Page 39 of Unrequited (Bratva Kings #6)

ZOYA

“Aren’t you a wonder,” Caitlin says, her voice warm as she places a hand on my shoulder and pulls me into a quick hug. “No wonder Seamus loves you so much.”

Her words catch me off guard. Make me ache. I think of my mother.

“Did your mother teach you to cook like this?” she asks, her eyes bright, looking at the honey cake cooling on the counter.

I shake my head, looking away. “No. She’s been gone a long time. I was just a child when she died.”

“Oh, sweet girl, I’m sorry,” Caitlin says.

I breathe out slowly. “Thank you. I taught myself. I’m pretty good at it.”

“Are you?” she asks, smiling. “I’m not very good myself. I had a sheltered life. Maybe I’ll tell you about it someday. Not now.” She winks.

“My son likes to eat. They all do. Tonight’s a little celebration,” she says with a smile. “Doesn’t feel right asking the bride to cook though! I hope Seamus isn’t put out. Do you like wine?”

“Yes.” I nod eagerly.

“White or red?”

“Either’s fine.”

“It’s all right, lass. You can pick.”

“I actually like both,” I admit.

She chuckles. “Good. My son needs someone agreeable.”

I shrug. “Only one person can be in charge, I guess.”

“Oh, I know how that goes.” She laughs again. “Now let’s see. You teach me how to cook, and maybe I’ll teach you how to survive a McCarthy man, eh?”

I shake her hand with a laugh. “Deal.”

We start pulling things together for the meal, her guidance easy and practiced. The ingredients are simple but fresh. Roasted chicken with garlic and lemon. Buttered green beans. Honey-glazed carrots. Fresh bread, baked earlier in the day.

And for dessert, a honey cake, light, golden, and fragrant.

“This is amazing,” Caitlin says, watching me mix and move. “Seamus will scold me for putting you to work. ”

“I’d rather stay busy,” I reply. “I cooked for him back at the cabin.”

She grimaces. “Oh dear. Tell me he didn’t try?”

I laugh. “He did.”

“No. Oh, I’m sorry.” She grimaces. “Not his strong suit.”

“Definitely not.”

We laugh again, and I catch Kyla watching us from the doorway, coming and going with plates.

Ashland’s in the background too. Observing, quiet.

Bronwyn enters just in time to admire the honey cake. “It only takes thirty minutes,” I tell her. “Fresh food doesn’t have to take forever.”

“Let’s bring this out,” Caitlin says, and leads me into a large formal dining room.

“We don’t eat in here much anymore,” she says. “It’s gone out of style, hasn’t it? The old tradition of the family table.”

I nod. “We eat in the kitchen too.”

“Yes,” she agrees. “But tonight is special.”

Bronwyn walks in. “Bronwyn, darling, wine glasses, please. Kyla, fetch your dad his drink.”

They move quietly, obediently. But I notice Seamus isn’t here yet.

It twists in my gut.

“So,” Caitlin says, pouring a glass of white wine. “Tell us about yourself. ”

I take a sip, fruity, sweet. I like it.

“I’m the youngest in my family. Three older brothers, one sister. She lives in South Africa with her husband. My brothers are all married. I stayed close to home.”

“How’d you meet my brother then, staying so close to home?” Kyla asks boldly, tearing into a roll.

My cheeks burn.

“She gets snappy when she’s hungry,” Bronwyn says.

“Eat, Kyla,” she says calmly. “And maybe shut up.”

“Girls,” Caitlin warns, sharp-eyed. “Go on, Zoya.”

I clear my throat. “I got tired of my brothers’ rules. Took a little trip to a pub one night. Met Seamus there. He’s always been good to me.”

“When was this?” Kyla presses.

“A while ago,” I say, dodging the trap.

Seamus said I was safe here. But am I?

“If only he didn’t act the feckin’ traitor,” Ash mutters.

I set my wine glass down, hard. My gaze slices to Ash. “I told you. Don’t call him a traitor.”

He scoffs. “You can defend him if you want, but it won’t work.”

“No,” I snap. “You want to go at him, do it to his face. But I’m telling you right now, my husband is not a traitor.”

I jab my finger into the table, my fury rising.

“Is that right?” Ash gets up.

“That’s right,” I say, standing.

“That’s my girl,” I hear Seamus say behind me. Relief floods through me.

I exhale at the sound of his voice, like a warm tide cutting through the chaos.

“So brave. That’s my good girl. Ashland, sit down . You want to call me a traitor to my face, lad?”

Ashland scowls, his jaw tight. “You brought a fucking Kopolov into the house.”

“I did.” Seamus’s voice is calm, but there's steel underneath. “Obviously. I did more than that, actually. I put the man she was about to marry into the ground.” He turns to face Ashland directly, like he’s challenging him to argue. “Does that say anything about my decision?”

Then he steps to my side, fingers weaving through mine like it’s second nature. He bends down, kisses my temple, slow and deliberate, and says, “I love her.” Then, eyes back on Ashland, “You want to take this outside?”

