Page 8 of Unrequited (Bratva Kings #6)

ZOYA

I glance toward the place where the body had been. My attacker. The man who tried to hurt me.

I should feel sick. I should feel guilt curling in my belly… but I don’t.

This isn’t the first dead body I’ve seen.

And if I’d had a decent weapon? I would’ve killed him myself. And it wouldn’t have been the first time.

I only remember flashes of the night my parents were murdered.

I remember Semyon shoving us into a closet, Rafail yelling for us to stay put, Rodion trying to run—and Semyon threatening to hurt him if he did.

I remember reaching for Rodion’s hand. Holding it.

Holding my breath as the unmistakable crack of gunfire echoed around us.

That’s all I have. I don’t remember their funeral or the days after .

Just small bits and pieces. Glimpses.

The rest of my life has been one long act of survival, raised by brothers and a sister who love me fiercely. Maybe too fiercely.

“Well then,” I tell Seamus, my voice steadier now. “I’m set?”

“Alright,” he says, reaching down to brush his fingers against mine. A gentle, grounding touch. “Let’s go.”

A few minutes later, I’m tucked into the passenger seat of a sturdy SUV. It smells like him, leather and spice and something clean and wild. Probably a rental. He’s not from here.

He doesn’t turn on any music. Just drives and talks.

He asks me how my night was. Who I was with.

I give vague answers, careful answers. I don’t want to give him too much.

I wonder where his flat is. I wonder what it looks like.

Will it smell like him?

This moment with him, in the confines of his car… it feels stolen. Illicit. And yet I can’t help the way my thoughts spin, racing with questions I shouldn’t be asking.

What would it be like to go home with him… without having to hide?

To just be with him?

I can’t even imagine. But oh, I want to.

God, I want to.

I’m a virgin .

And now I’m going home with the man I’ve been crushing on hardcore. Of course my mind leaps to sex.

Not that casual sex has ever appealed to me.

But this?

This wouldn’t be casual.

Nothing with Seamus could ever be casual.

He pulls up to a high-rise building tucked into the city and drives all the way to the back entrance. Discreet and private. Makes sense.

“This it?” I ask.

“Aye,” he says. “You think you can walk on your own, lass?”

I glance at him, playful. “You offering to carry me again?”

His eyes sparkle. “My god, yer so fuckin’ cute,” he says, shaking his head.

Then he’s distracted for a second, talking to someone on the phone, low and clipped.

“Go within the hour,” he says into the receiver. “Before the game’s over. Don’t ask me again, McGekrin. You heard my answer.”

A pause.

“Right. Go. Call me.”

He ends the call and slides his phone into his pocket. Then leans in close to me, his blue eyes piercing mine.

And that damn dimple again.

“You hungry, lass? ”

I nod, the fog lifting. The drugs are wearing off, and I feel it now. I’m so damn hungry. Hollowed out.

“Yeah,” I whisper. “Starving.”

As we approach the building, he nods at an elderly neighbor with a cane, and the man smiles and greets him back as if Seamus isn’t dangerous. As if he didn’t just kill someone tonight.

And when we reach the entryway of the building, there’s a woman trying to balance a baby on one hip and an armful of grocery bags on the other.

“Here, I’ve got it,” he says softly, taking the door with one hand and the grocery bags with the other. And my heart melts.

He’s exactly the kind of guy who would hit the news because of something terrible he did, and the neighbors would all say, “But he was the nicest man!”

He’s strong. Dangerous. But still a gentleman. I love that about him. I love everything about this man. I know it’s a schoolgirl crush, and I’m well aware of my foolish heart. I know I’m infatuated, maybe even delusional.

But right now? Right now, I enjoy it. My god, I savor it.

And our secret relationship? It feels so good to have something of my own. Something I don’t have to share with my family. Something that’s mine, just mine .

I wonder if he feels the same?

So I watch him help his neighbor inside with the groceries, and I take note .

If there are bodyguards nearby, they’re damn good at discretion because I don’t see any.

And if anyone in this building is afraid of him, they hide it well.

He seems liked. Trusted, even, which doesn’t add up. But nothing about him ever really does.

Even if this persona of his is just a front or a cover, the interactions seem real. Genuine. And when he opens the door to his flat, I don’t know what I was expecting—but it sure as hell wasn’t this.

It’s simple. Stoic.

Clean, but lived in. There’s a stack of unopened mail on the counter, a single coffee cup abandoned in the sink. There’s a kind of old-school charm to it all. On the coffee table, a scattered pile of books, worn and used. Beside them, a notepad and a laptop.

It’s a studio apartment, compact and efficient.

