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)
His smile hardens into something cold and brutal.
“If you don’t, you know what happens next.” He heads for the door. “You heard your father. The syndicate’s splintering. We won’t allow that to happen.” His eyes narrow. “Do it.”
He turns away.
Conversation over.
God help me.
Chapter 26
ZOYA
I stare at the calendar, the app on my phone that tracks my cycles.
Not pregnant.
My heart sinks, heavy and low.
Why did I think it would happen the first month? That I could just will a baby into existence, manifest it, like it was magic, and everything would neatly fall into place. That somehow, this chaos could alchemize into something whole and new. No. That’s not how this works. Life doesn’t bend to dreams. It’s not a fairy tale.
But I don’t cry. I don’t even feel the sting of tears. I just sit on the edge of the bed, staring down at my phone like it's a verdict. A sentence. Another month of trying. Another month of hope unraveled.
Another month of trying to be perfect. Another month of trying to keep the peace with my own body, trying to soothe the ache of being too much and not enough at once. I shake my head, the motion small, bitter.
I can almost hear Yana in my head, her voice dry and sharp. “Stop trying to be the one who holds everything together. Just let it go. Things will sort themselves out.” But I can’t. I don’t. Because I let myself hope. I let the dream in, for just a breath, that maybe… maybe I could be more than the burden. Little Zoya, whom everyone had to shield and protect and manage. Maybe this time, I could be the one who changed things for the better, rather than serving a cup of tea and a hot biscuit.
Maybe this centuries-old war between our families could end… with me.
I walk to the bathroom, my steps slow and silent. I feel Seamus behind me.
I pick up my toothbrush and begin to brush my teeth, trying to ignore the weight of his presence. But I see his eyes flicker to my phone, to the mark on the app. He sees it. The little red drop.
“Your period started?”
I nod. He nods back, then turns away. Just like that.
It’s the silence that lands hardest.
Have I let him down?
He’s been distant since yesterday. Cold. Not cruel, just… gone. He barely touched me. When I asked what was wrong, he wouldn’t tell me. I don’t like this. This not-knowing. This shift.
He leaves the room without a word, and I feel it like a slap. The sting of failure, low in my belly. I’m not stupid.
I know what pregnancy would’ve meant. It would’ve been a tether. A bridge. A reason. It would’ve proved this was more than obsession and madness and forced proximity. That there was something real, something secret and blooming beneath it all.
Without it… what am I? A hostage. A complication too dangerous to set free. A liability.
But then, why did he look almost relieved? Why did his shoulders sink, his jaw unclench, as if a burden had been lifted?
He's relieved I'm not pregnant.
Why?
I wrap my arms around myself, aching. And I follow him.
It’s late afternoon. The sky’s dipped in gold, the kind of light that clings to your skin and makes the world feel too sharp, too vivid. The cliffs stretch out wide before us, open and wild. My god, it’s gorgeous.
And I hate how much I love it here.
It makes me feel like a traitor. Like I’ve traded in Moscow. Like this place has worked its way under my skin, and I’ve denied who I am.
I hate that I love walking beside him, even when the silence between us feels heavy with all the things we’re not saying.
He glances over his shoulder at me, then reaches out a hand. And I take it. Quietly.
We don’t speak as we walk. Just the sound of gravel crunching beneath our boots and the distant cries of gulls overhead.
“I’m sorry, little Zoya,” he murmurs. “My sweet lass.”
I don’t ask what he’s sorry for. I already know.
Sorry for the distance. Sorry for dragging me into this storm. Sorry it’s all so tangled, so damn complicated.
I feel eyes on me. Cold. Measuring.
When I turn, I catch the flick of a curtain in the window behind us. Kyla. She's always watching.
“She doesn’t like me,” I say softly. “Why?”
He doesn’t look at me. “I suspect she reports to Branson.”
My stomach twists. “And you let her?”
“I don’t have a choice,” he bites out. “Not now that he’s back. There are eyes and ears everywhere, Zoya. One wrong breath and it all goes back to him.”
“I don’t understand,” I whisper. “Why doesn’t your father believe you, Seamus? After everything?”
“I was close,” he says, his eyes shadowed. “So bloody close. He was just beginning to trust me again.”