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 was raised by brutal men. Vicious, wild, unrelenting. But to me? To me, they’ve always been tender. That contradiction is carved into my bones. I watch him now, my breath catching in my throat.
Heat unfurls low in my belly, blooming, spreading, consuming me like wildfire. I’m burning from the inside out.
I’ve never felt anything like this. It’s not just lust, it’s something electric, something sharp and sweet. Every nerve ending is singing. My mouth is dry, but my thoughts spiral into want, into need, into a depth I’ve never tasted before.
Am I afraid? Maybe. Or maybe fear’s just something I’m used to, something I’ve always mistook for anticipation. But this… he was gentle with me. He listened.
When I trembled, he didn’t mock me. He steadied me. His hands, iron-strong but unyielding in their care, held me steady while his eyes, god, those eyes, looked through me. Past the fear. Past the front. He saw me.
And now? Now I’m aching. I want to be claimed by Seamus McCarthy. I need to be.
I pull myself away from the window, still raw and vibrating from watching him.
I pick up my phone. It’s been off all night, charging on the side table. I hesitated turning it on, terrified of what messages might wait for me. Ember. Anissa. Ruthie, Vadka’s wife. People I loved, people I left behind. People who saw.
Ruthie had been soft with me, like a sister. She had her own story, her own pain. And now she’s pregnant. Of course she’d reach out. They all saw me get taken, but I told them, I told them I loved him. Would they even believe me?
My hands shake as I turn on my phone. I brace for a flood, but it’s only four.
One is from Rafail.
Rafail
Even though you're married to Seamus McCarthy, I will protect you, Zoya. I'm one phone call away. I know you said what you did to prevent bloodshed. But if he still lets you keep your phone, if you're still in contact with me, I need you to use it. Please. Text me. I should’ve reached out sooner.
My heart stutters. He thinks Seamus took my phone. Why would he think that? Would Seamus do something like that? Or is that what Rafail would do?
Another text.
Rodion
Hey, sweetheart. Just tell me if you're okay. If he hurts you, if he even lays a finger on you, Zoya, I swear to god, I will drop everything and come.
Then Semyon. Always different. Always distant. His mind works in straight lines and sharp turns, and his texts sound like they were drafted for a military debrief.
Semyon
Zoya. Are you alright? Do you need assistance? Is there anything I can do?
And then, finally, Ruthie.
Ruthie
Sweetie, your brothers are losing it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Rafail cry. But he did. He’s terrified that you’re only there because you had to be. That you told us you loved Seamus to stop the bloodshed. Are you okay? I don’t think you made it up. Did you?
My hands are shaking now as I answer.
To Rafail:
I didn’t make it up. I do love him. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.
To Rodion:
I love you so much. I’ll tell you if anything happens, but trust me, he takes care of me.
To Semyon:
I’m here of my own will. Please believe that.
To Ruthie:
I’m so sorry. I feel like I betrayed all of you. But it’s true. I do love him.
I put the phone down and step back like it’s burned me. More texts start to come in, pings and buzzes vibrating on the counter, but I can’t bring myself to look. Not now. I need space from the guilt, the love, the war between loyalty to my family and my vows to him.
Seamus is my husband now. That has to mean something. Doesn’t it?
I need to cool down. I need to stop thinking about the window and the way my body reacted to seeing him shirtless, the way my chest still burns from the heat of it. I step into the hallway. It’s oddly narrow for a house this size. The floor creaks beneath my bare feet as I pass by closed doors.
And then I pause.
One door is different. Not just shut, but locked. Solid. Old. The kind of old that knows things.
My curiosity flares. Why this door? Why locked? Why does it feel… sacred? Or secret?
I try the handle—no give. Firm and locked tight.
What’s in there?
A private office? Something personal? Secure documents?
Or something darker?
Maybe I’ve watched too many true crime documentaries, but a chill crawls up my spine. Could be bodies. Could be secrets. Could be a red room of pain.
God.
I shake it off and head toward the kitchen. I need to ground myself. I need to do something.
Feed him. That’s what I do. I take care of the people I love.
In the kitchen, I find more eggs. Oatmeal. Bread but nothing else to bake with. No matter, I can make something.