Chapter 25 The next morning, when I wake, the house is already quiet. Seamus is gone. No note. No sound. I sit up, frowning, wondering where he's gone. Did he even go to bed last night? I pad downstairs barefoot, slowly, half hoping I don't run into anyone else. This isn't my home, not really. Not yet. But I need to start treating it like it is, at least for now. We'll be here a while, I think. From the corridor, I glance out the wide window facing east. The sun is unforgiving, blazing and relentless, and there on the lawn, I see him. Seamus. With... I squint. Ashland? Their heads are bowed close together. They don't see me. Their posture is intimate, conspiratorial. Ashland laughs, tossing his head back like he just heard something hysterical. But Seamus? He doesn't laugh. His hands are jammed deep into his pockets, his jaw set, his mouth a hard, grim line. Strange. Why would he be talking to Ashland? He killed a man last night for disrespecting me, and Ashland's been the absolute worst. I keep walking, refusing to linger. This isn't my business. Is it? But either way, I don't want to know. I don't want to have to know. Seamus turns then, catching sight of me from across the lawn. Our eyes lock for a second. But he doesn't come after me. Doesn't explain. Just nods. A single, dismissive nod. Like that's enough. It's not. I head toward the kitchen. Caitlin and I had made plans. Well, I promised her I'd show her how to make pirozhki this morning. Something simple, sweet and familiar. She's already busy when I walk in, humming softly to herself, her hands moving with the kind of ease only years of practice bring. She looks up, sees me, and offers a warm, easy smile. "Good morning, lovely," she says, placing a mug in front of me, steam curling into the air. "How are you today?" "I'm good," I answer automatically. But there's weight at the end of that sentence, a silent question hanging in the space between us. She sits beside me. "Here's your tea. Just like you like it." Her smile is soft, maternal. "You know, at home I was always the one who put the kettle on for everyone else." She smiles. "Helps, doesn't it? Listen, I know we don't know each other very well," she begins, "but when I moved here, Keenan's mam, Maeve, was an absolute joy to me. She's been gone a couple of years now. God, I loved her. She made me feel like I belonged." She glances down for a beat, her fingers tightening around her mug. "She was like a mother to me, you know." I nod, swallowing hard. "I lost mine young," I manage, my throat tightening with the memory. "And your sister's... far, yes? Complicated history?" "She's in South Africa," I reply softly. "We haven't been close for a while. There's no problem between us, we're just distant." She nods, gentle, but doesn't pry. "I don't want to overstep, love. I just want you to know, I'm here. For whatever you need. You don't have to do it alone." I smile at her, small but genuine. "Thank you. I mean it. I appreciate it." I glance away, uncomfortable with how kind she is. "I just... I don't like that our families are feuding. I don't like the fighting. I like peace. I hate conflict." She raises a brow, grinning. "Yet here you are. Russian Bratva, married into the Irish mob. Sounds like conflict might be our middle names, huh?" I laugh, in spite of myself. "Apparently." She winks and takes a long sip of her tea. "I find it helps if you add a splash of Jack Daniels to the tea. Calms the nerves." "For breakfast?" "Oh, what they don't know won't kill them, eh?" I shake my head, laughing. I sigh. Now it's my turn to tread carefully. "I don't want to overstep, but... I think your husband doesn't like me?" "Oh, love, no. Keenan and I talk about everything. He keeps nothing from me after all these years. Been married for decades now. Raised all these kids together. And I can promise you, it's nothing personal. Give him time, love." She sighs, nostalgic. "Though it was different for us at first. His dad died the same day we got married. So he took the reins while grieving. He's been through it, believe me. And it's worn on him. His health, his mind... it takes a toll running a crew like this." I nod. "I imagine it does. Rafail had gray hair before he hit thirty." "Rafail's your oldest brother, aye?" "Yes," I say. "He became my guardian when my parents died. He was eighteen." She leans in slightly, her voice softer. "If I can tell you anything, Zoya, it's this: Our pain and our loyalty, that's what binds us. My husband, he doesn't dislike you. He wants peace, too, just like you and I do. But he doesn't agree with how Seamus went about all this." "I get that," I murmur. "So does Rafail. I just wish I could make them talk. It's like one of those romance novels, where you just scream at the pages, 'Just talk to each