needing something to ground me. It’s old, but looks recently updated, chrome fixtures gleaming, beautiful tilework glowing in the light. It’s homey. Smells like coffee and cookies.

I kind of want both right now.

But my eyes keep drifting to the door. I’m waiting for him.

Wondering how things are going with him and his father. Wondering if that fire in his eyes met steel. He’s told me his father is a good man, loyal and ruthless, like Rafail. That he loves fiercely, protects without question.

But will he hurt him? Shame him?

Oh god.

Then the door opens, and I lift my eyes, my breath hitching, hoping to see my husband.

But it’s not him .

A man steps in. Tall and broad, with scars that twist across his knuckles. Tattoos snake up his neck. His head is shaved clean, and a jagged but thin silver scar splits his cheekbone in two. Ink crawls down both arms like vines, and his eyes are gunmetal gray.

He stops dead when he sees me.

Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t snarl. Just stills.

Two long seconds stretch.

“And who’s this?”

“Ash,” Caitlin says tightly. “Meet Zoya. Seamus’s wife. Zoya, this is Seamus’s cousin, Ashland.”

Something shifts in his jaw before his face goes blank.

“So the traitor’s brought home his feckin’ pet,” he says.

Kyla smirks, like she’s enjoying this.

Bronwyn gasps. “You can’t say that. Honestly, Ash!”

But I’m already moving.

I rise slowly, every inch of my spine straightening, one vertebrae at a time.

I set my tea down gently, both hands flat on the table.

“You can watch your mouth,” I say, my voice as calm as winter ice. “I’ve already had a lovely welcome from the sisters, you see.” I smile at him, dead-eyed.

He smirks back, small, cruel, unkind. He’s watching me, measuring me. I don’t trust him. Not one bit.

Seamus married me . We took vows. I love that man .

I’ve had just about enough of this cold welcome.

I nod to Caitlin. “Thank you.” Then Bronwyn. “Thank you.”

“But the next person with something nasty to say?” I smile again. “They can hold their tongue until they’re brave enough to say it in front of my husband.”

Caitlin blinks, then sits back slowly. “Good girl,” she says. “Mmm. He chose well, didn’t he? I see now why he loves you.”

And I nearly melt under that.

Because none of them would dare say these things in front of Seamus.

“Ash,” she snaps. “Stop being a feckin’ cunt.”

“Bronwyn,” Caitlin says, like a warning.

But I can tell she’s already lost the battle against the foul mouths in this house.

“It’s family dinner.” Kyla shrugs. “What did you expect?”

“Not a goddamn interrogation. Let her breathe already. And she’s right. Say that in front of Seamus and I’ll eat my damn hat.”

Ashland doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just steps aside, shakes his head like it isn’t worth the effort, and turns to leave.

“Excuse me,” I say, quiet but firm.

He pauses and turns back, then faces me fully. All eyes are on me now, but I don’t flinch. I don’t blush. I don’t stammer. I stand rooted in place.

“And that’s the last time any of you call your Seamus McCarthy a traitor,” I say. “He’s as loyal to this family as they come, and you’ll see soon enough what he’s meant to do. What he’s called to do.”

I don’t say more. I can’t. I’m already toeing the line. But I won’t let them disrespect my husband.

“Is that right?” he mutters calmly, as if challenging me.

I bare my teeth at him, a hiss catching between them. “You’ll speak of my husband and your boss with respect.”

Bronwyn and Caitlin share a glance, a loaded one. I see it. I feel it.

Bronwyn smiles wide. Caitlin, calm as ever, tops off her tea. Ashland exhales like the weight of the room is too heavy for him and walks out with Kyla close behind.

Good. Let them leave.

I release a breath.

“Sit down, darling,” Caitlin says gently, tapping the table like she’s summoning a cat to her lap. “You did well. So did my son,” she continues, smiling. “Let’s figure out dinner.”

The room smells like cloves and sugar, thick and sweet, a kind of comfort that makes me ache with memories of home. The teapot is already steaming again as Caitlin moves like she’s done this a thousand times… because she has. She pours two cups like we’re just two women catching up after brunch .

“Would you take sugar, Zoya? Or are you one of those purists who likes the taste of bitterness in their cup?”

I blink, then smile. It’s impossible not to.

“Two sugars, please. Not a purist. No milk.”

“Good girl,” she says, like she’s proud. “That’s how I raised my boys, you know, sweet enough to kill you, strong enough to burn.”

She sets the cup in front of me, then pushes the tin of biscuits closer like it’s an offering.

“Go on. Try the shortbread. Store-bought, but let’s pretend I’ve been slaving away in this boiling heat. I love this kitchen, but the whole damn thing feels like an oven sometimes.”

The kitchen is stunning but hot, with warm-toned wood, black marble counters, and hanging copper pots.

I take a piece of shortbread. It’s good, not as good as the honey-drenched ones Rodion and I used to make back home or Anya’s flaky masterpieces.

“Do you cook?” she asks, her head tilted. The diamond on her ring catches the light. I look down at my hand with only a slim gold band. I’m not used to the feel of it yet.

“I do,” I say, softer. “And baking too. My brother’s favorite is honey cake. It sort of became my thing at home.”

“Did it?” Her eyes light up, full of practiced interest. “Goodness, I’d love some honey cake.

Can’t say I’ve had it, but I’d love to try.

We’ll have to get you in the kitchen.” She leans back a little, and her voice drops.

“We had a cook. But she left. Her husband got another offer too far from here. It was time for them to go.” A pause. “She was with us for thirty years.”

Thirty years, longer than I’ve been alive. My chest tightens.

“She must’ve known Seamus almost his whole life. When will I see him?” I ask, trying to keep the tremble from my voice.

Caitlin’s eyes flicker. She stirs her nearly empty cup, like buying herself time. “Soon, sweetheart. We’ve been through quite a lot.”

“I understand,” I say with a nod, even though it punches the breath from my lungs. “But how long can one conversation be?”

She exhales slowly. “Oh, you’d be surprised. But there’s been an uproar since you married my son.”

She meets my eyes. And in that moment, I see her, really see her. The power behind the softness. The storm she's holding back.

“Let things settle, Zoya,” she says gently. “We’ll get to know you.” She leans forward. “I promise you’re safe here with me, but stay close to my son, alright, love?”

But I can’t help but wonder: Am I safe with anyone else?