Chapter 4 We meet every single week. James the Liar and little Zoya. Every week. For six months. Six whole months, same time, same place. A little hidden world carved out just for us. I start planning everything around our Thursday night secret rendezvous. It becomes the highlight of my existence. I live for my Thursday nights. The only reason I get away with it without my brothers finding out or at least suspecting that something's amiss is because they're damn busy. Traveling, marriage, children, growing our small circle into something larger, more powerful. Sometimes I pretend I'm with one of my friends, but mostly I hide my tracker. And maybe it has something to do with the fact that no one would ever expect Zoya Kopolova to be a sneak. Every Thursday, I bring pastries and stories and questions. And he listens. He watches more than he speaks, his gaze heavy and thoughtful, like he's memorizing me piece by piece. His piercing blue eyes don't leave mine as he listens. I'm fully aware of how hard I'm crushing on him. Just seeing him with those rolled-up sleeves, his tanned, muscular forearms as he leans forward and holds onto my every word... I can't be immune to him, no matter how hard I try. And I do try. A few months in, I gave up and fully owned my crush. It's just a crush... right? And somehow, I started building my life around those meetings. Around him. My Mr. Thursday. There's something inside me that whispers warnings I don't want to hear. That I should be wary. That I should be afraid. That I can't have this man and shouldn't allow myself to be vulnerable around someone like him. Someone so dark, so still. So dangerous. But I can't stop. The more I try to pull away, the more I crave his presence. His voice. His steadiness. The way he calms the chaos in my mind. He has this way about him. "Aye," he'll say, just listening, nodding. "Go on, little lass." Go on, little lass. And I do go on. Go on talking. Go on trusting. Go on falling in love with a man I barely know. He understands the things I've never told anyone, and worse, I do tell him everything. Every dark little corner, every secret I've never dared speak out loud. And he just listens. With that non-judgmental calm that feels like an anchor in a storm. But the more I talk, the more I want. I want him to touch me. To hold me. To kiss me. And still, after six months... all he does is buy me a drink. Walk me out. Keep his distance. He's always there. Always watching. I tell myself that I'm safe with him. It's okay that I'm sneaking around without a guard because James wouldn't let anyone touch me. Sometimes he asks questions, so casually that it almost slips past me. "Did your brother get married?" "Then what happened?" "And after that?" And I answer him. Because I don't know who else to talk to. So I talk to him. I tell him about Anya and Semyon. About how Rodion went to the States and met Ember. How they fell in love and how she betrayed my brothers' trust. How he was forced to marry her after, but it's worked out for them. I tell him about Rafail and Polina, and how they have children now. I tell him how things have shifted. How the rules keep changing. And I tell him what it's like being raised by men like my brothers. "Do you think I'll ever get free of them?" I ask, shaking my head. He gives me a little smirk. "You're here now, aren't you?" "Yes," I say, "but it's tricky. If this were years ago, before they were married and traveling and all, I never would've gotten away with it." He raises a brow. "And yet, every single week, you make it. Seems to me you've got a bit more freedom than you think." "True," I admit, smiling despite myself. One night, he brings me a small gift. A delicate little trinket-a stunning gold ring, looped and swirled with intricate flourishes. It's so pretty it nearly takes my breath away. "It's beautiful," I say, as he slides it onto the index finger of my right hand. "Like you," he says with a soft smile. Later, Ember asks where I got it. I tell her a friend gave it to me. I don't offer details. But now... now I wonder. Who is this strange Irishman? Why is he here, every week, without fail? I've even started dreaming of a future, which is ridiculous. It's all fantasy. Delusion. We never go anywhere, never even leave the pub. Our little private world, as if it's safely cocooned in this quasi anonymity. I know that I can never be with a man like him, or any man my brothers don't choose for me. That's the way of the Bratva and always has been. And something tells me it's a similar situation for him. If it wasn't, he would've made a move on me by now, wouldn't he? But I can't give in to this fantasy. What am I going to do, marry him in this pub? Raise children between booths and whiskey glasses? Right. One day, I ask him, gently, hesitantly, "Can we ever meet somewhere else?" He doesn't answer right away. He just shifts the subject. Eventually, he says, "I