Page 5 of Unrequited (Bratva Kings #6)

ZOYA

We meet every single week.

James the Liar and little Zoya.

Every week.

For six months.

Six whole months, same time, same place. A little hidden world carved out just for us. I start planning everything around our Thursday night secret rendezvous.

It becomes the highlight of my existence. I live for my Thursday nights.

The only reason I get away with it without my brothers finding out or at least suspecting that something’s amiss is because they’re damn busy.

Traveling, marriage, children, growing our small circle into something larger, more powerful.

Sometimes I pretend I’m with one of my friends, but mostly I hide my tracker .

And maybe it has something to do with the fact that no one would ever expect Zoya Kopolova to be a sneak.

Every Thursday, I bring pastries and stories and questions.

And he listens.

He watches more than he speaks, his gaze heavy and thoughtful, like he’s memorizing me piece by piece. His piercing blue eyes don’t leave mine as he listens.

I’m fully aware of how hard I’m crushing on him. Just seeing him with those rolled-up sleeves, his tanned, muscular forearms as he leans forward and holds onto my every word… I can’t be immune to him, no matter how hard I try.

And I do try. A few months in, I gave up and fully owned my crush.

It’s just a crush… right? And somehow, I started building my life around those meetings. Around him.

My Mr. Thursday.

There’s something inside me that whispers warnings I don’t want to hear. That I should be wary. That I should be afraid. That I can’t have this man and shouldn’t allow myself to be vulnerable around someone like him. Someone so dark, so still. So dangerous.

But I can’t stop.

The more I try to pull away, the more I crave his presence. His voice. His steadiness. The way he calms the chaos in my mind. He has this way about him.

“Aye,” he’ll say, just listening, nodding. “Go on, little lass. ”

Go on, little lass.

And I do go on. Go on talking. Go on trusting. Go on falling in love with a man I barely know.

He understands the things I’ve never told anyone, and worse, I do tell him everything. Every dark little corner, every secret I’ve never dared speak out loud.

And he just listens.

With that non-judgmental calm that feels like an anchor in a storm.

But the more I talk, the more I want .

I want him to touch me.

To hold me.

To kiss me.

And still, after six months… all he does is buy me a drink. Walk me out. Keep his distance.

He’s always there.

Always watching.

I tell myself that I’m safe with him. It’s okay that I’m sneaking around without a guard because James wouldn’t let anyone touch me.

Sometimes he asks questions, so casually that it almost slips past me.

“Did your brother get married?”

“Then what happened?”

“And after that? ”

And I answer him. Because I don’t know who else to talk to. So I talk to him.

I tell him about Anya and Semyon. About how Rodion went to the States and met Ember. How they fell in love and how she betrayed my brothers' trust. How he was forced to marry her after, but it’s worked out for them.

I tell him about Rafail and Polina, and how they have children now. I tell him how things have shifted. How the rules keep changing.

And I tell him what it’s like being raised by men like my brothers.

“Do you think I’ll ever get free of them?” I ask, shaking my head.

He gives me a little smirk. “You’re here now, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I say, “but it’s tricky. If this were years ago, before they were married and traveling and all, I never would’ve gotten away with it.”

He raises a brow. “And yet, every single week, you make it. Seems to me you’ve got a bit more freedom than you think.”

“True,” I admit, smiling despite myself.

One night, he brings me a small gift. A delicate little trinket—a stunning gold ring, looped and swirled with intricate flourishes. It’s so pretty it nearly takes my breath away.

“It’s beautiful,” I say, as he slides it onto the index finger of my right hand.

“Like you,” he says with a soft smile.

Later, Ember asks where I got it .

I tell her a friend gave it to me. I don’t offer details.

But now… now I wonder.

Who is this strange Irishman?

Why is he here, every week, without fail?

I’ve even started dreaming of a future, which is ridiculous.

It’s all fantasy. Delusion.

We never go anywhere, never even leave the pub. Our little private world, as if it’s safely cocooned in this quasi anonymity. I know that I can never be with a man like him, or any man my brothers don’t choose for me. That’s the way of the Bratva and always has been.

And something tells me it’s a similar situation for him. If it wasn’t, he would’ve made a move on me by now, wouldn’t he?

But I can’t give in to this fantasy. What am I going to do, marry him in this pub? Raise children between booths and whiskey glasses?

Right.

One day, I ask him, gently, hesitantly, “Can we ever meet somewhere else?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He just shifts the subject.

