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)
But how could he possibly be more dangerous than my brothers? Than the men I’ve grown up around?
Yes, I know the Kopolovs are at war with the Irish syndicate, but this can’t be the man they’re fighting. Matvei said just this morning that the Irish syndicate is operating out of Dublin. They’re not here, not in Moscow, and I’ve heard all the names thrown around, and no one’s ever said Seamus.
Just because he has an Irish accent doesn’t mean he’s the enemy.
Panic and desire claw at me. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to go back to the cold safety of home. I want to go with him.
I have to voice my fear.
“You don’t want me?” I ask, the desperation leaking out before I can stop it.
He curls his fingers around the back of my neck and pulls me against his chest. His arms wrap around me like a shield, warm and solid and protective.
“I want you too badly,” he whispers. “That’s the problem, sweet Zoya. I want you so fucking badly, I don’t trust myself.”
He presses a kiss to my forehead.
“But you know you have to go home,” he says, his voice thick. “Be a good girl for me.”
I nod, though it breaks me.
“I’ll see you next week,” he says. There’s something boyish in his tone now, some tender hope that doesn’t match his hard edges.
“You have my number,” he adds. “If you need to call… if you need anything, lass… call me.”
And then we part, slowly, like tearing fabric. And with every step I take away from him, it gets harder to keep walking.
I don’t make it seven more days.
I stare at his number over and over, thumb hovering, wondering what would happen if I just called. Or even sent one text. But I don’t.
It feels wrong somehow, like I’d be taking advantage of him. And I can’t do that. Not to him. Not to this man I’m falling so desperately in love with.
Can it even be love? It’s too soon, too wild, too unknown. I don’t even know his last name or where he really comes from.
Well, I know he’s from Ireland. Okay, that much I know. A small, coastal village, he said. And I believe him. I feel that truth in my bones.
But still. I don’t know his history. I don’t know who he is when he’s not looking at me like I’m his salvation.
What I do know is this: I definitely have a crush. A dangerous, consuming, heart-in-my-throat crush on a man who is everything the boys Mia hangs around with, who drive fast and get shitfaced with cheap beer, are not.
But I have to move on with my life.
So I try.
There has to be life beyond a man I can’t have.
So when Mia invites me to a football game, I say yes because I’m trying. Trying to feel normal. To be normal.
But the boys she introduces me to? That’s all they are. Boys.
They don’t have rough stubble that scrapes your skin in the best way. None of them have hands that could grip your waist like it’s sacred. None of them carry danger and devotion in their eyes.
Not like Seamus. My Seamus.
The boy who sits next to me talks about video games. His statistics class. How hard midterms are. I stare at him and blow out a breath.
He doesn’t know how hard life is. His mother still gives him an allowance.
I wonder if this boy has ever held a gun. If he could aim it steady and shoot someone right between the eyes to protect someone he loved.
Nah.
Sigh.
Sitting there, surrounded by kids playing at adulthood, I realize I don’t belong in this world. Maybe I never did.
I was born and raised in the Bratva.
And the thought of staying there forever with the old rules, the silent codes, the bloodshed and loyalty, terrifies me.
But not as much as this emptiness does.
I know what I need. I need someone who knows. Who understands. Someone who’s already counted the cost of a life like mine. Who doesn’t flinch at consequences.
I’m so wrapped in my thoughts and longing that it all happens too fast.
One second, I’m laughing at a joke I didn’t hear, pretending to care about the score, or some professor’s weird haircut, while someone presses me for manicure and G-string opinions for an upcoming trip.
My drink sloshes in my hand. I’m thirsty and gulp the whole damn thing.
My vision’s blurry, then somehow… I’m alone, separated from the others in the crowd.
My head throbs. My gaze is unfocused. I stare down at my phone, trying to remember what happened.
What the hell is going on? Why does my body feel wrong? Why do I feel like I’m floating away from myself?
Oh my god. Did somebody—?
What did I drink?
How did I get here?
I stumble forward, trying to turn back toward the stadium seating, when a hand snatches my wrist.