Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 93463 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93463 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 312(@300wpm)
To submit to me.
“I’d take you back to my flat,” I murmur. “Ease you onto my couch, slow and possessive. I’d hike up that little skirt, inch by inch, feel the tremble in your thighs. And then, love, I’d spank your perfect arse until you’re gasping. Until you’re shaking. Until you’re sobbing my name and begging me to do it all over again.”
I pause, letting the words sink in.
“And every time you went to sit that week, every single time you thought about defying me, putting yourself in danger again—you’d remember… This isn’t what Seamus wants. I do what Seamus says. Seamus takes care of me.”
“Then why are you doing this?” she whispers, her voice cracking. “We meet here in a bar, week after week. You don’t own me. You took me to your place once because there were no other options, then watched me leave.”
I blow out a breath, exhaling the truth.
“Because I want you,” I tell her.
“But you’re my Mr. Thursday,” she whispers, tears welling in her eyes. “Mr. Thursday only sees me on Thursdays. Why do you pretend like you want me? Why do you pretend like you want more?”
“It’s not pretend,” I snap. My voice turns hard. “Listen, lass. Now isn’t the time. We can’t. Not with who you are. Not with who I am.”
Her eyes go wide, and she stares at me.
Does she know?
Does she fucking know?
I sigh, reach across the table, and take her hand.
“Come here,” I whisper. “Please.”
She stands and walks to me.
I slide her onto my lap and tuck her against my chest, breathing her in. I feel the way her racing heartbeat slows.
“Nobody ever sees us. Nobody ever notices. I have men at every door. Watching. Tracking. I’ve come here every goddamn week. Rearranged my life. Lied to my father. Made up stories just to be back in Russia. I don’t belong here, Zoya. I shouldn’t be here.”
And yet—I am.
All for one little taste of Zoya Kopolova.
“I have to go,” she says suddenly. “I wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight. I’ve got a dinner thing I’m supposed to go to.”
My heart sinks.
I nod. I knew she had somewhere to be, but I needed to see her.
“Go,” I whisper. “Next week. I’ll be waiting.”
I watch her leave, disappearing like a ghost.
Like she was never here.
Chapter 6
ZOYA
I think about Seamus for the next week. I can’t get him out of my mind, no matter how hard I try.
My brother Semyon throws a surprise party for his new wife Anya at her bakery. The place smells like sugar and warm butter, with trays of pirozhki, medovik, and sweet poppyseed rolls covering the counters. We laugh, we eat, we drink too much tea and vodka. It’s this cozy, sort of chaos that I usually love.
All our friends come. The whole extended family shows up—wives, brothers, even the littlest nieces and nephews, sticky-fingered and wild. We’re a big family now, with my brothers’ wives and their children, and somehow there’s still space for more.
“Zoya,” Anya says from behind the bakery counter. She beams at all of us, happy to have us here. Anya’s had a rough go of it and appreciates the found family she has with us now. “I made your favorite.”
I have a lot of favorites of hers. I smile at her as I walk behind the counter. Anya’s little brother, Stefan, comes at me with a running tackle, nearly knocking me down.
“Careful, Stefan,” my older brother Semyon chides. “You’ll knock her over.”
“Oh, I’m alright,” I tell him, even as Stefan rights himself and pats my shoulder to make sure I’m okay. “Look how much taller you are! Your whole head is higher than the counter!”
He grins bashfully as we go to see the treats Anya’s made us.
I enjoy everyone’s company. There’s laughter, storytelling, shouting over music, and clinking glasses as the bakery’s closed for the night, and we’re reveling in each other’s company.
But I’m not here, not really, because I can’t stop thinking about him.
I have to stop thinking about him.
“You seem distracted, Zoya.”
I look up to see Ember watching me, her gaze flashing with mischief, her coppery red hair twisted into a messy bun. “Someone’s got your attention at school,” she says, sly and teasing. Her eyes glint like she already knows that I’m obsessed with a certain man with a thick Irish brogue, heavy brows, and those shocking blue eyes that seem to look right through me.
As if I could have a crush on a boy from school. Please. I smile, barely, and shrug one shoulder, not really sure how to respond.
I definitely don’t, no. I’m not crushing on a boy. I’m in love with a man. A man I barely know.
But I know enough, don’t I? I know he’s fiercely protective. I know he’s the kind of man who listens, who doesn’t flinch when things get ugly. He’s gentle with me. Kind, even. Even when he’s ice-cold with everyone else.