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 glance around the kitchen, needing something to ground me. It’s old, but looks recently updated, chrome fixtures gleaming, beautiful tilework glowing in the light. It’s homey. Smells like coffee and cookies.
I kind of want both right now.
But my eyes keep drifting to the door. I’m waiting for him.
Wondering how things are going with him and his father. Wondering if that fire in his eyes met steel. He’s told me his father is a good man, loyal and ruthless, like Rafail. That he loves fiercely, protects without question.
But will he hurt him? Shame him?
Oh god.
Then the door opens, and I lift my eyes, my breath hitching, hoping to see my husband.
But it’s not him.
A man steps in. Tall and broad, with scars that twist across his knuckles. Tattoos snake up his neck. His head is shaved clean, and a jagged but thin silver scar splits his cheekbone in two. Ink crawls down both arms like vines, and his eyes are gunmetal gray.
He stops dead when he sees me.
Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t snarl. Just stills.
Two long seconds stretch.
“And who’s this?”
“Ash,” Caitlin says tightly. “Meet Zoya. Seamus’s wife. Zoya, this is Seamus’s cousin, Ashland.”
Something shifts in his jaw before his face goes blank.
“So the traitor’s brought home his feckin’ pet,” he says.
Kyla smirks, like she’s enjoying this.
Bronwyn gasps. “You can’t say that. Honestly, Ash!”
But I’m already moving.
I rise slowly, every inch of my spine straightening, one vertebrae at a time.
I set my tea down gently, both hands flat on the table.
“You can watch your mouth,” I say, my voice as calm as winter ice. “I’ve already had a lovely welcome from the sisters, you see.” I smile at him, dead-eyed.
He smirks back, small, cruel, unkind. He’s watching me, measuring me. I don’t trust him. Not one bit.
Seamus married me. We took vows. I love that man.
I’ve had just about enough of this cold welcome.
I nod to Caitlin. “Thank you.” Then Bronwyn. “Thank you.”
“But the next person with something nasty to say?” I smile again. “They can hold their tongue until they’re brave enough to say it in front of my husband.”
Caitlin blinks, then sits back slowly. “Good girl,” she says. “Mmm. He chose well, didn’t he? I see now why he loves you.”
And I nearly melt under that.
Because none of them would dare say these things in front of Seamus.
“Ash,” she snaps. “Stop being a feckin’ cunt.”
“Bronwyn,” Caitlin says, like a warning.
But I can tell she’s already lost the battle against the foul mouths in this house.
“It’s family dinner.” Kyla shrugs. “What did you expect?”
“Not a goddamn interrogation. Let her breathe already. And she’s right. Say that in front of Seamus and I’ll eat my damn hat.”
Ashland doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just steps aside, shakes his head like it isn’t worth the effort, and turns to leave.
“Excuse me,” I say, quiet but firm.
He pauses and turns back, then faces me fully. All eyes are on me now, but I don’t flinch. I don’t blush. I don’t stammer. I stand rooted in place.
“And that’s the last time any of you call your Seamus McCarthy a traitor,” I say. “He’s as loyal to this family as they come, and you’ll see soon enough what he’s meant to do. What he’s called to do.”
I don’t say more. I can’t. I’m already toeing the line. But I won’t let them disrespect my husband.
“Is that right?” he mutters calmly, as if challenging me.
I bare my teeth at him, a hiss catching between them. “You’ll speak of my husband and your boss with respect.”
Bronwyn and Caitlin share a glance, a loaded one. I see it. I feel it.
Bronwyn smiles wide. Caitlin, calm as ever, tops off her tea. Ashland exhales like the weight of the room is too heavy for him and walks out with Kyla close behind.
Good. Let them leave.
I release a breath.
“Sit down, darling,” Caitlin says gently, tapping the table like she’s summoning a cat to her lap. “You did well. So did my son,” she continues, smiling. “Let’s figure out dinner.”
The room smells like cloves and sugar, thick and sweet, a kind of comfort that makes me ache with memories of home. The teapot is already steaming again as Caitlin moves like she’s done this a thousand times… because she has. She pours two cups like we’re just two women catching up after brunch.
“Would you take sugar, Zoya? Or are you one of those purists who likes the taste of bitterness in their cup?”
I blink, then smile. It’s impossible not to.
“Two sugars, please. Not a purist. No milk.”
“Good girl,” she says, like she’s proud. “That’s how I raised my boys, you know, sweet enough to kill you, strong enough to burn.”
She sets the cup in front of me, then pushes the tin of biscuits closer like it’s an offering.
“Go on. Try the shortbread. Store-bought, but let’s pretend I’ve been slaving away in this boiling heat. I love this kitchen, but the whole damn thing feels like an oven sometimes.”