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)
Only this time? When I get to the bar?
He’s not waiting for me.
I was afraid that after he sent me home, this would happen. I feared it, day after day, when the texts I sent him were unanswered.
A strange, heavy silence settles in my gut.
But I wait.
And wait.
And wait.
I wait until the bar starts to empty out. Until the glances from the staff stretch a little too long. Until even the music sounds like it's playing for someone else. And still, I sit there like a fucking idiot, holding onto hope.
My brothers are already suspicious. They know I lied. They just don’t know how deeply. And honestly? I can’t blame them.
So what now?
I wait until I’m practically the only one left… until the lights dim and last call echoes hollow through the room. And only then do I finally face it.
He’s not coming.
I pull out my phone and I text him. Again. And again. And again.
Where are you?
Where’s my Mr. Thursday?
I’m sorry, okay?
I’m sorry.
Forgive me, Seamus.
Where did you go?
Aren’t you coming?
But my messages go unanswered. Each one is like screaming into a black hole. No reply. No explanation. Nothing.
The following Thursday, I go back, even though I already know. Already feel it. And I sit there again, trying not to let the hope rot me from the inside out.
He doesn’t come.
Nor the Thursday after that.
Nor the Thursday after that.
After five straight weeks of going, I finally, fully admit it to myself.
Seamus lied to me.
He betrayed me.
He used me.
He came here to Moscow and tried to destroy everything—my everything. My family. My people. My blood.
And when he couldn’t? When he failed?
He walked away.
There’s nothing left between Seamus and me.
It was all a sham. A performance. A ruse wrapped in charm and whispers and moments that felt too fucking real to be fake.
He used me.
And I will never—never—be the same again.
Chapter 9
ZOYA
Rafail stands in the shadowed doorway of the kitchen, silent for a moment before speaking. “I need to talk with you. Let’s take a walk.”
That’s all he says. Just like that.
It’s been a long time since my oldest brother asked me to take a walk. That used to be his thing—his way of handling things when words got too heavy for the kitchen table or when he didn’t want the younger ones listening in. I don’t blame him. He was only eighteen when he had to step into the impossible role of father figure. Thrust into it like a soldier thrown into battle without a choice, too damn young to be raising four wild kids who didn’t know any better.
But he did it. He tried, and he did what he could.
When something came up—if we got into trouble at school, or if one of us hit a milestone we weren't ready to talk about—he’d say it then, the four words we all dreaded.
Let’s take a walk.
And we would. Through the backyard, down the trail by the river, even in the dead of winter. Rafail was tough as nails, never wavered, never flinched. He was a stern disciplinarian, the kind who could make you shiver with just a look. No one got away with anything. But now that we're older, none of us blame him for that. Not anymore.
He held our family together when it could’ve shattered. And honestly? It's because of him that we're still standing, that we know how to have each other's backs, that we understand the value of loyalty and blood. It's Rafail who taught us how to protect what's ours, to defend what's precious.
But taking a walk always meant one thing: trouble. He'd caught on.
I’m surprised it took this long, really.
God. He knows about Seamus. He knows I’ve been sneaking away. My half-hearted excuses and careful lies have finally caught up with me. Bitten me hard. So I swallow and wipe my hands on the front of my apron, suddenly hyperaware of everything.
I shove that thought away, scrap it. No time for sentiment.
“Sure,” I tell him, setting the stew to a low simmer and sneaking a glance at the rising bread on the counter. It still needs another thirty minutes before it’s ready to bake. That gives me time. Not much, but maybe enough. Maybe.
He doesn't meet my eyes. A shadow drifts across his features, unreadable.
Well, this is new.
My heart drums against my ribcage. “What’s wrong?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Thirty minutes should be plenty,” he says simply, then turns and walks out the door.
I check my phone, nerves twitching beneath my skin. No messages. Nothing from Aria, Mia, or anyone else who might have known what’s happened.
I don’t know how much I trust Aria, anyway. Did she rat me out? What would I do if she did?
But somehow, miraculously, Rafail doesn’t ask. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t press. Not yet.
Instead, he heads down the gravel path that winds through the rose bushes, his steps slow and deliberate. It’s late spring just outside of Moscow.