Chapter 17 I feel like I'm betraying my family just for enjoying even a second of this. But I am. God, I am. The way Seamus holds me, it makes me feel protected in a way I never felt, even at home. Yes, my brothers would've killed anyone who dared touch me, but this... this is different. This is my husband. I've taken his name. Have I taken a new identity too? I look up into his deep blue eyes. If I didn't know who he was, if I hadn't heard the whispers and the warnings, I might've said he looks almost boyish, just now anyway. Almost. But the rugged scruff along his jaw, the way his lips press in that tight, serious line, remind me who he really is. "It's been a long day," he murmurs. "Let's get you to bed, lass." I like it when he calls me that. Lass. Love. All those little endearments, dipped in that Irish accent. I'll give myself a moment to grieve everything I've left behind, but maybe, just maybe, I can still make something out of this. "Let's get you to bed," he says again. The rest blurs after that because all I can think is-what if he touches me? What if things go further? I remember his apartment. The way he held me. The way he kissed me like I was already his. It felt... right. And now? After everything? He doesn't push. He just lifts me as if I weigh nothing. Carries me like I'm precious. "To bed with you," he says once more. Gentle. Quiet. Protective. And for the first time, I start to wonder... maybe this is who he really is. Maybe the Seamus McCarthy the world fears isn't all there is. Maybe... this is the man I've married. This man, this man is the one who says he loves me. Does he though? He says he does. Swears it, even. Says he'll prove it. And here I am, standing in the middle of it all, dressed in his huge T-shirt. Not a stitch of makeup on. Hair a complete disaster. And still, he looks right at me and says I'm beautiful. Says I'm his. I wasn't prepared for the house. For the bedroom. For how it would all feel. It's nothing like I imagined. Nothing like the man who's brought me here. The outside is all old stone and ivy, with coastal views that hit you like something out of a dream. This place feels like it's been carved into the edge of the world, tucked between sea and forest. Ancient. Safe. Hidden. Seamus's. Inside, it's clean and sharp. Everything intentional. He told me he doesn't come here often. That catches me. Where else does he go then, if not here? That thought clings. His bedroom is a study in contradiction. Spartan and expensive. Cold in the way it looks, but not in how it feels. Like him, it doesn't invite you in; it dares you to stay. One whole side of the room is glass. Towering windows that stretch up, looking straight out over misty cliffs and the wide-open sea. I can't wait to crack them open, to breathe in the salt and brine. He's talked about the ocean so vividly, and now, I see why. Heavy blackout curtains hang off to the side. Thick enough to blot out the world, but they're open now, as if he likes to see into the night. To be ready. To know what's coming. The bed's massive, of course it is. King-sized, dark wood, low frame, no headboard. Iron fixtures. Stark. Utilitarian. Masculine. Him. The sheets are charcoal gray. There's only a handful of pillows, nothing decorative, nothing soft or fussy. No clutter. Just the essentials. There's an electric fireplace humming quietly, and beside it, a single leather chair, scuffed and broken in. It looks like it's lived a life or two. Maybe it belonged to someone else once. Maybe it was gifted. Either way, that chair has a story, and I can already picture him in it, watching the fire flicker in the hearth. The hearth is old stone, rough and warm to the touch. Across from the bed, there's a dark oak armoire. Everything else fades into quiet. Dark floorboards. Unassuming light fixtures. The faint scent of leather lingering in the air. There's nothing personal here, no photographs, no knickknacks. Except... One thing on the nightstand catches my eye. It stops me. My pink hair tie? He looks almost sheepish when he sees me staring at it. "Aye," he says. "You left it at the pub once. I wore it around my wrist for a bit when no one was looking. Kept it in my pocket after that. Like a little good luck charm." "You kept my hair tie?" "Aye. That a problem?" And then that glint in his eye, that challenge in his voice. "Darling, when are you going to get it through your pretty head? I escaped jail for you, Zoya. And you're surprised I kept your hair tie?" I wonder if he thought of it behind bars. If he wished he could have his little talisman. I had let myself get angry with him. I gave in to that sharp, pulsing heat that flared inside me when he didn't show up. That tightness in my chest, that sting behind my eyes, I felt it all. It felt like my greatest fear came true. He had used me. Just used me. Like I was nothing more than a pawn on his board. Like I was just a means to an end. That he never wanted me at all. Not really. Not Zoya Kopolova, the