Page 71 of Unrequited
But if I had it to do over again, I wouldn’t change a goddamn thing, not one, even though the consequences will be severe.
I had to. Ihadto.
Zoya McCarthy is mine.
“This is your home?” she asks, her voice soft and uncertain. Gentle and sweet as anything.
I don’t deserve a woman like her.
I always imagined I’d be wed to someone my father handpicked. That’s the Irish way. Hell, it’s the way for most of us raised in power and expectation.
But I broke every damn rule to get her into my bed. And I’d break them all again.
I nod. “Aye. Bought it years back. No one comes here unless I let them.”
She swallows, and her eyes go wide. She’s starting to see, it’s not just a house. It’s a sanctuary. A choice.
I park the car and catch her trying to open the door.
“Ah-ah,” I warn gently. She freezes. Smart girl, obedient without being meek.
I get out, walk around, and open her door myself. Then I hold out my hand, and she places hers in mine. It’s small, delicate, chilled from the night air.
I bend down a little. “Why didn’t you tell me you were cold, lass?” I ask, taking both her hands in mine, rubbing warmth into her skin.
Once I feel the cold leaving her, I kiss her fingers before letting go. She stares up at me, wide-eyed.
“It’s chilly here,” she whispers, giving a little shiver.
“Aye, it is,” I say. “Ballyhock nights are damp and seep into your bones, even this time of year. I’ll get a fire going.”
“You have a fireplace?” she asks, smiling just a bit, her eyes still wide with wonder.
I shrug. “One of those electric jobs, not the real thing, but no mess either. We’ve a fire pit out back, but…” I trail off, looking at her. “I want you inside till I say otherwise.”
She nods, swallowing hard. Doesn’t push back. I don’t press her either. Not tonight.
“Come on,” I tell her gently. “This is my home, for now. We’ll be here a little while.”
She doesn’t ask how long.
I may not have married the woman my father chose, but I married right.
Zoya is gentle as a doe, but there’s steel in her spine. She knows the ways of men like me.
She moves quietly through the house, careful, taking everything in with those wide eyes.
Stone floors catch her attention. She asks about them. I nod, get the fire going, and put the kettle on.
I’d open the windows so she could hear the sea, but I don’t want her getting cold again.
I like her here with me. I imagined her here with me.
This is the one place in the world where I don’t wear a mask.
My cousin Colm shows up just before dark. He’s loyal, brutal, and knows his place.
I step outside and speak to him quickly. He doesn’t ask questions. He knows better.
