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 looks up at me.
“How much power do you have?”
“That,” I say with a small smile, “remains to be seen.”
“Yes,” she says again, barely audible.
“Is that all, Zoya? Is that all you’re afraid of?”
Her gaze flickers back to the bedroom. Her cheeks flush a deep, burning red.
“You know…” she whispers. “I’m a virgin. That one time with you… well, it was the only time.”
She pauses. Swallows. Then does the most adorable thing I’ve ever seen, buries her face against my chest like she can’t stand to look me in the eye.
I wrap my arms around her gently. I don’t force her to meet my gaze.
“And you’re afraid,” I say softly, “of what happens between a husband and wife?”
I run a hand down her small, fragile, perfect little back. She’s so damn tiny, it undoes me.
“Yes,” she whispers. “I don’t know how to do anything. What if I disappoint you? What if I… What if it hurts?”
My chest swells at her honesty. Christ, I’ve never wanted to protect someone so fiercely.
“Those are all fair fears, love,” I tell her. “But I’ll teach you. I will. One step at a time. There’s no rush.”
I shake my head and sigh, but inside, I feel a rare, quiet peace.
Chapter 16
ZOYA
I feel like I’m betraying my family just for enjoying even a second of this. But I am. God, I am.
The way Seamus holds me, it makes me feel protected in a way I never felt, even at home. Yes, my brothers would’ve killed anyone who dared touch me, but this… this is different.
This is my husband.
I’ve taken his name. Have I taken a new identity too?
I look up into his deep blue eyes. If I didn’t know who he was, if I hadn’t heard the whispers and the warnings, I might’ve said he looks almost boyish, just now anyway. Almost. But the rugged scruff along his jaw, the way his lips press in that tight, serious line, remind me who he really is.
“It’s been a long day,” he murmurs. “Let’s get you to bed, lass.”
I like it when he calls me that. Lass. Love. All those little endearments, dipped in that Irish accent. I’ll give myself a moment to grieve everything I’ve left behind, but maybe, just maybe, I can still make something out of this.
“Let’s get you to bed,” he says again.
The rest blurs after that because all I can think is—what if he touches me? What if things go further?
I remember his apartment. The way he held me. The way he kissed me like I was already his. It felt… right. And now? After everything?
He doesn’t push. He just lifts me as if I weigh nothing. Carries me like I’m precious.
“To bed with you,” he says once more.
Gentle. Quiet. Protective.
And for the first time, I start to wonder… maybe this is who he really is. Maybe the Seamus McCarthy the world fears isn’t all there is.
Maybe… this is the man I’ve married.
This man, this man is the one who says he loves me.
Does he though? He says he does. Swears it, even. Says he’ll prove it.
And here I am, standing in the middle of it all, dressed in his huge T-shirt. Not a stitch of makeup on. Hair a complete disaster.
And still, he looks right at me and says I’m beautiful. Says I’m his.
I wasn’t prepared for the house. For the bedroom. For how it would all feel.
It’s nothing like I imagined. Nothing like the man who’s brought me here. The outside is all old stone and ivy, with coastal views that hit you like something out of a dream. This place feels like it’s been carved into the edge of the world, tucked between sea and forest. Ancient. Safe. Hidden.
Seamus’s.
Inside, it's clean and sharp. Everything intentional. He told me he doesn’t come here often. That catches me. Where else does he go then, if not here? That thought clings.
His bedroom is a study in contradiction. Spartan and expensive. Cold in the way it looks, but not in how it feels. Like him, it doesn’t invite you in; it dares you to stay.
One whole side of the room is glass. Towering windows that stretch up, looking straight out over misty cliffs and the wide-open sea. I can’t wait to crack them open, to breathe in the salt and brine. He’s talked about the ocean so vividly, and now, I see why.
Heavy blackout curtains hang off to the side. Thick enough to blot out the world, but they’re open now, as if he likes to see into the night. To be ready. To know what’s coming.
The bed’s massive, of course it is. King-sized, dark wood, low frame, no headboard. Iron fixtures. Stark. Utilitarian. Masculine. Him.
The sheets are charcoal gray. There’s only a handful of pillows, nothing decorative, nothing soft or fussy. No clutter. Just the essentials. There’s an electric fireplace humming quietly, and beside it, a single leather chair, scuffed and broken in. It looks like it’s lived a life or two. Maybe it belonged to someone else once. Maybe it was gifted. Either way, that chair has a story, and I can already picture him in it, watching the fire flicker in the hearth.