Page 9 of Unrequited (Bratva Kings #6)

“I don’t know if we’ll ever have a night like this again,” I whisper. “Seamus… what do you want most? ”

He groans, deep and primal. “My fucking god, Zoya. Don’t tempt me. Can’t you see I’m trying to do right by you?”

“Yes.” I nod. “I know.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t want more,” he mutters. “Doesn’t mean I don’t ache for you.”

He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Tonight, you called for me because you were in trouble. Tonight, I killed a man for you. Protected you.” He sighs. “But who protects you from me , lass?”

He means it. He means it. He’s not playing games, and he’s not trying to impress me.

He cares.

I sigh. “I don’t know. It just feels like… like we won’t get another chance.”

He groans again. “Aye, I know that. Don’t I feckin’ know it.”

He straightens, his voice shifting into command.

“But right now, you have some basic needs. You’ll eat. Then you’ll get yer pretty arse into bed.”

That makes me giggle. “My pretty arse?” I repeat, standing.

“Aye,” he growls, his gaze heated as he grips “my pretty arse” in his big hand. “You do what you’re told,” he growls playfully. “Where I’m from, women obey their men. So—are you going to listen?”

He raises a brow, daring me.

My heart stutters.

And to my shock, he gives my ass a sharp smack .

I laugh, and my cheeks flame.

I nod. Because I’ll do anything he asks.

And that might just be the problem.

“How about toast?” he asks. “Mam always said toast was good for a sour stomach.”

“Mam?” I echo.

“Aye.”

He says it with so much affection, I can’t help but smile.

“What about your dad? Do you get along with him?”

“Aye. He’s a good man,” he says thoughtfully. “I mean, by my standards.”

I frown. “What do you mean?”

He tilts his head. “Like your brothers. Would you say they’re good men?”

I nod slowly. “Now that makes sense,” I say softly.

And I exhale as he walks to the kitchen and puts bread into the toaster. I watch, perched on the edge of the couch, as he butters it, cuts it into triangles, and brings it to me.

I eat it hungrily, crumbs falling onto the little plate while he watches me. “That’s a good girl,” he says. Then he talks to me about the little shops at home and how he’d love taking me to D’Agostinos, the only Italian place nearby.

“They’ve got the best homemade bread with this seasoned olive oil,” he says with a smile. When I finish the toast, he speaks gently .

“Alright, enough chatter. You need rest. You take the bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

Oh hell no. I did not wait six months to be alone with him so he could sleep on the couch.

“Why?” I ask, playing innocent.

As if I don’t already know the reason.

He growls under his breath, his eyes flashing with something hot and intense.

He shakes his head, like he’s trying to cast off the thoughts racing through his mind.

When he brushes his palm through his hair, it stands on end, shaggy and untamed, and I fucking love it. “Should find you something to wear.”

I shake my head. “It’s fine,” I tell him.” I’ve got little boy-shorts undies and a tee. I’ll sleep in those.”

His eyes darken, and his jaw clenches.

“Tempt the fuck out of me, why don’t you?” he growls.

I shrug, all innocence. But I want him to want me. I need to know I affect him the same way he affects me.

No one ever has, not like this. No man has ever looked at me the way he does.

Why not me? Why not now?

“You won’t even notice,” I say innocently, “if you leave a little space.”

But I’m not innocent. Not even close.

Fucking hell .

He makes me feel things I didn’t even know were possible.

My heart doesn’t just race—it slams, wild and unrelenting, before my pulse sinks low, sending heat between my legs.

I didn’t know a man’s voice could make adrenaline burst through my limbs like wildfire.

I didn’t know a simple touch, or even the thought of one, could light me up from the inside.

I’m discovering a world I never knew I needed. A world of adrenaline and breath and heat. And I want to explore every inch of it with him.

So, I make a show of it.

I shimmy out of my clothes… slow, deliberate. My boy shorts cling to the soft curve of my ass, barely covering anything. He groans—deep and guttural—and I feel it slice through the silence.

I draw in a breath, then let it out, shaky and uneven.

Then I reach under my tee, unhooking my bra. My breasts are small and perky, the nipples peaked beneath the thin cotton.

“My fucking god, woman,” he growls. “A man would have to have fucking nerves of steel not to be tempted by you.”

Oh really? I think, fighting a smirk.

Just because no one’s ever claimed me doesn’t mean I’m not worth wanting.

But rejection sinks in deep. I’ve gone to parties.

Dances. I’ve smiled and flirted, tried. But my classmates knew who I was, and all it took was my brothers lurking in the background to make anyone vanish, like they already knew the price they’d be forced to pay. Like I cost too much .

And maybe it’s normal to internalize that.

To start wondering if something’s wrong with you.

No man has ever truly wanted me. Not once.

Mia used to say they looked sometimes. But boys back off when faced with real men. Boys don’t step up. They don’t defend you.

They don’t murder the bastard who drugged your drink.

They don’t protect you.

I’m not in the presence of a boy.

And I’m not a little girl anymore. I may be young, but I’ve lived through some shit. I’m not interested in childish games or small talk or endless flirting that goes nowhere.

I want something real.

With him .

Forbidden or not.

Because they’re all forbidden except for the pathetic hangers-on my brothers approve of, the ones who are happy to lick their damn boots for access to the Kopolov throne.

So I turn toward his bed and let him look, really look. Let him take me in like I’m something rare and forbidden. His arousal strains against the fabric of his pants, and the sight does something to me. It makes me feel… radiant. Dangerous. Desired.

He’s undressing me with his eyes, and I can feel every slow, deliberate stroke of it across my skin .

I swallow hard, my heart hammering like a drumbeat in my chest.

I lie back on his bed, the pillows cool beneath me.

“Kiss me, Seamus,” I whisper. I say his name softly, hoping the sound of it will break him. That maybe hearing it will be enough to make him touch me.

His responding growl is raw, desperate.

“Stop it, Zoya,” he says, barely controlled. He’s losing his grip. I can see it.

I shake my head slowly.

“I want you to touch me. Please.”

He growls again, a warning this time.

“ No .”

Fine. I know exactly what I’m doing now.

If he won’t touch me… then I’ll do it myself.

I spread my legs and slide a hand under my panties, between my thighs, slow and shameless, my breath coming faster as my fingers move through my slick folds. He watches, frozen, his chest heaving.

I let out a moan.

Then he curses and moves, prowling over. I circle my clit faster.

He stops me, catching my wrist in his hand. Then he slides onto the bed beside me, curling his strong body around mine. His fingers find me—his touch rough and reverent all at once.

I gasp, my hips jolting. Oh my god.

“ Seamus .” I moan, immediately drowning in pleasure.

He strokes, slow and skilled, until I’m shaking… until I’m moaning his name into the dark.

His mouth meets mine. Our tongues touch. And when I come apart in his hands, it’s not just release.

It’s surrender.