don't think it would be safe. And I don't think your brothers would approve, would they?" There's sincerity in his voice, like it's not just about me getting in trouble. It's about him putting me in danger. "You have to understand, lass," he says quietly, "I can't." "I don't." He sighs and blows out a breath. "Let's go for a walk," he says, low and quiet. It's a move I didn't expect. I go with him. We've never been alone before. Not really. We're always in the pub, surrounded by people, noise, and shadows. But this time, it's just us. He's so much taller than I am. So broad-shouldered and powerful that when he walks beside me, I feel small. Protected. He takes my hand, and it fits perfectly in his. Strong. Steady. His dark curls sweep around his temples, soft and unruly. His eyes are a piercing blue that see right through me, clear and deep like the Irish sea he talks about. Craggy cliffs. Wild ocean. The way he said it made it sound like poetry. He smells masculine and sharp, like the edge of something old and untamed. When we walk together, it's clear people fear him. God, do they fear him. They step back when he approaches, lower their voices, and avert their gazes. And I start to realize... I like that people fear him. I feel safe with him, like I've tamed this wild thing that grown men fear. I have the lion eating out of the palm of my hand. Truthfully, I'm used to being around dangerous men. But he's different. The way he carries it, calm and controlled. When we exit the pub, we round a corner. The air is cold and bright with the smell of impending snow. He stops walking and takes my hand. My breath catches as he turns to me. "I want to kiss you, Zoya," he says, and I remember the night months ago when he saved me from an unwanted kiss. This is very, very different. I want to ask him to say my name again. My heart stumbles in my chest. Of course I want to kiss him... more than anything. But the words catch in my throat. "Well," I manage to say with a shaky laugh, "that's convenient. Because I would actually like to kiss you too." God, how lame am I? My cheeks flush. I feel embarrassed, like a girl who doesn't know what she's doing. Because I really don't. I've become complacent with our Thursday night chat sessions, comfortable around this much-older, forbidden man, that I've always forgotten how naive and inexperienced I am. I swallow the lump in my throat. I want him. I want this, so damn bad. "Come here," he murmurs. My heart beats impossibly faster, my body instinctively responding to his command. What would it be like if I were fully under his command? My insides whir with excitement and nerves. He pulls me a little closer. Not roughly. Gently, like I'm something precious he doesn't want to break. He smells like wind and danger and salt. Like something primal. And under that? Warmth. Comfort. Need. "I've never been kissed," I whisper. My voice trembles. I wish it didn't. He stiffens slightly and then tips my chin up to meet his gaze, rough fingers under the thin, vulnerable skin. "Never?" I shake my head. "I told you I've been sheltered, remember?" "Aye, lass," he says quietly. His voice drops, rough with feeling. "My fucking god. I can't believe I have the privilege of being your first. Come here." My heart squeezes. Thumps. Warmth spreads across my chest and dips lower. I love the way he talks. The way every word feels like a promise. And I know, before his lips even touch mine, that this is going to be beautiful. Memorable. Everything I've ever wanted. "I said come here," he says again, even softer. I step toward him, incapable of anything but obeying him. "When a man kisses a woman he cares for," he murmurs, "he needs to make her feel safe." His hand brushes the hair out of my eyes. "It's not just about taking, you know. That's the mistake men make. They take and they take, but this?" His fingers trail down the side of my face. "This is about giving too." I swallow and nod. I don't trust my voice. Just kiss me already. "You're so beautiful," he says. "So fucking beautiful." He shakes his head. "Got a flat here outside of Moscow, you know. So I could show every week." He did? He blows out a breath and holds my gaze. My nerves and fears meld together. A man can't seduce a woman for six months, right? If he were trying to take advantage of me, trying to somehow use me, wouldn't he have already played his hand? "Zoya. When I close my eyes, you're the first thing I see. When I open them, there y'are again." I swallow hard. "Okay," I say, breathless. He chuckles softly. I love that sound. My cheeks heat. He's Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome in the flesh. And all mine, if only for a moment. "I'll tell you what to do," he says. "Close your eyes, if you want to." I look at him, wanting to remember every second. I want to burn the image into my mind. But I close my eyes. I tip my head back and feel his breath against my