Page 74 of Unrequited

She draws a breath. “We found out years later that my mother was having an affair,” she says, her eyes distant. “And the man she was seeing… he came to kill my father. She wouldn’t leave my father for him, so he killed them both. He was disturbed. Madly in love or whatever.”

She stumbles over the words, like they’re stones underfoot. Her gaze goes somewhere far away.

“I don’t remember much,” she admits. “I remember someone shoving me into a closet, probably Rafail. And Semyon barking at us to stay put. He was young, too, but he had that voice. That tone. Like there’d be hell to pay if we didn’t listen, so we did.”

“Rafail was eighteen, Semyon about sixteen. I was only six.” She pauses. “To me, they were giants. Legends. I did whatever they said.”

She gives a soft laugh, the kind that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Rodion. He’s the youngest, yeah? He tried to help my brothers, but they weren’t having it. Semyon yelled at him to stay put, threatened to hurt him if he didn’t.” She takes a deep breath.

“They didn’t know better and did what they knew. Violence was language in our house. Old-fashioned, maybe. Brutal, definitely.”

She swallows hard.

“We all sat there in the dark, and we heard everything. The screams. The gunshots.” Her voice falters. “All I could think about was my mother. I just wanted to see her face. Wanted to know she was still there.”

Her hands tremble slightly. “I wish I had more memories of her.”

She speaks so quietly, I barely catch it.

Zoya nods, thoughtful. “My brothers are… protective. Rodion lets me think I’m free. Rafail doesn’t.”

And there we are, our families at war, a moment of stolen peace.

She leans against me, barely a shift in weight.

“This won’t last,” she whispers.

“I know.”

But mother of god, I wish it would.

For a moment, the war is distant. For a moment, we’re not enemies. We’re just two lost souls putting together the pieces.

I notice her eyes flick to the bedroom and back again. A quick little move, as if she doesn’t even know she’s doing it.

She’s afraid of me. Of what I’ll do to her when we’re alone.

And I can’t blame her.

I took her from her home, her family. And my reputation? She’s heard every fucking word, I’m sure.

She probably thinks I’ll hurt her.

But I won’t.

Never.

I’ll treat her like she’s breakable, like glass.

And I won’t fuck her tonight. No, not yet. She’s been through too much. God knows, I want her. I ache for her.

But not tonight.

Tonight, I’ll ease her into this mess I’ve made, before my family turns on me, before my father finds out what I’ve done.

“Tell me more about your family,” she says, hopeful, her eyes searching mine.

And so I do.