girl, not the woman, not the heart beating behind the name. And while my family has never made me feel that way intentionally, that kind of fear still lived in the corners. Maybe it comes with the territory. The youngest. The smallest. The one they kept on the sidelines, out of the blood and bone and tragedy that make up our legacy. My brothers and sister have always known things before I did. Always protected me in their own way. In that cold, unyielding Bratva way that still feels like love, even when it cuts. So when Seamus disappeared, after the supposed attack on my family, and I kept coming back, week after week, praying for a sign of him... I knew. I knew the truth that gutted me. He was done with me. I was a game piece he'd moved off the board. But now... now I'm in his home. "Let's get to bed, love," he says, thick and husky, like smoke and velvet. Morning will come soon. And I know, it settles deep in my chest, that our time together is limited. That something's going to break. I can feel it hovering just out of reach. He looks away, his brows furrowing, like he's trying to stop himself from saying what we both know. That this, us, is going to go fast. Too fast. I nod, biting back everything I want to scream. "Bed," he says again. Firmer now. But doesn't he want to come too? Isn't this the part where there are rules? I stand there frozen, unsure, and he comes to me. Moves like a shadow over moonlight. He bends, brushes a strand of hair behind my ear, and his voice is a quiet growl that curls down my spine. "My love," he murmurs. "I thought I explained my expectations to you. When I tell you to do something, I expect obedience." He pauses. "Is there a problem?" My lips tug downward into a frown even as my pulse hammers. I swallow hard, the words caught in my throat. "Another rule," he whispers, so soft it's almost cruel. "When I ask you a question, I expect an answer. Doesn't have to be your life story. Doesn't have to be much. But one answer, love. Or there will be consequences." He kisses my cheek. Gentle. His mouth is to my ear. "It's our first week together. I'll let this one slide. But don't make me repeat myself again." I nod, then swallow. Barely a whisper escapes. "Yes, sir." His eyes flash, dark and knowing. He likes that. I can feel it. My cheeks go up in flames. My belly swoops and tightens, and I swallow again. "I'm going to take it easy on you tonight," he says, stepping back just a bit. "I won't punish you. Not on our wedding night. But I did ask a question." He tilts his head, watching me closely. "So let me ask again. You seem like you don't want to go to sleep. What's the problem, love?" I can barely get the words out. "It's our... our wedding night." Doesn't he want me? Shouldn't we...? I fidget, flushed and nervous. "Aren't there... rules?" My voice breaks on the last word. He chuckles, low and dark. Clearly amused. "Ah, angel," he says, and kisses my cheek again. "Aren't you a sight." Then he nods, just once. "Yes. There are rules. We're expected to consummate the marriage. Both the Irish and the Russians will expect it to be official." "I... I know," I whisper. He laughs then, really laughs, and god, my heart can hardly stand it. It's so rare to see his face light up like that. "You're wondering why I haven't taken you to bed," he says, his words thick with something unnamable. "Because I saw the way you looked. I saw the fear in your eyes." He pauses. That shadow returns. "And I don't want you to fear me." A beat. "Unless you disobey me. Then? It's appropriate." The heat that swells inside me is terrifying in its own way. It's not just fear. It's something deeper. Darker. Something I've never felt before. "Don't you want me?" I whisper. He doesn't hesitate. Turns me to face him, sits on the edge of the bed, spreads his knees, and pulls me into the space between them. "My sweet," he says, so gently it shatters me. And that's when I feel it. The strain of his arousal pressing against his trousers. The hard, undeniable truth of what I do to him. He's big. God, so big. And I can see now, see it in his restraint, in the tightness of his jaw, that he's holding himself back. "Don't you understand?" he says. "It's because of the way I feel about you that I'm exercising self-control. You're the only woman who's ever made me feel like I might lose all of it, all my control. Every damn thread of it. Understand?" I nod. Swallow. "Yes." "Good," he says. "I don't want our first night to be anything but perfect. And by my logic, we've got at least a day before anyone comes looking. I've got surveillance on every entrance. No one's getting in." He cups the back of my head, presses his mouth to my cheek. "So tonight, we sleep. I get to fall asleep with you beside me. And when I wake, you'll still be here." He kisses me, warm and tender. "Tomorrow, we'll consummate our marriage." I nod. "All right." And suddenly, all the tension leaks out of me. I'm so tired I can barely stand. But I've never felt safer. My