Page 115 of Unrequited
Eventually, he lays me on the bed and collapses beside me in a breathless, half-naked heap. “Let’s get changed.”
Every second that ticks by now is one less we have before whatever is coming next. The showdown.
Later, in the shower, the silence is different, thicker and heavier, like we’re standing in the eye of the storm and pretending it’s calm. I wash his back. He rinses my hair. When he turns me to face him, the water running over his stubble and dripping down his chest, he says it.
“It’s time to go.”
I nod. I don’t ask where.
I just follow. Always. It feels natural and right.
He leans down, kisses the side of my mouth. “Whatever happens, Zoya… remember this. I love you.”
Then he adds, “Trust me,” and that’s how I know it’s serious. Seamus McCarthy isn’t a man who deals in hope. He doesn’t peddle promises he can’t keep. So if he says trust me, it’s because there’s no other choice.
I expected the drive to the McCarthy home to be longer. Idon’t know why. Maybe I thought if it were this close, someone would’ve come for him sooner.
“Are we here already?” I ask as gravel crunches under the tires and the car stops.
Outside my window, the McCarthy estate looms, perched on a cliff that looks like something out of a dream. Craggy rocks jut from the shore below, seafoam-green waves crashing against them. It’s breathtaking. But my heart is pounding.
We’re here.
The mansion sprawls wide and proud, unapologetic in its wealth and weight. I wish I were coming here for different reasons. I wish he were proud to show me this place.
I wish I didn’t feel like a weapon. A trophy. A warning.
He claimed me.
We made love. Said things people like us don’t say without blood on our hands.Stay. Mine. Forever. I love you.
But as we cross the threshold, the air thickens, like it knows I don’t belong. Like it’s warning me.
His hand tightens on mine for just a moment before he lets go.
“We may be separated for a bit,” he murmurs, right before anyone else enters the hallway.
“What?” I ask, but then he’s here.
Keenan McCarthy.
I don’t need to be told who he is. I know. He looks like Seamus but with silver at his temples, a bearded jawline with hints of salt and pepper. The kind of man who doesn’t need to raise his voice.
His eyes narrow on Seamus.
Seamus pulls me a little closer.
“Whatever happens next,” he whispers, barely audible, “I will come for you. You’ll be safe. Hold your own, Zoya. I know you can.”
Then he looks at me, steady and clear.
“You were Zoya Kopolova when I met you. You’re Zoya McCarthy now. No one stands in your way, lass.”
Keenan plants his hands on his hips. “Zoya, my father. Keenan McCarthy. Dad—” Seamus starts, but Keenan cuts him off with a look.
“You brought a fucking Kopolov into my house,” Keenan says. Not loud. Just final.
Seamus stiffens. I see the tightness in his jaw, the fight he wants to wage. But he says nothing. This is still his father’s kingdom, and even the heir has to bow.
