Page 6 of Unrequited (Bratva Kings #6)

And then, finally, finally , his mouth meets mine.

It’s electric.

A shock of something pure and wild and aching floods me, lightning in my veins.

I stifle a moan and grip his hips.

And I kiss him back.

His hands settle on my hips like he owns them, with a branding touch that sends fire straight to my core, like he's been waiting his entire life just for the chance to touch me properly. There's no hesitancy in the way he holds me, no gentleness. Just possession.

I can’t breathe. I can’t think. The kiss deepens until it steals the air from my lungs and the thoughts from my head.

I love the feel of his fingers digging into my hips, grounding me. I love the heat of his mouth on mine, the way our breaths mingle like we’ve been doing this forever.

I’ve wanted him. God, I’ve needed him. I’ve fantasized about him while lying beneath my sheets in the dark, desperate and aching, touching myself as I pictured exactly this, just a kiss.

But this is no gentle dream. This is wildfire and hunger, coiled so tight in my gut it explodes through me like a dam breaking.

And then he lifts me. Just lifts me like I weigh nothing, and my legs wrap around his waist on instinct. One hand cradles the back of my head, protective and sure, and he shifts until his back hits the brick wall with a thud that reverberates through both of us .

I'm pressed against him, his chest solid, my heart pounding so hard I’m sure he feels it through the thin fabric of his shirt.

I’ve never felt more alive, never felt this real.

Every single time I thought about him, every time I touched myself in the dark, it never even came close to this.

This feeling. This drugging, dizzying taste of him.

“This,” he growls into my mouth, his voice raw, desperate. And I love that I did this to him, that I’m the one who made him come undone like this. “This is the only time I get to be selfish,” he says. “I want you.”

I don’t understand what he means. Not fully. But some part of me already does. Some part of me knows.

This kiss we’re stealing? It’s borrowed time. It doesn’t belong to us. We’re not supposed to be doing this, and we both know it. I don’t know what chains he wears in his life, but I know every link in mine. Still, I want it. I fucking want him .

His hands grip my ass, fingers flexing, and I tighten my legs around him in response. My body answers his call with primal instinct. He kisses me like he’s starving, like he’s been dying for this moment. Passion, fire, desperation, all of it.

And when we finally pull apart, breathless, we stare at each other like we’ve just survived something catastrophic or discovered something sacred. He’s looking at me like he’s trying to memorize me, like I’m a prayer he’ll say over and over again once I’m gone.

“We shouldn’t have done that,” he whispers, his voice rough and laced with regret. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me, lass. ”

But I do. I feel it. Every inch of him is tightening with restraint. He’s holding himself back with an iron will, like it’s taking everything not to take me and walk me into the nearest bed, lay me down, and take my virginity like he owns it.

And the scariest part? God, I would let him. I would open myself to him in an instant, without hesitation.

Then, slowly, reverently, his hand skims up my back, fingers gliding until they find my bra strap. I’m trembling. My breath stutters. Is he going to unfasten it? Is he going to take me some place where we can be alone?

But instead, he exhales, heavy and conflicted, and closes his eyes. His forehead rests against mine.

“We can’t,” he murmurs. “We shouldn’t. I’m sorry,” he adds, his voice breaking.

And this time, I know, I know , he means it. He’s not playing. Not hiding. Not being evasive or cryptic. He wants me.

This beautiful, dangerous man, who’s far too old for me, wants me.

Me. Zoya Kopolova. The youngest daughter in the Kopolov family. Innocent, untouched, gangly, awkward Zoya.

My god.

He bends down and presses his lips to my collarbone like it’s holy ground. Like he’s worshiping, not taking. And when he kisses his way up my neck, I shiver and moan, my head falling back, my spine arching.

I’d give myself to him. No doubts. Not a single question in my mind .

Soft, reverent kisses along my jaw, then his mouth finds mine again, and I surrender fully.

“I want you,” I whisper. “Please.”

“Tell me,” he murmurs into my ear. “Please, sweet lass. Tell me what you want. I want to hear you say it. I couldn’t say no to you, even if I tried.”

His voice is rough, breaking me down with every syllable.

“ You ,” I whisper. “I want you. I want to be yours, James. I want… more.”

What am I asking for? Why would I say such a thing, knowing full well I can’t have it?

There’s a pause. A heartbeat. Then he whispers, “Then I don’t want to lie to you.”

I nod.

“Seamus,” he says softly, so softly it barely registers. “My name is Seamus.”