eyes feel heavy. My limbs feel heavy. I can barely move. "Now lie down in bed," he says gently before he turns me around and lands a smack to my ass, not soft, not playful. It's affectionate, yes, but it still stings in that possessive way only he can manage. The heat rises in my cheeks, crawling up my neck. I swallow hard. Because I know there's more where that came from. More heat. More claim. More Seamus. "Get up in bed. I want you next to me," he murmurs. "I want to feel you when I roll over in the middle of the night." His voice is almost a growl now, like he's been starving for this, starving for me. His eyes darken, clouded with that storm I know lives in him, that pain he's always carried. "I've dreamt of this," he admits. And there's weight behind those words. Heavy, thick weight. Pain and longing twisted together. "Every time I wanted to escape that prison," he says. "Every time they tortured me... hurt me... I thought of this. I thought of you. Knowing you were out here. Knowing I was going to come for you. That no matter what they did to me, after everything settled, you were mine." His. He says it like a vow, like a possession, like a prayer. "Now, love, I want you to rest. Close your eyes." He cups my cheek, his thumb brushing along my skin like he's memorizing it. "I'm going to tell you a story, see?" I nod. He's going to tell me a story. Seamus. My Seamus. Telling stories in the dark like this? Is this... cute? Does Seamus even do cute? I have a feeling I'm the only one who'll ever witness this side of him. And I like it. I love it, actually. "Okay," I say. "But give me a kiss first." He chuckles softly, low in his chest. "Love," he murmurs, "always a goodnight kiss, aye?" I tilt my face toward him, and he looks at me like I'm the most sacred thing he's ever held. His thumb sweeps over my cheekbone again, so slow, so reverent, and then he leans in and brushes his lips against mine, a soft, sweet, easy kiss that still manages to steal my breath. It's our wedding night. And we're not making love. I'm tired. He's tired. And it's okay. It's more than okay. I rest my head against his chest, and he starts. "Once upon a time in a land far, far away... there was a man who was a prince." I close my eyes. Let myself fall into his voice. "He was in line for the throne," Seamus says, "but while he waited, his father's most trusted advisor betrayed him. Did terrible, wicked things in the name of power. All while pretending to serve the crown. The king trusted him, blindly. The prince tried to warn his father, but he wouldn't listen because he was younger, less experienced, and the king valued his advisor's word. But the prince knew," he continues. "He knew that the advisor was plotting to steal the throne. And worse, that he wasn't working alone. There were others. Men who wanted the crown. Men who were willing to bleed the kingdom dry to have it. So the prince," Seamus says, "lured his men to a place where the advisor believed their enemies were. And the prince did what had to be done. Killed them all." My heart stutters. "His boss, his king, called. Asked if there were survivors. The prince knew that if he told the truth, if he said there was one left, the woman he loved would be hunted down. So he lied. Told his boss everyone was dead. But she lived," he says softly. "The woman the prince loved, she lived. He kept his distance. Let her believe he didn't love her. Took the fall, went to prison. He deserved it. He wasn't innocent. But while behind bars, he found out she was engaged. That she was moving on." He exhales. "So he escaped. Came for her. But it was all to keep her. All to make her his. And he had a plan," he whispers. "To take the throne. To rule, with her by his side. And once he had it... he'd make peace with the Russians. He'd do right by her family. And put an end to war. And they did end the war," he finishes. "Because he kept his vow. Loved her like she was a queen. And in the end, they ruled together. She was light to his dark. Kind and just, where he was brutal. And the king and queen lived happily ever after." I fall asleep to those words. A fairy tale of blood and crowns. Thrones. Betrayal. Power. I wake the next morning strangely refreshed, even though I dreamed all night, vivid, violent dreams of kingdoms and broken loyalties, of bloodied hands and golden crowns. I roll over. Seamus isn't in bed. I glance around the room, instinct prickling... and then I see him. Outside. Oh. My. God. I saw him last night, of course. But I was too shy, too drained to really see him. Now though? Holy hell. He's drenched in sweat, shirtless, gleaming under the early sun, wearing nothing but a pair of black sports shorts and trainers. His body is carved, every muscle pulled taut, every inch of him straining with energy. He moves like a predator who's just been uncaged. I watch him run. Then I see him stop, grab a pull-up bar I hadn't even noticed yesterday, and lift himself, body flexing, muscles bulging. Again. And