Eventually, he says, “I don’t think it would be safe. And I don’t think your brothers would approve, would they?”

There’s sincerity in his voice, like it’s not just about me getting in trouble. It’s about him putting me in danger.

“You have to understand, lass,” he says quietly, “I can’t. ”

“I don’t.”

He sighs and blows out a breath. “Let’s go for a walk,” he says, low and quiet. It’s a move I didn’t expect.

I go with him.

We’ve never been alone before. Not really. We’re always in the pub, surrounded by people, noise, and shadows.

But this time, it’s just us.

He’s so much taller than I am. So broad-shouldered and powerful that when he walks beside me, I feel small. Protected.

He takes my hand, and it fits perfectly in his. Strong. Steady.

His dark curls sweep around his temples, soft and unruly. His eyes are a piercing blue that see right through me, clear and deep like the Irish sea he talks about. Craggy cliffs. Wild ocean. The way he said it made it sound like poetry.

He smells masculine and sharp, like the edge of something old and untamed.

When we walk together, it’s clear people fear him.

God, do they fear him. They step back when he approaches, lower their voices, and avert their gazes.

And I start to realize… I like that people fear him. I feel safe with him, like I’ve tamed this wild thing that grown men fear. I have the lion eating out of the palm of my hand.

Truthfully, I’m used to being around dangerous men. But he’s different. The way he carries it, calm and controlled.

When we exit the pub, we round a corner. The air is cold and bright with the smell of impending snow.

He stops walking and takes my hand. My breath catches as he turns to me.

“I want to kiss you, Zoya,” he says, and I remember the night months ago when he saved me from an unwanted kiss.

This is very, very different.

I want to ask him to say my name again.

My heart stumbles in my chest.

Of course I want to kiss him… more than anything. But the words catch in my throat.

“Well,” I manage to say with a shaky laugh, “that’s convenient. Because I would actually like to kiss you too.”

God, how lame am I?

My cheeks flush. I feel embarrassed, like a girl who doesn’t know what she’s doing.

Because I really don’t . I’ve become complacent with our Thursday night chat sessions, comfortable around this much-older, forbidden man, that I’ve always forgotten how naive and inexperienced I am.

I swallow the lump in my throat.

I want him. I want this, so damn bad.

“Come here,” he murmurs. My heart beats impossibly faster, my body instinctively responding to his command.

What would it be like if I were fully under his command? My insides whir with excitement and nerves .

He pulls me a little closer. Not roughly. Gently, like I’m something precious he doesn’t want to break.

He smells like wind and danger and salt. Like something primal. And under that? Warmth. Comfort. Need.

“I’ve never been kissed,” I whisper. My voice trembles. I wish it didn’t.

He stiffens slightly and then tips my chin up to meet his gaze, rough fingers under the thin, vulnerable skin. “Never?”

I shake my head. “I told you I’ve been sheltered, remember?”

“Aye, lass,” he says quietly. His voice drops, rough with feeling. “My fucking god. I can’t believe I have the privilege of being your first. Come here.”

My heart squeezes. Thumps. Warmth spreads across my chest and dips lower.

I love the way he talks. The way every word feels like a promise.

And I know, before his lips even touch mine, that this is going to be beautiful. Memorable.

Everything I’ve ever wanted.

“I said come here,” he says again, even softer.

I step toward him, incapable of anything but obeying him.

“When a man kisses a woman he cares for,” he murmurs, “he needs to make her feel safe.”

His hand brushes the hair out of my eyes .

“It’s not just about taking, you know. That’s the mistake men make. They take and they take, but this?” His fingers trail down the side of my face. “This is about giving too.”

I swallow and nod. I don’t trust my voice.

Just kiss me already.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says. “So fucking beautiful.” He shakes his head. “Got a flat here outside of Moscow, you know. So I could show every week.”

He did?

He blows out a breath and holds my gaze. My nerves and fears meld together. A man can’t seduce a woman for six months, right? If he were trying to take advantage of me, trying to somehow use me, wouldn’t he have already played his hand?

“Zoya. When I close my eyes, you’re the first thing I see. When I open them, there y’are again.”

I swallow hard. “Okay,” I say, breathless.

He chuckles softly. I love that sound. My cheeks heat.

He’s Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome in the flesh. And all mine, if only for a moment.

“I’ll tell you what to do,” he says. “Close your eyes, if you want to.”

I look at him, wanting to remember every second. I want to burn the image into my mind.

But I close my eyes.

I tip my head back and feel his breath against my lips .