Page 58 of Unrequited
My heart thunders.
She blows out a breath. “They call him The Undertaker because no one has ever survived crossing him, and anyone who tried was buried. His code is older than dirt, and he doesn’t break it, not for anything.”
“Oh,” I murmur, quiet and shaken. “Well. Isn’t he married?” I ask. “I mean… men like him usually are. Older. Settled. Right?”
She laughs, a light sound that doesn’t match the weight in my chest. Shakes her head. “He’s notold,” she says. “And no, he’s definitely not married.”
“Oh.”
A chill creeps down my spine, trailing like icy fingers. I sit up straighter and try to swallow—but something hard and dry is lodged in my throat.
I reach for my water glass and sip. Just a little. Just enough to wet my mouth.
“He’s… he’s not?” I manage.
“No. Not TheUndertaker. He’s quite young considering his reputation and rank, actually.” She tilts her head, considering. “Older than you by about ten, twelve years. About Rafail’s age.”
“About Rafail’s age?” I echo. “What else do you know about him?” I ask, trying to sound offhanded.
“He’s the oldest son of Keenan McCarthy,” she tells me. “The head of the McCarthy clan.”
I blink at her. “The McCarthys?”
“They’re powerful,” she says. “In Ireland. Old blood. They live in this little place called Ballyhock.”
The words drop like stones in my stomach.
“Ballyhock,” I repeat, the name catching in my throat. My voice sounds hollow. “That… coastal village. Just outside Dublin.”
The one Seamus has told me about over and over and over again, so vividly I feel like I’ve been there.
Oh my god.
Nooooo.
“Oh my god,” I whisper. “Holy shit. Okay.”
I try to play it off, casual. “Do you happen to know his real name?” I ask. “The Undertaker’s?”
I feel so stupid. Idiotic. How could I have not seen this? How could I have believed something else,anythingelse? But I know. I know the truth before she says it.
My body knows. My bones know. Every nerve ending is screaming.
She looks me straight in the eye. “I think his name is Seamus,” she says.
The lights flicker.
Downstairs, someone screams. It’s like someone flipped a switch—sunlight replaced with shadow. The bedroom is swallowed in darkness.
“That’s strange,” Polina whispers, rising to her feet. “Zoya, Ineed to see what’s going on. Stay here,” she says quickly. “Do you have a weapon?”
“Of course I do,” I reply, steadying myself.
What ishappening? Is it just my hopeless romantic brain wanting to believe he's coming for me—that he meant it when he said he would?No. He came last night. We exchanged words, fired off every emotion like bullets. And now… even if he wanted to claim me, he can’t.
I’m engaged to another man.
Then why do I feel like I’m about to cry?
