Page 118 of Unrequited
“We’re all still reeling, Zoya,” she says gently, offering me her hand. “My name’s Bronwyn.”
I take her hand, and she squeezes lightly. “This wasn’t what we expected. My dad… oof.” She grimaces. “He’s been fuming for days. It’s only ’cause of Mom he didn’t storm Seamus’s house.”
“Mmm,” Caitlin says with a sigh. “My husband has a way about him.” Her eyes meet mine, soft and regretful.
“But you’ll see. He’s just very… What’s the American term? Ride or die?” She smiles. “Loyal, you know. Protective. I imagine you and Seamus had time to… catch up?”
She looks away as if the reality of what her son has done just landed. That he took me. Brought me here. Kept me.
Like a beast and his beauty, locked away for three days and counting.
I clear my throat. “Obviously, we’ve had some time to… catch up.”
I glance around the kitchen, needing something to ground me. It’s old, but looks recently updated, chrome fixtures gleaming, beautiful tilework glowing in the light. It’s homey. Smells like coffee and cookies.
I kind of want both right now.
But my eyes keep drifting to the door. I’m waiting for him.
Wondering how things are going with him and his father. Wondering if that fire in his eyes met steel. He’s told me his father is a good man, loyal and ruthless, like Rafail. That he loves fiercely, protects without question.
But will he hurt him? Shame him?
Oh god.
Then the door opens, and I lift my eyes, my breath hitching, hoping to see my husband.
But it’s not him.
A man steps in. Tall and broad, with scars that twist across his knuckles. Tattoos snake up his neck. His head is shaved clean, and a jagged but thin silver scar splits his cheekbone in two. Ink crawls down both arms like vines, and his eyes are gunmetal gray.
He stops dead when he sees me.
Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t snarl. Just stills.
Two long seconds stretch.
“And who’s this?”
“Ash,” Caitlin says tightly. “Meet Zoya. Seamus’s wife. Zoya, this is Seamus’s cousin, Ashland.”
Something shifts in his jaw before his face goes blank.
“So the traitor’s brought home his feckin’ pet,” he says.
Kyla smirks, like she’s enjoying this.
Bronwyn gasps. “You can’t say that. Honestly, Ash!”
But I’m already moving.
I rise slowly, every inch of my spine straightening, one vertebrae at a time.
I set my tea down gently, both hands flat on the table.
“You can watch your mouth,” I say, my voice as calm as winter ice. “I’ve already had a lovely welcome from the sisters, you see.” I smile at him, dead-eyed.
He smirks back, small, cruel, unkind. He’s watching me, measuring me. I don’t trust him. Not one bit.
