Page 136 of Unrequited
We plan the week’s meals together. I show her my family’s favorite Russian dishes, pelmeni, borscht, pirozhki, and stuffed cabbage. She suggests Irish classics, soda bread, colcannon, and corned beef.
“It’ll be a mix of both, then,” I say, jotting down ideas on a pad of paper. It feels almost symbolic.
“There’s a website I use for these recipes.” I reach for my phone to look up a recipe, when I realize I didn’t bring my phone, but Seamus’s by accident.
I must’ve grabbed the wrong one off the bedside table. “Oops,” I murmur with an apologetic smile. “Wrong phone.”
“It’s all right,” Caitlin says, reaching over. “We all have access in case of emergency. I can turn it on to get the recipes.”
She presses her thumb to the screen. It unlocks.
Interesting. His mother can access his phone, but I can’t.
I scroll through for the recipe, trying to ignore the threeunread message notifications blinking at the top. But finally, when Caitlin’s back is turned, curiosity gets the best of me.
A preview of the message catches my eye.
Rafail Kopolov.
My blood turns cold.
Trembling, I swipe down to read the preview.
Rafail
You deceived her. Release Zoya or we’re coming for you.
What?
Oh god.
My stomach knots, and my skin goes cold.
I drop the phone like it burns. “I need to grab mine,” I say, already on my feet.
“Be right back.”
I dart through the house, my heart pounding, panic rising. He’s not in the kitchen. Not on the lawn.
Where is Seamus?
I race to our bedroom, slide his phone back onto the table like it never moved, and grab my own.
Then I search for him.
Desperately.
I shouldn’t have looked at his phone. I know that. Maybe the message meant something different. Maybe I misread it, saw only what I feared. But still, why would Rafail thinkI’m here against my will? What exactly happened to make him question that? Oh god.
I need to talk to him.
I turn, and just like that, I walk straight into Seamus. “Whoa, easy there, love.” He catches me without hesitation, wrapping his arms firmly around my waist, his chest warm and solid.
“Zoya,” he murmurs. “Y’alright?”
“I’m all right,” I say quickly. “I was just cooking in the kitchen with your mom.”
He smiles and strokes slow, deliberate circles down my spine, fingers trailing heat and grounding me in the moment. “Are you? I love that. She’s a good woman. You’re like her,” he adds, softer now.
