Page 120 of Unrequited
“Go on. Try the shortbread. Store-bought, but let’s pretend I’ve been slaving away in this boiling heat. I love this kitchen, but the whole damn thing feels like an oven sometimes.”
The kitchen is stunning but hot, with warm-toned wood, black marble counters, and hanging copper pots.
I take a piece of shortbread. It’s good, not as good as the honey-drenched ones Rodion and I used to make back home or Anya’s flaky masterpieces.
“Do you cook?” she asks, her head tilted. The diamond on her ring catches the light. I look down at my hand with only a slim gold band. I’m not used to the feel of it yet.
“I do,” I say, softer. “And baking too. My brother’s favorite is honey cake. It sort of became my thing at home.”
“Did it?” Her eyes light up, full of practiced interest. “Goodness, I’d love some honey cake. Can’t say I’ve had it, but I’d love to try. We’ll have to get you in the kitchen.” She leans back a little, and her voice drops. “We had a cook. But she left. Her husband got another offer too farfrom here. It was time for them to go.” A pause. “She was with us for thirty years.”
Thirty years, longer than I’ve been alive. My chest tightens.
“She must’ve known Seamus almost his whole life. When will I see him?” I ask, trying to keep the tremble from my voice.
Caitlin’s eyes flicker. She stirs her nearly empty cup, like buying herself time. “Soon, sweetheart. We’ve been through quite a lot.”
“I understand,” I say with a nod, even though it punches the breath from my lungs. “But how long can one conversation be?”
She exhales slowly. “Oh, you’d be surprised. But there’s been an uproar since you married my son.”
She meets my eyes. And in that moment, I see her, really see her. The power behind the softness. The storm she's holding back.
“Let things settle, Zoya,” she says gently. “We’ll get to know you.” She leans forward. “I promise you’re safe here with me, but stay close to my son, alright, love?”
But I can’t help but wonder: Am I safe with anyone else?
Chapter 21
SEAMUS
I stand in the courtyard.The afternoon sun slants down between ancient stones, golden light slicing through the silence. He didn’t bring me to his office. He brought me outside, like I’m some sort of offering.
And my fists clench because this feels too much like another time. Another version of me, years ago, standing in front of my father after doing something stupid.
So fucking stupid.
I stole his race car. Took it for a joyride like a cocky little bastard. I might’ve gotten away with it if I hadn’t forgotten to wash the mud from the tires.
And then, worse: When I was furious with a rival gang, riding the high of recklessness, I stole one of their cars too. One mistake stacked on top of another.
But this? What I’ve done now? This wasn’t some teenage impulse.
No.
This was cold. Deliberate. This was war.
I took Zoya Kopolova and murdered her betrothed.
I dragged chaos through our front gate and planted it in the garden.
My father’s voice slices the quiet.
“You disobeyed the fucking code, Seamus. What thefuckwere you thinking?”
He’s shaking from fury and grief and the weight of betrayal.
“You took her. You touched her. You chose her.”
