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)
It’s simple. Stoic.
Clean, but lived in. There’s a stack of unopened mail on the counter, a single coffee cup abandoned in the sink. There’s a kind of old-school charm to it all. On the coffee table, a scattered pile of books, worn and used. Beside them, a notepad and a laptop.
It’s a studio apartment, compact and efficient.
His bed is tucked in the corner, across from the television. A dark-green comforter that’s thick and sleek. One single nightstand with a clock and a half-full glass of water. Nothing extravagant. Nothing that screams “Killer.”
And yet…
“How are you feeling?” he asks gently. “Let’s get you some food.”
All I want is to spend time with him. I want to know that I'm safe, that no one is coming after me. I want to live in this fragile little bubble we've created. Just us. Just for now.
Please, just for a little while.
“I’m definitely feeling better,” I say, almost surprised by my own honesty.
“Aye,” he replies with a smirk. “That boy was a novice then.”
The way he says it—it’s grim. Final.
And maybe I should feel something. Horror? Sadness? Guilt? But I don’t.
“A novice?” I ask, my brows furrowed. I press for more. “What do you mean?”
But he doesn’t answer. He only gestures toward the couch. “Sit down, Zoya,” he says. “Let me take a look at you.”
Then he crouches in front of me, his hands on either side of my hips. His hair curls slightly at the ends, brushing the tops of his ears. His eyes—god, those eyes—they’re the brightest shade of blue I’ve ever seen.
His features are carved, symmetrical, and his cheeks are ruddy. There’s pride in the way he holds himself. A fierce, quiet confidence. It makes me feel safe. Untouchable.
“Did I do the right thing? Texting you?” I ask, unsure, whispering my doubt out loud.
“I told you to call me if you needed me,” he replies firmly. “Of course you did the right thing.”
“I was just afraid that I—” My voice catches. He presses his finger gently to my lips, silencing the fear.
“I understand. If you’d called your brothers, you would’ve opened a whole new kettle of fish, wouldn’t you?”
I nod. I’ve always liked the Irish turn of phrases.
“I did the right thing,” I whisper.
He smiles. “Aye. You did.”
His approval does something to me, something that feels a lot like longing.
Since I was a little girl, I always knew how this would end.
I’d be married off, arranged by Rafail, no doubt. He’d try to find someone suitable for me, someone proper. My brother isn’t a monster, but the family comes first.
Love, though? Love has always been out of the question.
“Let’s get you settled, hmm?” he says, standing back up.
Thank god. I could listen to him talk all night. His voice soothes something raw in me. I want to ask him to read to me. To tell me a story. Anything.
“I love your voice,” I whisper, my cheeks pinkening with the honesty.
He glances at me and smiles, and I wonder… I wonder.
Maybe he’s not as dangerous as I fear. Maybe I’ve been so conditioned to see trouble where there is none that I’ve made him out to be more dangerous than he really is.
Maybe we could have a future, just the two of us.
It’s stupid, I know. I’ve barely even kissed this man. He’s only kissed me once.
He’s Mr. Thursday, not my fiancé. And yet… he saved me tonight.
He protected me.
I battle myself inside. My feelings. My logic.
“I’ll get us some grub.”
I smile. “Seamus,” I say, trying it out.
His eyes darken, his lids heavy. He steps back toward me. His pale-blue shirt stretches tight across his chest, making his eyes glow even brighter. Low-slung jeans. Heavy boots. A casual masterpiece.
Mine.
“Say that again,” he growls. “I love my name on your lips. Say it again, lass.”
It’s both a plea and a command. I’m powerless to disobey.
He crouches down again, both knees to the floor, and takes my hand gently in his.
“Say my name again, Zoya.”
So I do. I cup his cheek, my thumb brushing under his eye.
“Seamus,” I whisper.
He closes his eyes, then brings my palm to his lips, kissing it softly before folding my fingers and pressing them against his chest.
“Thank you.” He exhales. “Nobody calls me that where I’m from.”
Huh. Really? “What do they call you?”
He shakes his head, a sadness lingering in his eyes. “Not today, Zoya. We’ve already broken too many rules.”
He wraps his arms around me and pulls me close. I rest my head on his shoulder and breathe him in. He smells so damn good. Feels even better.
I feel safe.
And yet… there’s that voice in my head again, whispering warnings.
Reminding me that nothing this perfect lasts.
“The best thing after a night like this is rest. Food. Hydration. A warm bed. Come on, sweet angel,” he murmurs, kissing my cheek. “Now, what can I get you for dinner?”