again. Arms trembling, veins taut, chest heaving. It's mesmerizing. This is my husband. This living, breathing, sweating god of a man is mine. My breasts feel full. My thighs ache. I can feel that pulse low in my belly, needy and warm and desperate. I swallow again and just watch him, helpless against it. He lets go of the bar and drops to the ground, crunches, elbow to knee, elbow to knee. Controlled. Brutal. Perfect. He's back up, doing tricep dips against a thick bench, over and over, pushing behind him like it's nothing. Then he's off, sprinting around the property in hard, fast laps. Some men hit the gym. Seamus? He builds his kingdom with his bare hands under open skies. The earth is hard-packed beneath him, a mix of sun-scorched gravel and patches of grass. There's a homemade training setup near the edge of the property, ropes hanging from a tree, kettlebells, and tires flipped on their sides. He doesn't need machines. He is the machine. This man was forged for war, for survival. I don't know if he sees me watching from the window, but my god, I see him. And I can't look away. I should pull myself away, make breakfast, explore the kitchen, do something useful. There has to be more food in this house, and I want to feed him. But... I can't move. Because this man is a paragon of masculine perfection. My king. My monster. My husband. I think of the story he told me of the prince, the usurpers, the woman, and her family. The war. The peace. He made peace. Can I trust him? God, I want to. I want to so badly, my heart aches with it. My soul reaches for him like a magnet pulled to its twin. But I don't know if I can. Not yet. And then he's off again, running like the wind, muscle and sweat and fire. Untouchable. Untamed. There's something wild and tender all at once about the way he trains. It's not just strength, but survival. And as I watch, my whole body responds. I'm watching a man become mine. And with every movement, every flex, every breath, my body burns hotter. And hotter. So aroused. So deep in this. My nipples are tight, beaded like pebbles, and my mouth is desert dry. I can't stand the suspense another second. I remember the way he touched me that first time, how careful he was, how gentle, and I remind myself that this is who he can be with me. Who cares what he's like with everyone else? I was raised by brutal men. Vicious, wild, unrelenting. But to me? To me, they've always been tender. That contradiction is carved into my bones. I watch him now, my breath catching in my throat. Heat unfurls low in my belly, blooming, spreading, consuming me like wildfire. I'm burning from the inside out. I've never felt anything like this. It's not just lust, it's something electric, something sharp and sweet. Every nerve ending is singing. My mouth is dry, but my thoughts spiral into want, into need, into a depth I've never tasted before. Am I afraid? Maybe. Or maybe fear's just something I'm used to, something I've always mistook for anticipation. But this... he was gentle with me. He listened. When I trembled, he didn't mock me. He steadied me. His hands, iron-strong but unyielding in their care, held me steady while his eyes, god, those eyes, looked through me. Past the fear. Past the front. He saw me. And now? Now I'm aching. I want to be claimed by Seamus McCarthy. I need to be. I pull myself away from the window, still raw and vibrating from watching him. I pick up my phone. It's been off all night, charging on the side table. I hesitated turning it on, terrified of what messages might wait for me. Ember. Anissa. Ruthie, Vadka's wife. People I loved, people I left behind. People who saw. Ruthie had been soft with me, like a sister. She had her own story, her own pain. And now she's pregnant. Of course she'd reach out. They all saw me get taken, but I told them, I told them I loved him. Would they even believe me? My hands shake as I turn on my phone. I brace for a flood, but it's only four. One is from Rafail. Rafail Even though you're married to Seamus McCarthy, I will protect you, Zoya. I'm one phone call away. I know you said what you did to prevent bloodshed. But if he still lets you keep your phone, if you're still in contact with me, I need you to use it. Please. Text me. I should've reached out sooner. My heart stutters. He thinks Seamus took my phone. Why would he think that? Would Seamus do something like that? Or is that what Rafail would do? Another text. Rodion Hey, sweetheart. Just tell me if you're okay. If he hurts you, if he even lays a finger on you, Zoya, I swear to god, I will drop everything and come. 