Page 142 of Unrequited
He’s been distant since yesterday. Cold. Not cruel, just… gone. He barely touched me. When I asked what was wrong, he wouldn’t tell me. I don’t like this. This not-knowing. This shift.
He leaves the room without a word, and I feel it like a slap. The sting of failure, low in my belly. I’m not stupid.
I know what pregnancy would’ve meant. It would’ve been a tether. A bridge. A reason. It would’ve proved this was more than obsession and madness and forced proximity. That there was something real, something secret and blooming beneath it all.
Without it… what am I? A hostage. A complication too dangerous to set free. A liability.
But then, why did he look almost relieved? Why did his shoulders sink, his jaw unclench, as if a burden had been lifted?
He's relieved I'm not pregnant.
Why?
I wrap my arms around myself, aching. And I follow him.
It’s late afternoon. The sky’s dipped in gold, the kind of light that clings to your skin and makes the world feel too sharp, too vivid. The cliffs stretch out wide before us, open and wild. My god, it’s gorgeous.
And I hate how much I love it here.
It makes me feel like a traitor. Like I’ve traded in Moscow. Like this place has worked its way under my skin, and I’ve denied who I am.
I hate that I love walking beside him, even when the silence between us feels heavy with all the things we’re not saying.
He glances over his shoulder at me, then reaches out a hand. And I take it. Quietly.
We don’t speak as we walk. Just the sound of gravel crunching beneath our boots and the distant cries of gulls overhead.
“I’m sorry, little Zoya,” he murmurs. “My sweet lass.”
I don’t ask what he’s sorry for. I already know.
Sorry for the distance. Sorry for dragging me into this storm. Sorry it’s all so tangled, so damn complicated.
I feel eyes on me. Cold. Measuring.
When I turn, I catch the flick of a curtain in the window behind us. Kyla. She's always watching.
“She doesn’t like me,” I say softly. “Why?”
He doesn’t look at me. “I suspect she reports to Branson.”
My stomach twists. “And you let her?”
“I don’t have a choice,” he bites out. “Not now that he’s back. There are eyes and ears everywhere, Zoya. One wrong breath and it all goes back to him.”
“I don’t understand,” I whisper. “Why doesn’t your father believe you, Seamus? After everything?”
“I was close,” he says, his eyes shadowed. “So bloody close. He was just beginning to trust me again.”
He pulls his hand from mine and shoves both into his coat pockets. The absence is sharp. It feels like rejection.
“Taking you… they didn’t understand. My family didn’t. And maybe now, I don’t either.” He stops himself, then shakes his head and doesn’t finish.
I frown. “But why Branson? Why him?”
“When I was a child,” Seamus says, “he saved my father’s life. He’s earned my father’s loyalty. And my father, he wants the easier truth. That Branson isn’t a threat. That I’m just young and naive.”
It stings, hearing him call himself young. He’s nearly a generation older than me.