I wait for a click of recognition, but none comes.

I don’t know the name, not really. But it fits. It feels right. And I know in my bones he’s telling the truth now. Seamus is the Irish form of James.

“Call me Seamus,” he says. “No one else does. Nobody else fucking does.”

“What do they call you then?” I ask, a small smile tugging at the corners of my lips.

He hesitates for a beat before he whispers, “Boss. ”

A jolt vibrates through my hips. My pulse kicks into overdrive.

Of course they do, don’t they?

Then he slides me slowly, sensually down the length of his body, and his erection presses hot and hard against my stomach. I want him. God, I want him so bad it hurts.

“Seamus,” I beg. He stifles a groan when I say his name. “Please?”

But he shakes his head, his jaw clenched.

“No. Not now. We can’t. It’s too dangerous.” He takes a deep breath. “If only you knew who I was…”

His forehead meets mine on an exhale. The way his face is contorted like this, like nothing short of torture, tells me all I need to know.

But how could he possibly be more dangerous than my brothers? Than the men I’ve grown up around?

Yes, I know the Kopolovs are at war with the Irish syndicate, but this can’t be the man they’re fighting. Matvei said just this morning that the Irish syndicate is operating out of Dublin. They’re not here, not in Moscow, and I’ve heard all the names thrown around, and no one’s ever said Seamus.

Just because he has an Irish accent doesn’t mean he’s the enemy.

Panic and desire claw at me. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to go back to the cold safety of home. I want to go with him.

I have to voice my fear .

“You don’t want me?” I ask, the desperation leaking out before I can stop it.

He curls his fingers around the back of my neck and pulls me against his chest. His arms wrap around me like a shield, warm and solid and protective.

“I want you too badly,” he whispers. “That’s the problem, sweet Zoya. I want you so fucking badly, I don’t trust myself.”

He presses a kiss to my forehead.

“But you know you have to go home,” he says, his voice thick. “Be a good girl for me.”

I nod, though it breaks me.

“I’ll see you next week,” he says. There’s something boyish in his tone now, some tender hope that doesn’t match his hard edges.

“You have my number,” he adds. “If you need to call… if you need anything , lass… call me.”

And then we part, slowly, like tearing fabric. And with every step I take away from him, it gets harder to keep walking.

I don’t make it seven more days.

I stare at his number over and over, thumb hovering, wondering what would happen if I just called. Or even sent one text. But I don’t.

It feels wrong somehow, like I’d be taking advantage of him. And I can’t do that. Not to him. Not to this man I’m falling so desperately in love with .

Can it even be love? It’s too soon, too wild, too unknown. I don’t even know his last name or where he really comes from.

Well, I know he’s from Ireland. Okay, that much I know. A small, coastal village, he said. And I believe him. I feel that truth in my bones.

But still. I don’t know his history. I don’t know who he is when he’s not looking at me like I’m his salvation.

What I do know is this: I definitely have a crush. A dangerous, consuming, heart-in-my-throat crush on a man who is everything the boys Mia hangs around with, who drive fast and get shitfaced with cheap beer, are not .

But I have to move on with my life.

So I try.

There has to be life beyond a man I can’t have.

So when Mia invites me to a football game, I say yes because I’m trying. Trying to feel normal. To be normal.

But the boys she introduces me to? That’s all they are. Boys .

They don’t have rough stubble that scrapes your skin in the best way. None of them have hands that could grip your waist like it’s sacred. None of them carry danger and devotion in their eyes.

Not like Seamus. My Seamus.

The boy who sits next to me talks about video games. His statistics class. How hard midterms are. I stare at him and blow out a breath .

He doesn’t know how hard life is. His mother still gives him an allowance .

I wonder if this boy has ever held a gun. If he could aim it steady and shoot someone right between the eyes to protect someone he loved.

Nah.

Sigh.

Sitting there, surrounded by kids playing at adulthood, I realize I don’t belong in this world. Maybe I never did.

I was born and raised in the Bratva.

And the thought of staying there forever with the old rules, the silent codes, the bloodshed and loyalty, terrifies me.

But not as much as this emptiness does.

I know what I need. I need someone who knows. Who understands. Someone who’s already counted the cost of a life like mine. Who doesn’t flinch at consequences.

I’m so wrapped in my thoughts and longing that it all happens too fast.

One second, I’m laughing at a joke I didn’t hear, pretending to care about the score, or some professor’s weird haircut, while someone presses me for manicure and G-string opinions for an upcoming trip.