Page 40 of Unrequited (Bratva Kings #6)

Then to Seamus, “Take Bronwyn out again tomorrow, will you?”

Seamus agrees.

I’m mildly surprised Bronwyn doesn’t have her license yet. She must be around nineteen, old enough, surely, but maybe she’s cautious. Or maybe Seamus has been protecting her. Maybe both.

“How’s the city?” Seamus asks Keenan .

“All right,” Keenan replies smoothly, cutting into his chicken with almost clinical precision. “Branson swept the warehouse on the coast.”

The table quiets. “It’s clean,” he continues. “Shipment came in. Easter arms, just like the specs.” He sets his knife down, wipes his mouth.

For a moment, we all eat in companionable silence, the kind that feels worn-in, familiar. And just like that, homesickness claws at my chest.

It was like this at home—Rafail at the head of the table, the rest of us gathered around. Now that we’re scattered and married and rarely home, Rafail has instituted once-a-month Sunday dinners. No excuses. It’s the highlight of my month.

Bronwyn leans in, her eyes sharp and unapologetic. “Now that Seamus is back… any chance Russia could come after him? He escaped custody, right? Would they want him returned?”

A chill trickles down my spine. Oh god. Why hasn’t that ever occurred to me? That the Russian government might still want to reclaim him?

My eyes dart to Seamus, but he doesn’t flinch. Unshaken. His fingers curl around mine again, a soft, steady pat. Reassurance without words.

Keenan answers instead. “The likelihood of extradition is low. Political climates have shifted. Our alliances are mostly intact, for now.” He cuts Seamus a look. “Keep a low profile. No headlines, no fireworks. Nothing flashy until the dust settles. Yeah? ”

“Yes, sir,” Seamus says, his jaw locked.

I can’t help but think: No headlines, no fireworks , that might just be his preferred method of ruling. Quiet, effective, ruthless.

Keenan turns his attention back to his plate, the conversation shifting again. And I start to see it, how Seamus learned to rule not by raising his voice, but by speaking only when he had to.

His eyes find mine as if to say: I’m not afraid. You don’t have to be either.

Am I afraid? Maybe. Maybe I’m just lost, like a fish out of water. But fear doesn’t feel quite right. Not exactly.

“This is really delicious,” Bronwyn says, sweet and earnest. “Leave it to Seamus to find a woman who can cook when we actually need one.”

Her cheerfulness is infectious. I smile. “Thank you. I do like to cook.”

“Can you teach me?” she asks.

Ash snorts. Caitlin gently smacks his arm. “Ash, be nice.”

But he just shakes his head. “If you can teach Bronwyn to cook, we’ll call you a miracle worker.”

I chuckle, placing a bite of chicken into my mouth. “We’ll start small. Maybe toast.”

Seamus winks at me. My heart doesn’t flutter, it somersaults. We may be married, we may have spent months tangled in each other’s lives, but somehow he still does this to me .

And I want him. God, I want him.

Wine is passed around, and the conversation softens. It feels normal, almost.

“Where is everyone else?” Seamus asks, his voice lowering slightly. He turns to me. “I have brothers, too, you know.”

“I’ll introduce you shortly,” Keenan says. “After your absence, I had to send them on a bit of a recon. I’ll fill you in later. Tomorrow,” he continues. “By then, we’ll have the full family together. Here.”

Yay.

“I can hire a caterer,” Caitlin begins.

But Keenan interrupts, his eyes locking with mine.

“You could. Or you could give Zoya another opportunity to cook.”

A challenge. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Would you like that?”

He’s testing me. I meet his gaze, unflinching. “I’d love that. I cook for my family at home all the time.”

Silence. No one responds. And once again, I feel my cheeks burn.

My family. Their enemies.

Seamus leans in, his lips brushing my ear. “I’ve had enough of the social life now. Let’s go.” He stands. “Thank you for dinner,” he says, reaching for my hand.

“I prepared your old room for you, son,” Caitlin says, standing to embrace him. “It’s good to see you. Good to have you back.”

Keenan nods at Seamus but doesn’t rise. “I’ll see you tonight. I’d like to go over what you missed in your absence.”

“Yes, sir,” Seamus replies.

He heads for the door.

“Well, that went well,” I murmur to him, my voice a little wry, a little surprised, like maybe I hadn’t expected it to.

Seamus gives me a smile, slow and tight, but full of something private. Something just for me.

Once we’re in the hallway alone, the door clicks shut behind us, sealing off the muffled voices and lingering tension on the other side. It’s quieter here. Dimmer. The kind of quiet that lets truths come out.

He reaches for me without hesitation, like he needs the contact, and cups the back of my head, his palm warm and steady against my scalp. Then his forehead touches mine, our breaths mingling in the space between us.

