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)
“Oh, Zoya. These look divine,” she says, beaming. “I don’t care what my husband says. My son made a good choice.”
We laugh, and her words warm me. But they don’t settle the gnawing unease in my gut.
But here, in Caitlin’s kitchen, stirring batter beside her steady presence, it almost fades.
Almost.
“Kyla went into town to pick up some clothes for you,” she tells me. “I would’ve taken you myself, but Seamus asked you to stay nearby. Bronwyn’s at school.”
“Right.”
“I was very young when I had Seamus, you know. He’s a bit older than the others.”
I nod.
“Now, maybe you can help me put together a plan to cook this week?”
“I’d love to.” I help her plan while keeping half an eye on the door, waiting for my husband.
We plan the week’s meals together. I show her my family’s favorite Russian dishes, pelmeni, borscht, pirozhki, and stuffed cabbage. She suggests Irish classics, soda bread, colcannon, and corned beef.
“It’ll be a mix of both, then,” I say, jotting down ideas on a pad of paper. It feels almost symbolic.
“There’s a website I use for these recipes.” I reach for my phone to look up a recipe, when I realize I didn’t bring my phone, but Seamus’s by accident.
I must’ve grabbed the wrong one off the bedside table. “Oops,” I murmur with an apologetic smile. “Wrong phone.”
“It’s all right,” Caitlin says, reaching over. “We all have access in case of emergency. I can turn it on to get the recipes.”
She presses her thumb to the screen. It unlocks.
Interesting. His mother can access his phone, but I can’t.
I scroll through for the recipe, trying to ignore the three unread message notifications blinking at the top. But finally, when Caitlin’s back is turned, curiosity gets the best of me.
A preview of the message catches my eye.
Rafail Kopolov.
My blood turns cold.
Trembling, I swipe down to read the preview.
Rafail
You deceived her. Release Zoya or we’re coming for you.
What?
Oh god.
My stomach knots, and my skin goes cold.
I drop the phone like it burns. “I need to grab mine,” I say, already on my feet.
“Be right back.”
I dart through the house, my heart pounding, panic rising. He’s not in the kitchen. Not on the lawn.
Where is Seamus?
I race to our bedroom, slide his phone back onto the table like it never moved, and grab my own.
Then I search for him.
Desperately.
I shouldn’t have looked at his phone. I know that. Maybe the message meant something different. Maybe I misread it, saw only what I feared. But still, why would Rafail think I’m here against my will? What exactly happened to make him question that? Oh god.
I need to talk to him.
I turn, and just like that, I walk straight into Seamus. “Whoa, easy there, love.” He catches me without hesitation, wrapping his arms firmly around my waist, his chest warm and solid.
“Zoya,” he murmurs. “Y’alright?”
“I’m all right,” I say quickly. “I was just cooking in the kitchen with your mom.”
He smiles and strokes slow, deliberate circles down my spine, fingers trailing heat and grounding me in the moment. “Are you? I love that. She’s a good woman. You’re like her,” he adds, softer now.
Then he bends, brushing a kiss to my cheek, tender, possessive, familiar.
“Seamus,” I whisper, barely trusting my voice, “tell me what’s going on.”
He falls silent. And my heart starts pounding like a drum trapped in my ribs. That kind of silence speaks louder than words.
“Do you… Do you regret taking me?”
His arms tighten just slightly, not enough to hurt, but just enough to say he's hiding something. Enough to make me feel like there’s something heavy weighing him down.
“Of course not.”
“All right,” I say quietly, not entirely convinced. “You left your phone on the bedside table.”
“Oh, I wondered,” he replies. “Christ, my father would’ve had my head if he sent a message and I missed it.”
He strides across the room and grabs his phone. I watch him as he unlocks it, scrolls through it, and frowns. His brows knit together. Scrolls again. Then, nothing. He pockets the phone like it’s nothing.
“What’s going on?” I ask, softly but firmly.
“My father didn’t text,” he says with a smile. Too fast. Too smooth. Like it’s rehearsed. Either he's hiding something, or he really doesn’t want me to know what Rafail said.
“Go back to mam if you’d like,” he says, his tone shifting. “I have business to tend to, love.”
Business. A word that could mean a thousand things. I can’t stop thinking: Does this business have anything to do with hurting my family?
“I’m just uneasy, Seamus,” I tell him gently. “I wish there could be peace between our families.”
“I know,” he replies, almost sharply. “Don’t you know I know that? I promise. I’m doing everything I can to make that happen.”
“Are you sure you don’t regret marrying me?” I repeat again.
He turns to me slowly, and there’s a warning glint in his eyes. “Ask me that again, and I’ll put you right over my knee.”