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 Rafail: 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 Ruthie: 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?" I nod, smiling. "I liked the smell of baked things. Bread. Cinnamon. Sugar. Things that prove something soft can survive heat." His eyes sharpen. There's something about that that gets to him. "Aye. You can have that, if you want." "Do you have one here, in Ballyhock?" "No." He starts listing the places they do have. His voice goes soft with familiarity; he knows every corner, every person behind every counter. It draws something from me. "Aye, well, there's a place called the Ice Cream Shoppe," he starts. "Self-explanatory. And there's coffee... let's see. Let me tell you about Ballyhock." Time halts again, a little. "I'm eager to get to the actual city," I tell him. "So we have a place called the Cottage Brew, right? Cozy coffee. Soda bread. Then there's The Blimey Pub, which kinda speaks for itself. Do you like Guinness?" he asks. "I'm not sure. I've never had one." "Wait, what? You've never had a fucking Guinness?" he says, utterly baffled, like I've just confessed a mortal sin. I laugh softly. "We'll fix that, love, we will." "My brothers didn't really like me drinking," I confess. He laughs, shakes his head like he can't believe it. "They practically wean us on Guinness in our bottles." I laugh as he continues. "There's ice cream there now. Gelato. We're getting fancy, thanks to the Italians. D'Agostino owns the Italian shop. And there's this place called The Cheeky Mackerel Coastal Eatery. But no bakery. Not yet." He pauses. "Do you want to open one?" he asks. "Like Anya." The mention of her hits strange... two worlds colliding. I think about Anya's bakery, the one that's nearly caused war between rival factions, because location is everything. "Do you want to open a bakery?" he repeats. I hesitate. "I don't know. Give me time, please." Because it feels like betrayal. Leaving my family. Marrying Seamus. Starting over with flour-dusted dreams and a storefront window. I don't say all that, just keep it tucked inside. "You want me to open a bakery in the middle of a feud?" He shrugs. It's slow and deliberate. "I've seen stranger things." Then he leans back. The light catches his jaw, the faint stubble there. He's not smiling, not exactly, but his face is softer than I've ever seen. If I reached out, I think he'd welcome it. "Did you ever want anything silly?" I ask. He looks away, and his jaw tightens. "Yeah," he says. "Peace." That silences me. Not because it's dramatic, but because it's real. So real. "Let's say we had children," I continue, turning my gaze to the window. "Do you like kids, Seamus?" "I'd like mine." There's honesty there again, the kind you don't argue with. "You planning something, love?" "I am." But I don't tell him what. "If I had children, it'd be a union of two families, wouldn't it?" I tease, rolling my eyes toward him. "It's hypothetical. Humor me. What would you name a boy?" "Oh, I don't know. Never really thought about it. But I know a girl's name." "Yeah?" "Caitlin. After mam. Once you meet her, you'll understand." "That's beautiful." I breathe the name. "Caitlin. You love her?" "Of course I do. Anyone who meets her does." I look away then, suddenly nervous, like I'm breaking open in front of him. "What's the matter, Zoya?" I don't answer, not until he squeezes my knees, and not gently. "Remember the rules," he says softly. "Tell me the truth. What are you thinking, love?" So I do. I tell him. "What if your family doesn't love me? What if they don't like me? What if I don't fit in? I'm different, you know." He turns to face me fully. His eyes hold mine, unwavering. "Anybody who doesn't love you," he says, "is a goddamn fool." And I believe him. Because it's Seamus. Because he says it like it's the most obvious truth in the world. A long silence falls between us. It's not awkward, but comfortable. Natural. "I like this," I whisper when he brushes his thumb across the top of my hand. His eyes flick to mine, then tilt toward the sea. He cants his head. "What's 'this'?" he murmurs. "The quiet? The talking? The solitude?" I don't answer. I just look out at the sea with him. It's endless and constant. "I like this too," he says, his voice quieter now. Thoughtful. "I don't want to be negative, darlin', but I have to tell you. This quiet, it's the calm before the storm." His jaw tightens, and his breath catches like he already knows it too. I nod. "You know, I've got fears of my own," he says after a long pause. "Tell me." The tea's grown cold in my mug, and my belly growls with hunger. "I want to keep you." He looks away. Then looks back. "I know," I tell him with a shrug. "But what's wrong with that?" "I don't know how to keep something safe unless I'm holding it so tight it might suffocate." I reach out and touch his hand. "You don't have to hold me so tight," I whisper. "Choose me, Seamus, if you have to. Then let me choose you back." His fingers wrap tighter around mine, not a prison. And for the first time, he doesn't try to answer with words. He just holds me. "I need a shower," he says finally. "Join me?" A Fated Encounter movie summary talks about Emma Brown who is forced by her father Henry to take her sister Bella's place and marry Tommy Anderson to save her business. Unlike the rumor Tommy turns ou...