Page 131 of Unrequited
I nod. “I understand.”
“But aye. I want you there.”
I throw on clothes just before he hands me a gun.
“Here. Take this.”
My heart pounds harder. “Of course,” I say. “But… why? It’s just your men?”
His expression darkens. “Do you remember what happened at the bar in Russia, darling?”
I nod slowly. I remember. He killed his own men… because not all of them were loyal.
“Right,” I whisper. “Got it.”
We walk downstairs. The house is quiet, heavy with sleep. The voices we heard earlier are gone, swallowed into private rooms. If anyone’s awake, they’re not making their presence known.
Outside, two cars are idling, headlights casting long shadows across the driveway. Seamus nods to a man who opens the passenger door for me, helps me in, and then slides into the driver’s seat.
“You remember the rules, Zoya,” Seamus says as we pull away, giving me a sharp side glance. “Stay quiet. I don’t want to hear a word. Do what I say. This is not the time to fucking push me. Understand? It’s for your own safety.”
“Yes,” I answer quickly. “Of course. I’m not going to disobey you.”
“Because you’re loyal. And brave,” he says. “And sometimes the loyal and brave do fearless things to protect people.”
My stomach drops. “Oh god. Seamus… are you in trouble?”
He shakes his head. “No. I’m reclaiming what’s mine and bringing you with me.”
I wonder what his father told him. “Does your father know you’re going?”
“Aye.”
The warehouse we pull up to is nothing more than a nondescript rectangular box on the edge of town. No lights. No signs. If Seamus hadn’t stopped the car, I would’ve missed it completely.
I follow close behind him, every step echoing in my chest. I whisper a prayer, though I don’t know the words. I just need someone, anyone, to keep him safe. My husband.
Inside, the ceiling yawns high above us. Figures linger in shadows, flickering in and out of view under dim, buzzing bulbs.
They stop when we enter. No one speaks.
Seamus doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t flinch. He stands tall, still, a living monument to danger and dominance.
He looks around. “This is my wife. Zoya.Respect,” he says flatly.
One by one, they rise to their feet, except for one.
He stays seated. Defiant.
Seamus’s gaze locks on him, and the whole room tenses. The air stills. The moment stretches long and sharp before he draws his gun. Fires.
The man drops, crimson blooming on dark hair. No warning. No explanation. His head lolls forward.
I clamp a hand over my mouth, the scream silent behind my fingers. ButI don’t move.
Seamus looks around. “Anybody else want to disrespect my wife?” he asks, lethal and calm.
“No, sir,” comes the chorus. A wave of reverence. Fear. Submission.
