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)
She nudges me aside, and I let her. I let her. I don’t let anyone push me around. Haven’t since I was a lad, and only then ’cause mam had the final say.
I watch her, amused, as she puts on the kettle. Her movements are confident. Easy. Like she belongs.
The eggs come out perfect. The toast is golden and buttered. She works some kind of kitchen magic with the odds and ends in the fridge, turns the meal into a work of art.
“Here,” she says softly. “Let’s eat.”
She settles into one of the little chairs I pull out for her, and I sit across from her. The food’s brilliant, but I barely touch it because I’m too busy watching her. I feel as if I blink too hard or fall asleep, I’ll wake to find she’s vanished, that I only imagined her here with me.
“Something the matter?” she asks.
Is something the matter? Christ. The whole feckin’ world’s the matter. But none of that means anything right now. Now that she’s here with me.
I reach for her hand and brush my thumb over her knuckles.
“No, I just…” I look away, my throat tight. “I’ve made some terrible decisions. But this, you, this isn’t one of them.” My voice cracks.
“Be careful, Seamus,” she says, and her voice breaks too.
I tilt my head. “Why, lass?”
“Because you’re making it very difficult to stay angry with you,” she whispers.
And then she blinks, and a single tear slides down her cheek.
“Zoya, why’re you crying, love?” I ask gently.
“Because I hate that you’ve made me choose between you and everyone I love.”
She swallows hard, then looks away. I nod, but don’t speak. Just clear the dishes.
“Here, I’ll—”
“No,” I say firmly. “We’ve got a rule. Actually, we’ll have many rules. But this one starts now—one cooks, the other cleans.” I glance back at her. “I watched my mam work her fingers raw. My da was old-school, you know? Not a tyrant, nothing like the bastard I’m named after, but he didn’t lift a finger in the kitchen. Didn’t want to. Ma didn’t want him to either.”
I shake my head. “That’s not how it’s gonna be with us, Zoya. I might be the one in charge, but I can wash a feckin’ dish. Period.”
She lets out a soft laugh. “All right.”
“Why don’t you change out of that dress and take a shower? You’ll feel better, won’t you?”
She nods. “I think so.”
I show her to the bathroom, and she looks around with wide eyes.
“This house is beautiful, Seamus. Nothing like I expected from you.”
I don’t ask what she did expect. Just nod and shrug. Her words make me feel… bashful. Christ. No one ever makes me feel bashful.
Around Zoya, I almost forget who I am. I almost forget who she is too. And that’s dangerous.
While she showers, I leave some clothes on the little table outside the door. Mine, of course. Way too big on her, but fuck, I can’t wait to see her in them. I looked forward to this more than I did seeing her in that wedding dress.
When she comes out, her hair’s still wet, skin flushed from the heat. She walks to the fireplace and sinks down without saying a word. I join her.
We sit in silence for a long while.
“So,” she says eventually, “you bought this house with… I don’t know. What do you call it? Blood money?”
I don’t flinch. Just shrug.
“Aye. First job that ever mattered.”
She stares at the fire. “I believe you.” Her voice isn’t accusing, it’s accepting, soft like an exhale.
It’s nothing less than what her brothers have done, really. I’ve heard stories. “Your brother became the guardian of all of you when he was still just a lad, eh?” I say gently. “I don’t envy him that.”
“Right,” she murmurs. “It was rough, you know. I was only a child.”
She trails off, her eyes dim. “I only remember bits and pieces.”
“Do you remember the night your parents died?” I ask, quiet as a breath.
“Yes,” she replies, even quieter. A whisper. “One of those memories I sometimes wish I could forget.”
“Do you want to tell me about it?” I ask her, and to my surprise, I want to hear it. Every brutal, blood-soaked detail. Not for the gore, god no, but because I want to know her. All of her. Even the parts that hurt to hold.
“Why?” she asks, almost to herself.
“What happened?” I press, gently now. “I want to know.”
She draws a breath. “We found out years later that my mother was having an affair,” she says, her eyes distant. “And the man she was seeing… he came to kill my father. She wouldn’t leave my father for him, so he killed them both. He was disturbed. Madly in love or whatever.”
She stumbles over the words, like they’re stones underfoot. Her gaze goes somewhere far away.