“I love you, Zoya,” he whispers, and the weight of it lands softly but undeniably in my chest. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” I ask him, already knowing it’s not just one thing. It’s never just one thing.

“I’m sorry this had to be your entrance into my family,” he says. “I wish they’d done better. I wish it had been easier.”

I exhale softly. “I knew what I was walking into, Seamus. You think if we sat down to dinner with my family, they’d be any friendlier? ”

I can’t help but smile as I shake my head. “If anything, I think your family’s probably nicer than mine would’ve been.”

He gives a soft, rough chuckle, the sound vibrating in his chest.

“You forgive too easily, Zoya,” he murmurs huskily.

“Do I?” I ask, tilting my head.

But he’s not wrong. I forgave him for leaving me, for good reason, maybe, but still. And I’ve forgiven many things in my life. Things most people would never even consider forgiving. I’ve made peace with monsters.

“Come,” he says, his tone shifting, want threaded beneath the word. His mouth to my ear, “I want you alone.”

My heartbeat stutters in my chest.

The corridor is dim, lit only by the moonlight slanting through narrow windows.

The house is beautiful in a way that feels both old and curated, an Irish estate that’s witnessed many come and go.

He leads me to the second floor, then turns left, guiding me down a long, hushed hallway.

Our footsteps are swallowed by thick gray carpet, soft beneath my feet.

“We’ve had many families in here,” he says. “There was a time when we were bursting at the seams. My father had to add a whole extra floor. A lot of remodeling.”

I can almost see it in my mind, children racing down these halls, thick accents and big tempers, rough affection and fierce loyalty.

“This one,” he says, stopping in front of a black door. “This room’s mine. Has been since I was a small lad.”

He opens the door, no lock, unlike the heavy, bolted ones back at my house, and closes it softly behind me. I inhale slowly.

My heart slows as I take in the space. It’s stark. Masculine. Impeccably clean. Like his house, everything about the room is so intensely him, though a simple vase with red roses on a shelf tells me Caitlin was here.

Once the door clicks shut, he turns to me and reaches for my chin. The kiss he gives me isn’t rushed. It’s not wild or needy, but gentle, intentional. A quiet claim.

I melt into it.

The heat between us builds, not fire, but something slower. Smoldering. An intimacy that feels like comfort and danger all at once. His touch is reverent, like he’s reminding me this is us now. This space. This night.

“Tonight, we rest,” he whispers. Then, after a beat, ”Or… perhaps tonight we try for that baby.”

I blink. “Try for a baby…”

“Aye,” he says. “Your idea, wasn’t it?”

“Mmm.” I nod. I still think it’s a solid strategy that neither his father nor my brother could argue with.

He kisses me again, but this time it's softer.

“Seamus.”

He pulls away a touch. “Aye? ”

“I… don’t want our lovemaking to become a duty.”

He shakes his head, brushing his thumb over my cheek. “Neither do I, love.”

“I’m not on birth control,” I tell him gently. “And by my calculations… I’m definitely ovulating.”

His brow quirks up, amused. Interested. Dangerous.

“Are you?” he says.

“Yes,” I answer, fingers threading together as I watch him watch me.

And that’s when I note his hard length. He’s already hard. The idea of making love to me, of claiming me like that, is enough to undo him.

“Maybe it doesn’t have to be a duty,” I whisper, thinking aloud. “Maybe it doesn’t have to be because someone else told us what to do. Maybe it’s just because we love each other… and we want this.”

“Hush, lass,” he nearly growls.

And then I’m in his arms. My legs wrap instinctively around his waist. I hear the solid click of the lock behind me, and he’s already striding toward the bed like a man on a mission.

My body heats with every step. I feel his erection pressing against me, solid and demanding. When he lays me down, I remember. I remember the way he’s spanked me, the way he’s made me burn with need, the way he’s never let me forget how much he wants me .

“You’re a good lass,” he murmurs against my ear. “Such a good girl, aren’t you?”

I nod. Yes. I’m his good girl. Maybe the only time in my life I’ve wanted to be one.

“I want you on your back, legs spread, darlin’,” he whispers, his accent thick and seductive. “Let’s get you stripped.”

Our clothes fall away like wrapping paper, each layer peeling back to reveal the gift underneath. Naked. Vulnerable. Open.

He kisses every inch of my body like it’s sacred.

When he finally finds my pussy, his tongue strokes me in one perfect lick. My hips jerk of their own accord.

“You like that, don’t you?” he murmurs against me.

“You’re good at it,” I whisper, and oh god, yes, I do.

“No rules tonight,” he says, his breath hot on my inner thigh. “Do whatever your heart desires, angel.”

And I do.