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)
I want her back at my apartment too—flat, bed, table, I don’t care. I want her over my knee because I’m going to punish her. She doesn’t get to risk herself like that and think there are no consequences.
“You don’t disobey me when it’s for your own goddamn safety. Do you understand me?” I growl, low and furious.
I want to grab her by those narrow shoulders and shake her until the truth rattles out of her mouth.
She just nods. Sniffs. Then nods again.
“Let’s go,” I say.
I stand. I take her hand, and I don’t let go.
There’s a car waiting outside. I’ve planned for this. Tonight is the night I tell her everything. Every ugly truth, every dirty secret. I tell her who I am, what I’ve done, and exactly why.
Tonight, I’ll tell her I love her.
That I’m choosing her over everything. Over the Irish. Over the Russians. Over bloodlines and revenge and orders.
Tonight, I end the war.
Tonight, I stop the hunt on the Kopolovs.
Tonight, I take her back.
And before it’s over, I’ll make her feel every ounce of the fury, the need, the protectiveness that drives me. I’ll make her understand.
Because tonight, Zoya Kopolova learns exactly who she belongs to.
And I look forward to teaching her how to be a good girl. My good girl.
But when we reach the car, my hand just brushing the door handle, something shifts. It’s subtle. A glint in the corner of my eye. A shadow where there shouldn’t be one.
I freeze.
Feckin’ hell.
“Get in,” I say to her, my voice low, controlled. Fuck it, I can’t have her roped into this.
She frowns. “What—?”
“Now.”
I have to keep her safe no matter what.
She obeys, slipping inside. I shut the door behind her just as the street lights flare too bright. Just as the silence breaks.
Not with a shout. Not yet.
Just a presence. Too many of them. Wrong posture, not the sound of casual footsteps.
I straighten, my hands loose and calm, like I’ve got nothing to hide.
I shoot off a text to my driver.
Bring her home.
The car pulls away with her inside.
That’s all I needed.
By the time I turn around, they’re already here. I blow out a breath.
“Seamus McCarthy,” a voice calls out behind me, loud and deliberate, no room for misinterpretation. Handcuffs slide over my wrists. “You are detained.”
Chapter 8
ZOYA
He sent me home?
I thought we were going to talk it out, that we’d finally get a chance to clear the air.
He warned me before. And I’ve felt that dominant energy of his before, heat rising off asphalt, quiet but scorching. But this? This is something else entirely. This is colder. Sharper. Like he’s aiming all of that tightly coiled power directly at me. And I don’t know what to make of it.
Is he angry with me? Is that why he sent me away?
He told me to go home. Told me to stay safe. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. I walked straight into the fire without flinching.
I warned my brothers, something he might already know—or maybe not. Then I did the one thing I told myself I wouldn't do. I showed up, right in the goddamn line of fire. And even I know I could have been killed.
I know that. I’m not fucking stupid, but I had to see for myself. I had to know he was okay. And now I don’t know what I’m supposed to expect from him anymore.
And honestly? I’m a little scared. Not of him, exactly, but of how deep I’ve fallen. Of how much I want to trust him, even now.
Even after he sent me home. Forced the issue. Had his own fucking driver bring me.
The rejection cuts.
But deep down, I know he would have protected me. No matter what, he would have. I need answers now, and I want them straight from his mouth.
I look at the last message he sent me, the day before he sent me home: Under no circumstances do you come to me. Is that clear?
I told him yes. Sent the message back like I was playing it cool. Yes, yes, I understand, I replied. Fine.
I get it. I know why he’s this way. I know men like him because I grew up with them. Men who bark and growl and throw up walls, but underneath? There’s something more fragile. Something that’s terrified of loss. Of weakness. Of watching someone they care about get hurt.
He gets angry. He blusters. But I swear to god, his real anger is because he doesn’t want to see me broken.
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
So, the next Thursday, I go to the bar. I know we’re going to have it out—that talk he’s been itching to have with me about what I did. Fair enough.
But I want my turn too. I want to look him in the eye and ask him who the fuck he really is. Also fair.