His bed is tucked in the corner, across from the television. A dark-green comforter that’s thick and sleek. One single nightstand with a clock and a half-full glass of water. Nothing extravagant. Nothing that screams “ Killer .”

And yet…

“How are you feeling?” he asks gently. “Let’s get you some food.”

All I want is to spend time with him. I want to know that I'm safe, that no one is coming after me. I want to live in this fragile little bubble we've created. Just us. Just for now .

Please, just for a little while.

“I’m definitely feeling better,” I say, almost surprised by my own honesty.

“Aye,” he replies with a smirk. “That boy was a novice then.”

The way he says it—it’s grim. Final.

And maybe I should feel something. Horror? Sadness? Guilt? But I don’t.

“A novice?” I ask, my brows furrowed. I press for more. “What do you mean?”

But he doesn’t answer. He only gestures toward the couch. “Sit down, Zoya,” he says. “Let me take a look at you.”

Then he crouches in front of me, his hands on either side of my hips. His hair curls slightly at the ends, brushing the tops of his ears. His eyes—god, those eyes—they’re the brightest shade of blue I’ve ever seen.

His features are carved, symmetrical, and his cheeks are ruddy. There’s pride in the way he holds himself. A fierce, quiet confidence. It makes me feel safe. Untouchable.

“Did I do the right thing? Texting you?” I ask, unsure, whispering my doubt out loud.

“I told you to call me if you needed me,” he replies firmly. “Of course you did the right thing.”

“I was just afraid that I—” My voice catches. He presses his finger gently to my lips, silencing the fear.

“I understand. If you’d called your brothers, you would’ve opened a whole new kettle of fish, wouldn’t you?”

I nod. I’ve always liked the Irish turn of phrases.

“I did the right thing,” I whisper.

He smiles. “Aye. You did.”

His approval does something to me, something that feels a lot like longing.

Since I was a little girl, I always knew how this would end.

I’d be married off, arranged by Rafail, no doubt. He’d try to find someone suitable for me, someone proper. My brother isn’t a monster, but the family comes first.

Love, though? Love has always been out of the question.

“Let’s get you settled, hmm?” he says, standing back up.

Thank god. I could listen to him talk all night. His voice soothes something raw in me. I want to ask him to read to me. To tell me a story. Anything.

“I love your voice,” I whisper, my cheeks pinkening with the honesty.

He glances at me and smiles, and I wonder… I wonder.

Maybe he’s not as dangerous as I fear. Maybe I’ve been so conditioned to see trouble where there is none that I’ve made him out to be more dangerous than he really is.

Maybe we could have a future, just the two of us.

It’s stupid, I know. I’ve barely even kissed this man. He’s only kissed me once.

He’s Mr. Thursday, not my fiancé. And yet… he saved me to night.

He protected me.

I battle myself inside. My feelings. My logic.

“I’ll get us some grub.”

I smile. “Seamus,” I say, trying it out.

His eyes darken, his lids heavy. He steps back toward me. His pale-blue shirt stretches tight across his chest, making his eyes glow even brighter. Low-slung jeans. Heavy boots. A casual masterpiece.

Mine .

“Say that again,” he growls. “I love my name on your lips. Say it again, lass.”

It’s both a plea and a command. I’m powerless to disobey.

He crouches down again, both knees to the floor, and takes my hand gently in his.

“Say my name again, Zoya.”

So I do. I cup his cheek, my thumb brushing under his eye.

“Seamus,” I whisper.

He closes his eyes, then brings my palm to his lips, kissing it softly before folding my fingers and pressing them against his chest.

“Thank you.” He exhales. “Nobody calls me that where I’m from.”

Huh. Really? “What do they call you?”

He shakes his head, a sadness lingering in his eyes. “Not today, Zoya. We’ve already broken too many rules. ”

He wraps his arms around me and pulls me close. I rest my head on his shoulder and breathe him in. He smells so damn good. Feels even better.

I feel safe.

And yet… there’s that voice in my head again, whispering warnings.

Reminding me that nothing this perfect lasts.

“The best thing after a night like this is rest. Food. Hydration. A warm bed. Come on, sweet angel,” he murmurs, kissing my cheek. “Now, what can I get you for dinner?”

“I’m not really hungry anymore,” I admit.

He shakes his head. “Eh, no. That’s not an option, lass. I asked you what you want. I expect an answer.” He quirks a brow, all command, and heat rushes through me. “Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.”

It slips out before I can stop it. Something instinctual. And I love the flash of approval in his eyes.

“You can say that again too,” he says with a crooked smirk.

I shrug. “My brothers raised me to be polite.”

“Good girl,” he praises. “Such a good girl.”

I rest my hand on his shoulder, feeling the solid heat of him. His arms are steel, sculpted. I swallow.