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)
“What do you want me to do, Seamus?” I ask, even though I already know the answer. He won’t put me on the front lines, never that. But maybe he’ll let me contribute in some small way, let me in on whatever they’re planning behind closed doors.
“They’re planning something,” he says, his eyes hard as ice and just as cutting.
“Be ready. Stay close. And Zoya…” His voice drops. It’s serious now, a warning, maybe. A promise. Maybe both.
He props himself up on his elbow, those brilliant blue eyes catching mine. “When I say move, you move. No questions. Do you understand me?” He says the words firmly but almost gently, like he doesn’t want to frighten me but needs me to know this is not a request. “I’m not joking, love.”
“Yes, sir,” I whisper, and he blinks once, slow and dark. A wicked smile curls at the corners of his mouth.
“Careful with that, love.” But I know he likes it. The control. The reverence. The way I yield without truly yielding.
I like it too.
Still, something cold curls in my stomach, a slither of fear that won’t go away no matter how warm his touch is. “We’re going back to your family home in Ballyhock?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just studies me, silent and still, like he’s deciding what version of the truth I can survive. Finally, he nods. “Yes.”
A beat passes.
“The more you know, the more danger you’re in. So please”—he reaches for me, brushing my hand—“forgive me for not telling you everything.”
That should terrify me more than it does. But I nod anyway. I trust him. I don’t know why. I just do.
He sits up and throws the blanket off like he’s shedding something. “Time for some training.”
“Training?” I blink, still drowsy and tangled in warmth and confusion. “Now? What do you mean training? Are you going to…” But I don’t finish the question.
He grins, that rare, feral grin that says I’m in trouble in the best possible way. And despite myself, I feel that answering tug low in my belly, even though I should be too exhausted to feel anything.
“Come,” he says. “You’re helping.”
Helping, as it turns out, means lying on the bed like a human dumbbell while Seamus uses me for strength training. I yelp the first time he lifts me straight into the air like I weigh nothing. But his grip is steady, his palms flat on my waist, locked like steel. I’m not a person to him in that moment. I’m resistance. Challenge.
And I’m laughing. It’s absurd. Ridiculous. “You’re out of your mind! Seamus, what are you even doing?”
“Quiet, love,” he says, furrowing his brow like he’s trying to scold me, but his lips are twitching, threatening another grin.
“I need to keep my strength up, don’t you know? You see a gym around here?”
I laugh out loud, breathless. “You love this.”
He doesn’t deny it. Just keeps lifting me, keeps moving. It’s wild, reckless and intimate in the strangest way—the way his muscles bunch beneath me, the way his eyes stay locked on mine like I’m all that matters, the way sweat glistens on his chest and neck.
First, he bench-presses me, before he squats with me on his shoulders, then does some bizarre tricep dip that feels like a ride at a theme park. But I never feel unsafe. I never feel like I’ll fall.
“Seamus,” I gasp, giggling as he lifts me straight over his head and squats again.
“I can squat more than your weight, darling,” he says, all smug and flushed and glistening.
“I bet you can.” But still, it’s impressive. His body is carved from strength, legs like tree trunks, chest wide and powerful. It’s mesmerizing to watch.
I bend to kiss the crown of his damp hair. “I love you.”
“Don’t distract me,” he says lightly, but his voice is warm and soft. Everything about him in that moment says he feels it too.
Eventually, he lays me on the bed and collapses beside me in a breathless, half-naked heap. “Let’s get changed.”
Every second that ticks by now is one less we have before whatever is coming next. The showdown.
Later, in the shower, the silence is different, thicker and heavier, like we’re standing in the eye of the storm and pretending it’s calm. I wash his back. He rinses my hair. When he turns me to face him, the water running over his stubble and dripping down his chest, he says it.
“It’s time to go.”
I nod. I don’t ask where.
I just follow. Always. It feels natural and right.
He leans down, kisses the side of my mouth. “Whatever happens, Zoya… remember this. I love you.”
Then he adds, “Trust me,” and that’s how I know it’s serious. Seamus McCarthy isn’t a man who deals in hope. He doesn’t peddle promises he can’t keep. So if he says trust me, it’s because there’s no other choice.