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 pulls his hand from mine and shoves both into his coat pockets. The absence is sharp. It feels like rejection.
“Taking you… they didn’t understand. My family didn’t. And maybe now, I don’t either.” He stops himself, then shakes his head and doesn’t finish.
I frown. “But why Branson? Why him?”
“When I was a child,” Seamus says, “he saved my father’s life. He’s earned my father’s loyalty. And my father, he wants the easier truth. That Branson isn’t a threat. That I’m just young and naive.”
It stings, hearing him call himself young. He’s nearly a generation older than me.
“But wasn’t your father your age when he took the throne?”
“Aye,” he says. “Because his father died.”
His gaze drifts out over the waves. “And I would’ve had it. I would’ve had his trust. But then Branson showed evidence, you and me. Moscow. Us sneaking around. And just like that, I lost every ounce of credibility I’d built.”
“Oh god,” I breathe out, shaking my head. “Let’s go. Please, Seamus. We can still run.”
I’ve been thinking about it for days. Obsessing. Whispering it into the dark when he’s asleep beside me.
“We can leave tonight,” I say. “Take a car, drive away, just keep going. Disappear. Just you and me. We don’t need this. We could become nothing, no names. Just… free.”
He stops walking and slowly turns.
“Run where, Zoya?”
“Anywhere.”
“There’s nowhere he won’t find me,” he says. “You don’t understand.”
“I do.”
“No.” He cuts me off. “If I go now, I hand over every man who’s ever followed me. I hand over my brothers and sisters. My father. Everyone. To that traitor.” His jaw clenches. “If I run, it’s over.”
He sighs. “I’m sorry.”
And I know he means it.
“I wish we could,” he says, his fingers lacing through mine.
We walk until we reach the edge of the cliff. The drop is steep. The sea below, wild and endless. A thousand shades of blue and green and black.
He sits. I follow, my knees pulled to my chest. The wind catches my hair and tangles it, but I don’t care.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, almost reverent.
He pulls a bottle of Guinness from his coat and holds it out. “’Tis. Fancy a drink?”
I arch a brow. “Now?”
He winks, but there’s sorrow behind it. “It’s not drugged, lass.”
I snort. Then I take a sip… and grimace. He chuckles.
“Too strong?”
“No,” I say. “I was raised on vodka.”
He gives me a crooked smile. “Fair.”
The silence stretches, but now it feels a little softer.
“Do you ever swim down there?” I ask.
“Aye. Even this time of year. It’s cold but clear. Gorgeous.”
“You ever jump off the cliff?”
“When we were lads. My father nearly murdered us when he found out. But the water’s deep. You can make the jump if you know how.”
“I used to swim too,” I tell him. “Back home. There was a lake near our summer house. I’d sneak out before dawn. Dive in while the world was still asleep.”
“Of course you did,” he says, teasing. “Little brat.”
I laugh. “Like your father, Rafail wasn’t too happy when he found out.”
His expression softens. And for a moment, there’s something in his eyes I can’t name.
“I loved it,” I whisper. “Being under the water. Quiet. Moving without thought. It felt free. Like I could be anyone. I used to pretend I was a mermaid.”
“Do you still swim?” he asks.
I nod. “Not like I did when I was younger, but I can.”
He looks out at the water like it’s whispering something to him that I can’t hear.
“I reached out to my family again,” I say softly. “They haven’t responded.”
I see his shoulders stiffen.
“Not even Rodion,” I add. “Not one word.”
“They think you're here against your will, love,” he tells me softly.
I look at him, my chest tightening. “Why doesn't anybody ever believe me?” I whisper. “It's frustrating… being the youngest.”
He sighs. “It’s frustrating being the oldest.”
I glance away, and his voice follows. “Because you're the peacekeeper, Zoya,” he says gently. Then even softer, “They think you're still the good girl, trying to make things right.”
“God, I know, but I’m not, and I can’t.” I swallow. “Just now, I was frustrated with myself for not being pregnant. Can you even imagine that?” I shake my head. “Being mad at yourself for something like that. Like children are puzzle pieces to fill a void.”
“They’re not,” he murmurs. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
I swallow and lean back against him. The silence settles over us while he sips his drink, and I take a pass. He slips an arm around me, and when I shiver, he says nothing, just shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over me. It’s warm and smells like him.
“I just wish they would all understand. Listen.”
“It’s more complicated than that, isn’t it, love?” he says. “Way more complicated. I’m sorry you’re stuck in the middle of all this. But I’m not sorry I married you. Goddammit, I’m not.”