Page 83 of Unrequited

“Because he kept his vow. Loved her like she was a queen. And in the end, they ruled together. She was light to his dark. Kind and just, where he was brutal. And the king and queen lived happily ever after.”

I fall asleep to those words. A fairy tale of blood and crowns. Thrones. Betrayal. Power.

I wakethe next morning strangely refreshed, even though I dreamed all night, vivid, violent dreams of kingdoms and broken loyalties, of bloodied hands and golden crowns.

I roll over.

Seamus isn’t in bed.

I glance around the room, instinct prickling… and then I see him.

Outside.

Oh. My. God.

I saw him last night, of course. But I was too shy, too drained to really see him. Now though?

Holy hell.

He’s drenched in sweat, shirtless, gleaming under the early sun, wearing nothing but a pair of black sports shorts and trainers. His body is carved, every muscle pulled taut, everyinch of him straining with energy. He moves like a predator who’s just been uncaged.

I watch him run. Then I see him stop, grab a pull-up bar I hadn’t even noticed yesterday, and lift himself, body flexing, muscles bulging. Again. And again. Arms trembling, veins taut, chest heaving. It’s mesmerizing.

This is my husband. This living, breathing, sweating god of a man ismine.

My breasts feel full. My thighs ache. I can feel that pulse low in my belly, needy and warm and desperate. I swallow again and just watch him, helpless against it.

He lets go of the bar and drops to the ground, crunches, elbow to knee, elbow to knee. Controlled. Brutal. Perfect. He’s back up, doing tricep dips against a thick bench, over and over, pushing behind him like it’s nothing. Then he’s off, sprinting around the property in hard, fast laps.

Some men hit the gym.

Seamus? He builds his kingdom with his bare hands under open skies.

The earth is hard-packed beneath him, a mix of sun-scorched gravel and patches of grass. There’s a homemade training setup near the edge of the property, ropes hanging from a tree, kettlebells, and tires flipped on their sides. He doesn’t need machines. Heisthe machine. This man was forged for war, for survival.

I don’t know if he sees me watching from the window, but my god, I see him.

And I can’t look away.

I should pull myself away, make breakfast, explore the kitchen, do something useful. There has to be more food in this house, and I want to feed him. But… I can’t move.

Because this man is a paragon of masculine perfection.

My king.

My monster.

My husband.

I think of the story he told me of the prince, the usurpers, the woman, and her family.

The war. The peace. He made peace.

Can I trust him?

God, I want to. I want to so badly, my heart aches with it. My soul reaches for him like a magnet pulled to its twin.

But I don’t know if I can. Not yet.