Page 73 of Unrequited

“Because you’re making it very difficult to stay angry with you,” she whispers.

And then she blinks, and a single tear slides down her cheek.

“Zoya, why’re you crying, love?” I ask gently.

“Because I hate that you’ve made me choose between you and everyone I love.”

She swallows hard, then looks away. I nod, but don’t speak. Just clear the dishes.

“Here, I’ll?—”

“No,” I say firmly. “We’ve got a rule. Actually, we’ll have many rules. But this one starts now—one cooks, the other cleans.” Iglance back at her. “I watched my mam work her fingers raw. My da was old-school, you know? Not a tyrant, nothing like the bastard I’m named after, but he didn’t lift a finger in the kitchen. Didn’t want to. Ma didn’t want him to either.”

I shake my head. “That’s not how it’s gonna be with us, Zoya. I might be the one in charge, but I can wash a feckin’ dish. Period.”

She lets out a soft laugh. “All right.”

“Why don’t you change out of that dress and take a shower? You’ll feel better, won’t you?”

She nods. “I think so.”

I show her to the bathroom, and she looks around with wide eyes.

“This house is beautiful, Seamus. Nothing like I expected from you.”

I don’t ask what she did expect. Just nod and shrug. Her words make me feel… bashful.Christ. No one ever makes me feel bashful.

Around Zoya, I almost forget who I am. I almost forget who she is too. And that’s dangerous.

While she showers, I leave some clothes on the little table outside the door. Mine, of course. Way too big on her, but fuck, I can’t wait to see her in them. I looked forward to this more than I did seeing her in that wedding dress.

When she comes out, her hair’s still wet, skin flushed from the heat. She walks to the fireplace and sinks down without saying a word. I joinher.

We sit in silence for a long while.

“So,” she says eventually, “you bought this house with… I don’t know. What do you call it? Blood money?”

I don’t flinch. Just shrug.

“Aye. First job that ever mattered.”

She stares at the fire. “I believe you.” Her voice isn’t accusing, it’s accepting, soft like an exhale.

It’s nothing less than what her brothers have done, really. I’ve heard stories. “Your brother became the guardian of all of you when he was still just a lad, eh?” I say gently. “I don’t envy him that.”

“Right,” she murmurs. “It was rough, you know. I was only a child.”

She trails off, her eyes dim. “I only remember bits and pieces.”

“Do you remember the night your parents died?” I ask, quiet as a breath.

“Yes,” she replies, even quieter. A whisper. “One of those memories I sometimes wish I could forget.”

“Do you want to tell me about it?” I ask her, and to my surprise, I want to hear it. Every brutal, blood-soaked detail. Not for the gore, god no, but because I want to know her. All of her. Even the parts that hurt to hold.

“Why?” she asks, almost to herself.

“What happened?” I press, gently now. “I want to know.”