other already!' But they never do." "Romance novels?" she asks with a sparkle in her eye. I shrug. "My sister-in-law's obsessed. She gives me all her recommendations." "Oh, fascinating," Caitlin says, grinning. "I read them too. My daughters got me into them." She winks again. "Now. I'm starving. And I wish I could cook better because, let's be honest, the way to a man's heart is absolutely through his stomach, no?" I laugh. "So they say." We pull the first round of pirozhki out of the oven, warm and fragrant. "Sometimes we fill them with sweetened cheese and vanilla, sometimes apple or berry jam, or a poppyseed paste." "Oh, Zoya. These look divine," she says, beaming. "I don't care what my husband says. My son made a good choice." We laugh, and her words warm me. But they don't settle the gnawing unease in my gut. But here, in Caitlin's kitchen, stirring batter beside her steady presence, it almost fades. Almost. "Kyla went into town to pick up some clothes for you," she tells me. "I would've taken you myself, but Seamus asked you to stay nearby. Bronwyn's at school." "Right." "I was very young when I had Seamus, you know. He's a bit older than the others." I nod. "Now, maybe you can help me put together a plan to cook this week?" "I'd love to." I help her plan while keeping half an eye on the door, waiting for my husband. We plan the week's meals together. I show her my family's favorite Russian dishes, pelmeni, borscht, pirozhki, and stuffed cabbage. She suggests Irish classics, soda bread, colcannon, and corned beef. "It'll be a mix of both, then," I say, jotting down ideas on a pad of paper. It feels almost symbolic. "There's a website I use for these recipes." I reach for my phone to look up a recipe, when I realize I didn't bring my phone, but Seamus's by accident. I must've grabbed the wrong one off the bedside table. "Oops," I murmur with an apologetic smile. "Wrong phone." "It's all right," Caitlin says, reaching over. "We all have access in case of emergency. I can turn it on to get the recipes." She presses her thumb to the screen. It unlocks. Interesting. His mother can access his phone, but I can't. I scroll through for the recipe, trying to ignore the three unread message notifications blinking at the top. But finally, when Caitlin's back is turned, curiosity gets the best of me. A preview of the message catches my eye. Rafail Kopolov. My blood turns cold. Trembling, I swipe down to read the preview. Rafail You deceived her. Release Zoya or we're coming for you. What? Oh god. My stomach knots, and my skin goes cold. I drop the phone like it burns. "I need to grab mine," I say, already on my feet. "Be right back." I dart through the house, my heart pounding, panic rising. He's not in the kitchen. Not on the lawn. Where is Seamus? I race to our bedroom, slide his phone back onto the table like it never moved, and grab my own. Then I search for him. Desperately. I shouldn't have looked at his phone. I know that. Maybe the message meant something different. Maybe I misread it, saw only what I feared. But still, why would Rafail think I'm here against my will? What exactly happened to make him question that? Oh god. I need to talk to him. I turn, and just like that, I walk straight into Seamus. "Whoa, easy there, love." He catches me without hesitation, wrapping his arms firmly around my waist, his chest warm and solid. "Zoya," he murmurs. "Y'alright?" "I'm all right," I say quickly. "I was just cooking in the kitchen with your mom." He smiles and strokes slow, deliberate circles down my spine, fingers trailing heat and grounding me in the moment. "Are you? I love that. She's a good woman. You're like her," he adds, softer now. Then he bends, brushing a kiss to my cheek, tender, possessive, familiar. "Seamus," I whisper, barely trusting my voice, "tell me what's going on." He falls silent. And my heart starts pounding like a drum trapped in my ribs. That kind of silence speaks louder than words. "Do you... Do you regret taking me?" His arms tighten just slightly, not enough to hurt, but just enough to say he's hiding something. Enough to make me feel like there's something heavy weighing him down. "Of course not." "All right," I say quietly, not entirely convinced. "You left your phone on the bedside table." "Oh, I wondered," he replies. "Christ, my father would've had my head if he sent a message and I missed it." He strides across the room and grabs his phone. I watch him as he unlocks it, scrolls through it, and frowns. His brows knit together. Scrolls again. Then, nothing. He pockets the phone like it's nothing. "What's going on?" I ask, softly but firmly. "My father didn't text," he says with a smile. Too fast. Too smooth. Like it's rehearsed. Either he's hiding something, or he really doesn't want me to