Page 138 of Unrequited

Glad you’re doing okay.

Nothing else.

He doesn’t believe me. He thinks I’m pretending. But why? What happened to make him think I’m lying?

What are my brothers thinking? What are they planning? Don’t they know that half the men in this house blame them for the bloodshed, for the men they lost? I was the onewho saw it all. I was there. I watched Seamus take them down.

What if I’m the reason Seamus loses everything?

What if they turn on him because of me?

What if he dies, and it’smyfault?

My eyes flutter closed, and I force a deep breath. Sometimes this estate feels like a fortress. Other times, it’s a prison.

Over the next few days, Kyla brings me clothes. She doesn’t bother with pleasantries. She’s polite in the way a soldier is: brisk, impersonal, calculated.

Bronwyn, though, she’s different. She makes it easy to talk. I end up showing her and Caitlin how to make some of our family’s favorite dishes, and in just a few days, they’re making them almost as well as I can.

That night, I prepare dinner, something special. One of my family’s signature Russian dishes: steaming pelmeni with sour cream and butter, fresh dill chopped fine, and black bread on the side. Comfort food from home. For dessert, I try something Irish I found online, a whiskey-laced bread pudding soaked in cream. A bridge between worlds, I think.

At the table, Keenan eyes the plate in front of him with curiosity. His mouth quirks up.

“Is this some sort of ploy?” he asks, amusement dancing in his voice.

“What do you mean?” I say.

“Pairing the Russian food with the Irish?” He arches a brow. “Are you trying to get me to literally swallow peace, Zoya?”

Heat flushes up my cheeks. I look away.

“Da,” Seamus mutters, frowning. “She’s an expert at cooking Russian food, and she’s learning to cook Irish. What’s your point?”

Dinner is a little stilted after that. A little too quiet, too careful.

Later, alone in the sitting room, with the fire low, the light casting soft shadows on the walls, I finally say it.

“I want to go back to our house.” My voice is soft. Not demanding, just aching. “Why do we have to stay here?”

“It’s safest for now,” he says. “Unfortunately.”

“Will they talk about me behind closed doors?” I ask. “They don’t want me here, Seamus.”

He sighs and runs a hand over his face. “I’m trying to protect you, Zoya.”

“You’re hiding things.”

“I’m keeping you safe,” he snaps.

“From what?” I press. “The truth?”

He doesn’t deny it.

I stand. The ache in my chest spreads like a bruise under my ribs.

“Are you sure you don’t regret this?” I whisper. “Regretme?”

He doesn’t answer right away. That pause, it shatters something.