Page 128 of Unrequited
“Sorry for what?” I ask him, already knowing it’s not just one thing. It’s never just one thing.
“I’m sorry this had to be your entrance into my family,” he says. “I wish they’d done better. I wish it had been easier.”
I exhale softly. “I knew what I was walking into, Seamus. You think if we sat down to dinner with my family, they’d be any friendlier?”
I can’t help but smile as I shake my head. “If anything, I think your family’s probably nicer than mine would’ve been.”
He gives a soft, rough chuckle, the sound vibrating in his chest.
“You forgive too easily, Zoya,” he murmurs huskily.
“Do I?” I ask, tilting my head.
But he’s not wrong. I forgave him for leaving me, for good reason, maybe, but still. And I’ve forgiven many things in my life. Things most people would never even consider forgiving. I’ve made peace with monsters.
“Come,” he says, his tone shifting, want threaded beneath the word. His mouth to my ear, “I want you alone.”
My heartbeat stutters in my chest.
The corridor is dim, lit only by the moonlight slanting through narrow windows. The house is beautiful in a way that feels both old and curated, an Irish estate that’s witnessed many come and go. He leads me to the second floor, then turns left, guiding me down a long, hushed hallway. Our footsteps are swallowed by thick gray carpet, soft beneath my feet.
“We’ve had many families in here,” he says. “There was a time when we were bursting at the seams. My father had to add a whole extra floor. A lot of remodeling.”
I can almost see it in my mind, children racing down these halls, thick accents and big tempers, rough affection and fierceloyalty.
“This one,” he says, stopping in front of a black door. “This room’s mine. Has been since I was a small lad.”
He opens the door, no lock, unlike the heavy, bolted ones back at my house, and closes it softly behind me. I inhale slowly.
My heart slows as I take in the space. It’s stark. Masculine. Impeccably clean. Like his house, everything about the room is so intensely him, though a simple vase with red roses on a shelf tells me Caitlin was here.
Once the door clicks shut, he turns to me and reaches for my chin. The kiss he gives me isn’t rushed. It’s not wild or needy, but gentle, intentional. A quiet claim.
I melt into it.
The heat between us builds, not fire, but something slower. Smoldering. An intimacy that feels like comfort and danger all at once. His touch is reverent, like he’s reminding me this is us now. This space. This night.
“Tonight, we rest,” he whispers. Then, after a beat, ”Or… perhaps tonight we try for that baby.”
I blink. “Try for a baby…”
“Aye,” he says. “Your idea, wasn’t it?”
“Mmm.” I nod. I still think it’s a solid strategy that neither his father nor my brother could argue with.
He kisses me again, but this time it's softer.
“Seamus.”
He pulls away a touch. “Aye?”
“I… don’t want our lovemaking to become a duty.”
He shakes his head, brushing his thumb over my cheek. “Neither do I, love.”
“I’m not on birth control,” I tell him gently. “And by my calculations… I’m definitely ovulating.”
His brow quirks up, amused. Interested. Dangerous.
