Chapter 16 #3
Then Semyon. Always different. Always distant. His mind works in straight lines and sharp turns, and his texts sound like they were drafted for a military debrief.
Semyon
Zoya. Are you alright? Do you need assistance? Is there anything I can do?
And then, finally, Ruthie.
Ruthie
Sweetie, your brothers are losing it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Rafail cry. But he did. He’s terrified that you’re only there because you had to be. That you told us you loved Seamus to stop the bloodshed. Are you okay? I don’t think you made it up. Did you?
My hands are shaking now as I answer.
To Ruthie:
I didn’t make it up. I do love him. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.
To Rodion:
I love you so much. I’ll tell you if anything happens, but trust me, he takes care of me.
To Semyon:
I’m here of my own will. Please believe that.
To Rafail:
I’m so sorry. I feel like I betrayed all of you. But it’s true. I do love him.
I put the phone down and step back like it’s burned me. More texts start to come in, pings and buzzes vibrating on the counter, but I can’t bring myself to look. Not now. I need space from the guilt, the love, the war between loyalty to my family and my vows to him.
Seamus is my husband now. That has to mean something. Doesn’t it?
I need to cool down. I need to stop thinking about the window and the way my body reacted to seeing him shirtless, the way my chest still burns from the heat of it. I step into the hallway. It’s oddly narrow for a house this size. The floor creaks beneath my bare feet as I pass by closed doors.
And then I pause.
One door is different. Not just shut, but locked. Solid. Old. The kind of old that knows things.
My curiosity flares. Why this door? Why locked? Why does it feel… sacred? Or secret?
I try the handle—no give. Firm and locked tight.
What’s in there?
A private office? Something personal? Secure documents?
Or something darker?
Maybe I’ve watched too many true crime documentaries, but a chill crawls up my spine. Could be bodies. Could be secrets. Could be a red room of pain.
God.
I shake it off and head toward the kitchen. I need to ground myself. I need to do something.
Feed him. That’s what I do. I take care of the people I love.
In the kitchen, I find more eggs. Oatmeal. Bread but nothing else to bake with. No matter, I can make something.
There are two wide windows above the sink. The view is breathtaking, the Irish coastline bathed in morning light. It looks like something from a dream. Nothing Seamus ever described to me did it justice.
And then, movement.
My eyes catch on him outside. Running shirtless, sweat gleaming on his skin. He’s just finished lifting, probably, and now he’s sprinting toward the house like he’s chasing something.
Like he’s chasing me.
God, he’s beautiful. He always is, but when he runs, when he’s wild and free and open like this, it’s almost unbearable to watch. My heart thunders. My pulse flutters.
For a moment, I let myself believe.
Maybe this is real. Maybe this is my husband.
And then he's inside, windblown and flushed, his chest heaving as he brushes the sweat from his brow. His longish dark hair is damp and messy.
“Good morning, beautiful,” he says, his voice low, roughened by exertion.
I’m already walking toward him, tea in hand. Ready to serve him. Ready to love him. Ready to fight every part of me that still doesn’t know if she belongs here.
But maybe… maybe I do.
“You told me you like cream in your tea, no sugar, right?”
“Aye,” he says. “Thank you, lass.” He takes the tea, lifts it to his mouth, and takes a long sip. Exhales like the weight of the whole world is leaving his lungs.
His breathing begins to slow.
“You don’t know what it’s like to wake up and not be alone here anymore,” he says quietly. There’s something so raw in the way he says it, like he's afraid to name it, like saying it out loud will make it too real.
I don’t say anything. Just reach for his hand.
It's maybe the first time I’ve initiated touching him, at least since we came here. My fingers curl gently around his, and I feel him still under my touch. Time feels suspended, hung in the air like dust in sunlight.
Two heartbeats.
“Any word from your family?” I ask softly as we sit on the stone steps outside.
The waves crash on the distant shore, and the scent of salt clings thick in the air. It’s all wind and sea and salt air.
“Aye,” he says, but doesn’t offer any details. Just that one word, like it’s enough. “And yours?”
“Yes.” I nod. “They just want to make sure I’m okay. That I’m not here against my will.”
He sets his cup down beside him, turns to me, and reaches for my hand again.
“And are you, Zoya?”
I let out a breath, long and shaky, like I’m about to hand him a piece of me I’ve kept tucked away.
“You’re the only man I’ve ever wanted, Seamus. Things haven’t gone the way I would’ve chosen… but maybe I can hope a little anyway.”
Because it’s true. All of it.
“I’m here because I want to be,” I tell him. “With you.”
He doesn’t hesitate. His hand tightens around mine.
“And I will have you fall in love with me, Zoya.”
I rest my head on his shoulder. His arm curls around my waist, drawing me into him like a secret he wants to keep close.
“You know, I used to want a bakery,” I say, curled into his warmth. One foot is tucked under me, the other brushing against his leg like it’s accidental. It’s not.
He looks at me like he’s waiting for the punchline.
“You? A bakery?”