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)
I park the car and catch her trying to open the door.
“Ah-ah,” I warn gently. She freezes. Smart girl, obedient without being meek.
I get out, walk around, and open her door myself. Then I hold out my hand, and she places hers in mine. It’s small, delicate, chilled from the night air.
I bend down a little. “Why didn’t you tell me you were cold, lass?” I ask, taking both her hands in mine, rubbing warmth into her skin.
Once I feel the cold leaving her, I kiss her fingers before letting go. She stares up at me, wide-eyed.
“It’s chilly here,” she whispers, giving a little shiver.
“Aye, it is,” I say. “Ballyhock nights are damp and seep into your bones, even this time of year. I’ll get a fire going.”
“You have a fireplace?” she asks, smiling just a bit, her eyes still wide with wonder.
I shrug. “One of those electric jobs, not the real thing, but no mess either. We’ve a fire pit out back, but…” I trail off, looking at her. “I want you inside till I say otherwise.”
She nods, swallowing hard. Doesn’t push back. I don’t press her either. Not tonight.
“Come on,” I tell her gently. “This is my home, for now. We’ll be here a little while.”
She doesn’t ask how long.
I may not have married the woman my father chose, but I married right.
Zoya is gentle as a doe, but there’s steel in her spine. She knows the ways of men like me.
She moves quietly through the house, careful, taking everything in with those wide eyes.
Stone floors catch her attention. She asks about them. I nod, get the fire going, and put the kettle on.
I’d open the windows so she could hear the sea, but I don’t want her getting cold again.
I like her here with me. I imagined her here with me.
This is the one place in the world where I don’t wear a mask.
My cousin Colm shows up just before dark. He’s loyal, brutal, and knows his place.
I step outside and speak to him quickly. He doesn’t ask questions. He knows better.
I cut him off when he pries, and out of the corner of my eye, I catch Zoya watching us through the window. Her eyes are wide, curious and wary, and I can’t help but wonder what she sees when she looks at me. The cutthroat commander? The man who gives orders like gospel?
But when I step inside, I soften. I give her the gentlest voice I’ve got. Like a skittish fawn, she’ll bolt if I raise it. I reach for her arm and brush my fingers over it, light as air.
“You hungry, love?”
She blinks once, then nods.
“All right, darling. Let’s get you snuggled up here. I’ll cook something.”
“You cook?” she asks, a tiny tilt to her lips. It's the first hint of anything playful since we got in the car. Back then, I could see it clear as day—she was bracing herself against me, building walls. I wasn’t sure if she’d ever forgive me for taking her from her family.
And I know what I did. Christ, I know. I shattered whatever future her brothers imagined. Burned their bridges to ash. There’ll be retaliation, eventually. But I’ve got to move first.
Right now, though, in the quiet shelter of my home, it feels like maybe, just maybe, we’re starting to patch things up. Starting to find our way back to something that once felt like hope.
Does she remember how she felt about me before I left? Because I remember every feckin' second I spent thinkin’ of her in that fuckin’ cell.
I shrug. “I try to cook. Know a little bit.” I scratch my head. “A bit shite at it, but you’ve had a long day. It’s all right. Sit down and I’ll fetch us some grub.”
“Seamus,” she says gently. “I’ve cooked for my entire family for years. I like doing it. I’m good at it. Just show me the kitchen.”
I shake my head, sharp, but not unkind.
“What did I say on the plane, Zoya?” I remind her, calm but firm.
She sighs and drops back onto the couch. Lips pursed, but she doesn’t fight me on it. I grunt under my breath and march into the kitchen.
And promptly make a goddamn mess. Haven’t done any shopping in a bit, so the choices are scant.
Burnt eggs. Dry toast. I even manage to butcher half the berries, tryin’ to slice them for the side. “Goddamn it,” I mutter. Should’ve just ordered food like a sane man.
She laughs. Finally. And Christ, it hits me square in the chest like a hammer. That sound. I love her laugh. And more than that, it means something. She’s relaxing. Letting her guard down.
Why does that matter so much to me?
“Seamus,” she says, getting up. The fire’s going, and she’s shrugged off the coat, still in her wedding dress. “Please, let me do this.”