Page 126 of Unrequited
He reaches, helping himself. Caitlin nods toward me. “Zoya cooked for us,” she says gently.
“Is that right?” His brows lift with mild curiosity, eyes swinging to me again. “You like to cook?”
“I do,” I answer, the words catching slightly on my tongue. I feel exposed, as if my ability to prepare a meal somehow makes me more likable.
“We’re not much for cooking since our head chef left,” Keenan offers, his tone neutral.
“Yes… Caitlin told me.” My cheeks warm. I’m not sure what to say, or where I belong here, how I fit in this hierarchy, in this family that’s not mine. Do I call her mom? Mrs. McCarthy? She introduced herself as Caitlin…
Seamus’s large, warm hand finds my knee under the table, grounding me again with a soft, steady squeeze.
“Bronwyn,” he says, affectionately.
“How’d your driving go?”
“Very well,” Bronwyn answers proudly.
“Aye. She only knocked over two streetlights,” Caitlin chimes in with a mischievous grin.
Keenan’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline before everyone breaks into quiet laughter.
“Just kidding,” Caitlin adds, winking at Bronwyn. “Just one.”
“I didn’t knock it over,” Bronwyn mutters, her cheeks flushing pink. “It was just… wobbly.” She shrugs, looking away, embarrassed.
Then to Seamus, “Take Bronwyn out again tomorrow, will you?”
Seamus agrees.
I’m mildly surprised Bronwyn doesn’t have her license yet. She must be around nineteen, old enough, surely, but maybe she’s cautious. Or maybe Seamus has been protecting her. Maybe both.
“How’s the city?” Seamus asks Keenan.
“All right,” Keenan replies smoothly, cutting into his chicken with almost clinical precision. “Branson swept the warehouse on the coast.”
The table quiets. “It’s clean,” he continues. “Shipment came in. Easter arms, just like the specs.” He sets his knife down, wipes his mouth.
For a moment, we all eat in companionable silence, the kind that feels worn-in, familiar. And just like that, homesickness claws at my chest.
It was like this at home—Rafail at the head of the table, the rest of us gathered around. Now that we’re scattered and married and rarely home, Rafail has instituted once-a-month Sunday dinners. No excuses. It’s the highlight of my month.
Bronwyn leans in, her eyes sharp and unapologetic. “Now that Seamus is back… any chance Russia could come after him? He escaped custody, right? Would they want him returned?”
A chill trickles down my spine. Oh god. Why hasn’t that ever occurred to me? That the Russian government might still want to reclaim him?
My eyes dart to Seamus, but he doesn’t flinch. Unshaken. His fingers curl around mine again, a soft, steady pat. Reassurance without words.
Keenan answers instead. “The likelihood of extradition is low. Political climates have shifted. Our alliances are mostly intact, for now.” He cuts Seamus a look. “Keep a low profile. No headlines, no fireworks. Nothing flashy until the dust settles. Yeah?”
“Yes, sir,” Seamus says, his jaw locked.
I can’t help but think:No headlines, no fireworks,that might just be his preferred method of ruling. Quiet, effective, ruthless.
Keenan turns his attention back to his plate, the conversation shifting again. And I start to see it, how Seamus learned to rule not by raising his voice, but by speaking only when he had to.
His eyes find mine as if to say: I’m not afraid. You don’t have to be either.
AmI afraid? Maybe. Maybe I’m just lost, like a fish out of water. But fear doesn’t feel quite right. Not exactly.
