Page 96 of Unrequited

I clutch the gun tighter. He told me to stay. To wait. And I want to. God, I want to. But what if… what if he's hurt? What if that…no.I can’t go there. But what if someone has him, and I’m just sitting here with a weapon in hand, doing nothing?

I run to the window. Sunlight slices through the bars. There’s nothing but trees, nothing I can see.

I’m not sure I could get out, even if I wanted to.

And I start to think about disobeying him. I don’t really fear punishment, but god, I don’t want him upset with me.

But I don’t know what he’d do if I did disobey him. And honestly? I don’t want to know. I like pleasing him. I need to please him. That furrow between his brows when he’s worried, it fucking wrecks me. I’d do anything to smooth it away.

I want him. Ineedhim.

But if someone’s got him…

And then, I hear it. Voices again.

One of them is his.

My breath whooshes out, and relief slams through me so hard I nearly drop the gun. I press my forehead against the cool wall and let myself feel it.

He’s okay. He’s alive.

I throw on one of his shirts and a pair of panties, just in time. Footsteps echo outside the door.

He opens the door.

Then he sees me by the window, dressed, with a gun gripped in both hands.

He holds up a palm..

“Easy, lass. Lower the gun. There’s no threat. Not now. Put it down, Zoya.”

I nod and gently lay the gun on his armoire.

“All right, now, lass.” I walk over to him, tentative, trying to peer over his shoulder, but he’s too damn big.

“I was scared for you,” I whisper, tears pricking at my eyes.

He takes up the entire doorway, a broad wall of protection, so I can’t see anybody behind him.

“It’s all right,” he says, though his voice doesn’t match the words. There’s something in his eyes, clouded and troubled, like a storm barely held back. “It’s all right. For now,” he amends. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. It’s my mate.”

He walks toward me, his muscles tense, voice edged in warning as he growls over his shoulder, “Stay back. My wife’s not dressed. You’ll not see her like this.” Then louder, harsher, “Stay the fuck back, or I’ll blow your fucking bollocks to bits.”

“Easy, McCarthy. Jesus,” comes another voice. It’s rough, a little higher pitched than Seamus’s.

“Let’s get you dressed,” Seamus says, like it’s a casual thing, but I can hear it in his tone—if he could wrap me up from head to toe, hide every inch of me, he would.

Funny thing is, he’s hardly dressed himself. I shoot him a glance. “You’re walking around in boxers,” I tell him.

“Zoya,” he says, his words thick with warning, like he’s dragging my name across coals.

And even now… even with all that tension humming through the air, it makes my heartbeat race. I like it when he gets like that with me, stern, possessive. Makes me feel small. Protected. Desired.

I grab a pair of leggings and slide into them. I glance at him. He’s watching me, eyes narrowing like he’s trying to figure out if I’m wearing a bra.

My breasts are too small for that to matter. “Nobody’s going to see me,” I mutter, grabbing my sweatshirt.

“Take my sweatshirt,” he says firmly, as he pulls on a pair of jeans.