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)
He understands the things I’ve never told anyone, and worse, I do tell him everything. Every dark little corner, every secret I’ve never dared speak out loud.
And he just listens.
With that non-judgmental calm that feels like an anchor in a storm.
But the more I talk, the more I want.
I want him to touch me.
To hold me.
To kiss me.
And still, after six months… all he does is buy me a drink. Walk me out. Keep his distance.
He’s always there.
Always watching.
I tell myself that I’m safe with him. It’s okay that I’m sneaking around without a guard because James wouldn’t let anyone touch me.
Sometimes he asks questions, so casually that it almost slips past me.
“Did your brother get married?”
“Then what happened?”
“And after that?”
And I answer him. Because I don’t know who else to talk to. So I talk to him.
I tell him about Anya and Semyon. About how Rodion went to the States and met Ember. How they fell in love and how she betrayed my brothers' trust. How he was forced to marry her after, but it’s worked out for them.
I tell him about Rafail and Polina, and how they have children now. I tell him how things have shifted. How the rules keep changing.
And I tell him what it’s like being raised by men like my brothers.
“Do you think I’ll ever get free of them?” I ask, shaking my head.
He gives me a little smirk. “You’re here now, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” I say, “but it’s tricky. If this were years ago, before they were married and traveling and all, I never would’ve gotten away with it.”
He raises a brow. “And yet, every single week, you make it. Seems to me you’ve got a bit more freedom than you think.”
“True,” I admit, smiling despite myself.
One night, he brings me a small gift. A delicate little trinket—a stunning gold ring, looped and swirled with intricate flourishes. It’s so pretty it nearly takes my breath away.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, as he slides it onto the index finger of my right hand.
“Like you,” he says with a soft smile.
Later, Ember asks where I got it.
I tell her a friend gave it to me. I don’t offer details.
But now… now I wonder.
Who is this strange Irishman?
Why is he here, every week, without fail?
I’ve even started dreaming of a future, which is ridiculous.
It’s all fantasy. Delusion.
We never go anywhere, never even leave the pub. Our little private world, as if it’s safely cocooned in this quasi anonymity. I know that I can never be with a man like him, or any man my brothers don’t choose for me. That’s the way of the Bratva and always has been.
And something tells me it’s a similar situation for him. If it wasn’t, he would’ve made a move on me by now, wouldn’t he?
But I can’t give in to this fantasy. What am I going to do, marry him in this pub? Raise children between booths and whiskey glasses?
Right.
One day, I ask him, gently, hesitantly, “Can we ever meet somewhere else?”
He doesn’t answer right away. He just shifts the subject.
Eventually, he says, “I don’t think it would be safe. And I don’t think your brothers would approve, would they?”
There’s sincerity in his voice, like it’s not just about me getting in trouble. It’s about him putting me in danger.
“You have to understand, lass,” he says quietly, “I can’t.”
“I don’t.”
He sighs and blows out a breath. “Let’s go for a walk,” he says, low and quiet. It’s a move I didn’t expect.
I go with him.
We’ve never been alone before. Not really. We’re always in the pub, surrounded by people, noise, and shadows.
But this time, it’s just us.
He’s so much taller than I am. So broad-shouldered and powerful that when he walks beside me, I feel small. Protected.
He takes my hand, and it fits perfectly in his. Strong. Steady.
His dark curls sweep around his temples, soft and unruly. His eyes are a piercing blue that see right through me, clear and deep like the Irish sea he talks about. Craggy cliffs. Wild ocean. The way he said it made it sound like poetry.
He smells masculine and sharp, like the edge of something old and untamed.
When we walk together, it’s clear people fear him.
God, do they fear him. They step back when he approaches, lower their voices, and avert their gazes.
And I start to realize… I like that people fear him. I feel safe with him, like I’ve tamed this wild thing that grown men fear. I have the lion eating out of the palm of my hand.
Truthfully, I’m used to being around dangerous men. But he’s different. The way he carries it, calm and controlled.
When we exit the pub, we round a corner. The air is cold and bright with the smell of impending snow.
He stops walking and takes my hand. My breath catches as he turns to me.