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)
Keenan turns his attention back to his plate, the conversation shifting again. And I start to see it, how Seamus learned to rule not by raising his voice, but by speaking only when he had to.
His eyes find mine as if to say: I’m not afraid. You don’t have to be either.
Am I afraid? Maybe. Maybe I’m just lost, like a fish out of water. But fear doesn’t feel quite right. Not exactly.
“This is really delicious,” Bronwyn says, sweet and earnest. “Leave it to Seamus to find a woman who can cook when we actually need one.”
Her cheerfulness is infectious. I smile. “Thank you. I do like to cook.”
“Can you teach me?” she asks.
Ash snorts. Caitlin gently smacks his arm. “Ash, be nice.”
But he just shakes his head. “If you can teach Bronwyn to cook, we’ll call you a miracle worker.”
I chuckle, placing a bite of chicken into my mouth. “We’ll start small. Maybe toast.”
Seamus winks at me. My heart doesn’t flutter, it somersaults. We may be married, we may have spent months tangled in each other’s lives, but somehow he still does this to me.
And I want him. God, I want him.
Wine is passed around, and the conversation softens. It feels normal, almost.
“Where is everyone else?” Seamus asks, his voice lowering slightly. He turns to me. “I have brothers, too, you know.”
“I’ll introduce you shortly,” Keenan says. “After your absence, I had to send them on a bit of a recon. I’ll fill you in later. Tomorrow,” he continues. “By then, we’ll have the full family together. Here.”
Yay.
“I can hire a caterer,” Caitlin begins.
But Keenan interrupts, his eyes locking with mine.
“You could. Or you could give Zoya another opportunity to cook.”
A challenge. His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Would you like that?”
He’s testing me. I meet his gaze, unflinching. “I’d love that. I cook for my family at home all the time.”
Silence. No one responds. And once again, I feel my cheeks burn.
My family. Their enemies.
Seamus leans in, his lips brushing my ear. “I’ve had enough of the social life now. Let’s go.” He stands. “Thank you for dinner,” he says, reaching for my hand.
“I prepared your old room for you, son,” Caitlin says, standing to embrace him. “It’s good to see you. Good to have you back.”
Keenan nods at Seamus but doesn’t rise. “I’ll see you tonight. I’d like to go over what you missed in your absence.”
“Yes, sir,” Seamus replies.
He heads for the door.
“Well, that went well,” I murmur to him, my voice a little wry, a little surprised, like maybe I hadn’t expected it to.
Seamus gives me a smile, slow and tight, but full of something private. Something just for me.
Once we’re in the hallway alone, the door clicks shut behind us, sealing off the muffled voices and lingering tension on the other side. It’s quieter here. Dimmer. The kind of quiet that lets truths come out.
He reaches for me without hesitation, like he needs the contact, and cups the back of my head, his palm warm and steady against my scalp. Then his forehead touches mine, our breaths mingling in the space between us.
“I love you, Zoya,” he whispers, and the weight of it lands softly but undeniably in my chest. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for what?” I ask him, already knowing it’s not just one thing. It’s never just one thing.
“I’m sorry this had to be your entrance into my family,” he says. “I wish they’d done better. I wish it had been easier.”
I exhale softly. “I knew what I was walking into, Seamus. You think if we sat down to dinner with my family, they’d be any friendlier?”
I can’t help but smile as I shake my head. “If anything, I think your family’s probably nicer than mine would’ve been.”
He gives a soft, rough chuckle, the sound vibrating in his chest.
“You forgive too easily, Zoya,” he murmurs huskily.
“Do I?” I ask, tilting my head.
But he’s not wrong. I forgave him for leaving me, for good reason, maybe, but still. And I’ve forgiven many things in my life. Things most people would never even consider forgiving. I’ve made peace with monsters.
“Come,” he says, his tone shifting, want threaded beneath the word. His mouth to my ear, “I want you alone.”
My heartbeat stutters in my chest.
The corridor is dim, lit only by the moonlight slanting through narrow windows. The house is beautiful in a way that feels both old and curated, an Irish estate that’s witnessed many come and go. He leads me to the second floor, then turns left, guiding me down a long, hushed hallway. Our footsteps are swallowed by thick gray carpet, soft beneath my feet.
“We’ve had many families in here,” he says. “There was a time when we were bursting at the seams. My father had to add a whole extra floor. A lot of remodeling.”