know what Rafail said. "Go back to mam if you'd like," he says, his tone shifting. "I have business to tend to, love." Business. A word that could mean a thousand things. I can't stop thinking: Does this business have anything to do with hurting my family? "I'm just uneasy, Seamus," I tell him gently. "I wish there could be peace between our families." "I know," he replies, almost sharply. "Don't you know I know that? I promise. I'm doing everything I can to make that happen." "Are you sure you don't regret marrying me?" I repeat again. He turns to me slowly, and there's a warning glint in his eyes. "Ask me that again, and I'll put you right over my knee." I blink. "Regret taking you?" he says, his voice rising. "Jesus freaking Christ, woman. It was the proudest moment of my life." Then he turns, and just like that, he's gone. I shower, dress, and get ready. I return to the kitchen, but I'm still stuck on everything we just said... and everything we didn't. I text Rafail. Hey how are you? Things are good here. I met Caitlin McCarthy and I love her. The response comes back quickly. Rafail He treating you well? So well I wonder if my response is too canned, too rapid. Will he believe me? All he writes back is: Rafail Glad you're doing okay. Nothing else. He doesn't believe me. He thinks I'm pretending. But why? What happened to make him think I'm lying? What are my brothers thinking? What are they planning? Don't they know that half the men in this house blame them for the bloodshed, for the men they lost? I was the one who saw it all. I was there. I watched Seamus take them down. What if I'm the reason Seamus loses everything? What if they turn on him because of me? What if he dies, and it's my fault? My eyes flutter closed, and I force a deep breath. Sometimes this estate feels like a fortress. Other times, it's a prison. Over the next few days, Kyla brings me clothes. She doesn't bother with pleasantries. She's polite in the way a soldier is: brisk, impersonal, calculated. Bronwyn, though, she's different. She makes it easy to talk. I end up showing her and Caitlin how to make some of our family's favorite dishes, and in just a few days, they're making them almost as well as I can. That night, I prepare dinner, something special. One of my family's signature Russian dishes: steaming pelmeni with sour cream and butter, fresh dill chopped fine, and black bread on the side. Comfort food from home. For dessert, I try something Irish I found online, a whiskey-laced bread pudding soaked in cream. A bridge between worlds, I think. At the table, Keenan eyes the plate in front of him with curiosity. His mouth quirks up. "Is this some sort of ploy?" he asks, amusement dancing in his voice. "What do you mean?" I say. "Pairing the Russian food with the Irish?" He arches a brow. "Are you trying to get me to literally swallow peace, Zoya?" Heat flushes up my cheeks. I look away. "Da," Seamus mutters, frowning. "She's an expert at cooking Russian food, and she's learning to cook Irish. What's your point?" Dinner is a little stilted after that. A little too quiet, too careful. Later, alone in the sitting room, with the fire low, the light casting soft shadows on the walls, I finally say it. "I want to go back to our house." My voice is soft. Not demanding, just aching. "Why do we have to stay here?" "It's safest for now," he says. "Unfortunately." "Will they talk about me behind closed doors?" I ask. "They don't want me here, Seamus." He sighs and runs a hand over his face. "I'm trying to protect you, Zoya." "You're hiding things." "I'm keeping you safe," he snaps. "From what?" I press. "The truth?" He doesn't deny it. I stand. The ache in my chest spreads like a bruise under my ribs. "Are you sure you don't regret this?" I whisper. "Regret me?" He doesn't answer right away. That pause, it shatters something. "No," he says at last. "Of course I don't. Zoya, I wish I could tell you more, but I'm working on this. Every second. I promise." "I don't belong here," I say, the words painful to even say. "I don't belong with the Irish. I'm a fish out of water. A square peg in a round hole." He reaches for me, but I pull away. I can't stay. Not right now. I leave the room before I break down because the one thing I can't say out loud is the one thing I can't stop thinking: What if he dies because of me? What if they turn on him, and it's my fault? That night, I fall asleep long before he does. He paces on the balcony, phone in his hand, fingers flying across the screen, sending texts like he's trying to fight a war with words. I think about the moments he made me believe in us. Every kiss, every whispered promise. Every time he held me, like I was his anchor. The months that kept us apart. 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