A shiver runs through me at the tone of his voice.

Ashland hesitates. Then, quietly, “No, sir.”

He sits down.

“Kyla?” Seamus asks, narrowing his eyes at his sister. “I heard a tone I don’t care for when you were speaking to my wife. Want to try that again in front of me?”

She answers softly, looking down at the table. “No. But give us a minute, Seamus. I’ve given you several. ”

But he snaps, sharp. “My decisions are between me and Dad. I’ll demand nothing but respect from the rest of you. Zoya is one of us. She’s Zoya McCarthy now.”

“She’ll never be Zoya McCarthy,” Kyla hisses. She pushes back her chair with a loud scrape, tosses her napkin on the table like it burned her, and storms out.

Caitlin lets out a breath like she’s been holding it for minutes. “Oh dear,” she mutters.

Seamus moves half a step like he’s about to go after her, but Caitlin reaches out, gently pressing a hand to his arm.

“No, son. Leave it. I’ll have a word with her.”

My heart thuds.

I don’t want them to fight over me though. That’s not what I came here for. That’s not what love is.

“Now, lad, come and sit. Eat. Have some of this delicious food your wife made for us.”

“My wife?” he echoes, looking at me with a kind of wonder, like the word tastes new and sweet on his tongue. “They put you to work already?” he asks, taking a seat.

“Mm-hmm,” I say, a little sheepishly. “The housekeeper had to leave.”

Caitlin chuckles, then turns to him. “You know how I am at cooking?”

“I do know how you are at cooking,” he replies, grinning apologetically, and I stifle a giggle.

“This looks delicious, Zoya,” he says, his eyes scanning the table .

Bronwyn leans in, smirking. “See? Now I know why he married you. You know how to cook. The rest of us are absolute shite at it.”

“Bronwyn,” Caitlin warns, giving her a look. “Language.”

Seamus scowls at his sister. “You heard mam. Watch your mouth,” he adds.

“Sorry,” Bronwyn mumbles, her cheeks flushed. She doesn’t meet my eyes.

Bossy, overbearing brother is awfully familiar to me, only this time I’m married to him.

Yikes.

Just then, a hush falls over the room like a curtain being drawn.

The door at the far end creaks open, and with it, the air shifts, charged now, like the static hum before a storm.

Caitlin sits up straighter, and her eyes instinctively sweep over each of her children at the table, assessing, anchoring.

Keenan McCarthy steps into the room, moving with a quiet, unspoken authority that bends the room to his will without a single word.

It’s the kind of presence that makes spines straighten and conversation die mid-breath.

Seamus rises immediately, a reflex, a sign of deference that runs deeper than mere politeness.

I follow a breath later, his cue, my instinct.

His fingers find mine, a grounding point in the chaos, warm and sure. “Da,” Seamus murmurs, his chin tipping toward the door in a subtle signal. Keenan nods, his gaze gliding across the room .

And when it lands on me, it holds. No flicker of anger, no hint of warmth either. Just a cold, clinical assessment, like I’m another piece in a puzzle he’s trying to fit into place.

“Zoya,” he says, deep and almost unnervingly smooth. “Welcome. I apologize for my earlier behavior. I’m sure you’re well aware your family and mine… have not exactly seen eye to eye for some time now.”

His civility is unnerving. Not kindness. Not warmth. Just razor-sharp composure.

“Thank you,” I say carefully. “Yes, I’m aware.”

Better to stay quiet, let my silence speak for me. He doesn’t press. Just claims the seat at the head of the table like it’s a throne. Every movement is deliberate, surgical.

“This looks delicious,” he says, his tone appreciative but distant. Caitlin starts to rise to serve him, but he stops her with a raised hand.

“No, thank you, lass. I’ll get it myself.”

He reaches, helping himself. Caitlin nods toward me. “Zoya cooked for us,” she says gently.

“Is that right?” His brows lift with mild curiosity, eyes swinging to me again. “You like to cook?”

“I do,” I answer, the words catching slightly on my tongue. I feel exposed, as if my ability to prepare a meal somehow makes me more likable.

“We’re not much for cooking since our head chef left,” Keenan offers, his tone neutral .

“Yes… Caitlin told me.” My cheeks warm. I’m not sure what to say, or where I belong here, how I fit in this hierarchy, in this family that’s not mine. Do I call her mom? Mrs. McCarthy? She introduced herself as Caitlin…

Seamus’s large, warm hand finds my knee under the table, grounding me again with a soft, steady squeeze.

“Bronwyn,” he says, affectionately.

“How’d your driving go?”

“Very well,” Bronwyn answers proudly.

“Aye. She only knocked over two streetlights,” Caitlin chimes in with a mischievous grin.

Keenan’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline before everyone breaks into quiet laughter.

“Just kidding,” Caitlin adds, winking at Bronwyn. “Just one.”

“I didn’t knock it over,” Bronwyn mutters, her cheeks flushing pink. “It was just… wobbly.” She shrugs, looking away, embarrassed.