lips. And then, finally, finally, his mouth meets mine. It's electric. A shock of something pure and wild and aching floods me, lightning in my veins. I stifle a moan and grip his hips. And I kiss him back. His hands settle on my hips like he owns them, with a branding touch that sends fire straight to my core, like he's been waiting his entire life just for the chance to touch me properly. There's no hesitancy in the way he holds me, no gentleness. Just possession. I can't breathe. I can't think. The kiss deepens until it steals the air from my lungs and the thoughts from my head. I love the feel of his fingers digging into my hips, grounding me. I love the heat of his mouth on mine, the way our breaths mingle like we've been doing this forever. I've wanted him. God, I've needed him. I've fantasized about him while lying beneath my sheets in the dark, desperate and aching, touching myself as I pictured exactly this, just a kiss. But this is no gentle dream. This is wildfire and hunger, coiled so tight in my gut it explodes through me like a dam breaking. And then he lifts me. Just lifts me like I weigh nothing, and my legs wrap around his waist on instinct. One hand cradles the back of my head, protective and sure, and he shifts until his back hits the brick wall with a thud that reverberates through both of us. I'm pressed against him, his chest solid, my heart pounding so hard I'm sure he feels it through the thin fabric of his shirt. I've never felt more alive, never felt this real. Every single time I thought about him, every time I touched myself in the dark, it never even came close to this. This feeling. This drugging, dizzying taste of him. "This," he growls into my mouth, his voice raw, desperate. And I love that I did this to him, that I'm the one who made him come undone like this. "This is the only time I get to be selfish," he says. "I want you." I don't understand what he means. Not fully. But some part of me already does. Some part of me knows. This kiss we're stealing? It's borrowed time. It doesn't belong to us. We're not supposed to be doing this, and we both know it. I don't know what chains he wears in his life, but I know every link in mine. Still, I want it. I fucking want him. His hands grip my ass, fingers flexing, and I tighten my legs around him in response. My body answers his call with primal instinct. He kisses me like he's starving, like he's been dying for this moment. Passion, fire, desperation, all of it. And when we finally pull apart, breathless, we stare at each other like we've just survived something catastrophic or discovered something sacred. He's looking at me like he's trying to memorize me, like I'm a prayer he'll say over and over again once I'm gone. "We shouldn't have done that," he whispers, his voice rough and laced with regret. "You don't know what you're doing to me, lass." But I do. I feel it. Every inch of him is tightening with restraint. He's holding himself back with an iron will, like it's taking everything not to take me and walk me into the nearest bed, lay me down, and take my virginity like he owns it. And the scariest part? God, I would let him. I would open myself to him in an instant, without hesitation. Then, slowly, reverently, his hand skims up my back, fingers gliding until they find my bra strap. I'm trembling. My breath stutters. Is he going to unfasten it? Is he going to take me some place where we can be alone? But instead, he exhales, heavy and conflicted, and closes his eyes. His forehead rests against mine. "We can't," he murmurs. "We shouldn't. I'm sorry," he adds, his voice breaking. And this time, I know, I know, he means it. He's not playing. Not hiding. Not being evasive or cryptic. He wants me. This beautiful, dangerous man, who's far too old for me, wants me. Me. Zoya Kopolova. The youngest daughter in the Kopolov family. Innocent, untouched, gangly, awkward Zoya. My god. He bends down and presses his lips to my collarbone like it's holy ground. Like he's worshiping, not taking. And when he kisses his way up my neck, I shiver and moan, my head falling back, my spine arching. I'd give myself to him. No doubts. Not a single question in my mind. Soft, reverent kisses along my jaw, then his mouth finds mine again, and I surrender fully. "I want you," I whisper. "Please." "Tell me," he murmurs into my ear. "Please, sweet lass. Tell me what you want. I want to hear you say it. I couldn't say no to you, even if I tried." His voice is rough, breaking me down with every syllable. "You," I whisper. "I want you. I want to be yours, James. I want... more." What am I asking for? Why would I say such a thing, knowing full well I can't have it? There's a pause. A heartbeat. Then he whispers, "Then I don't want to lie to you." I nod. "Seamus," he says softly, so softly it barely registers. "My name is Seamus." I wait for a click of recognition, but none comes. I don't know the name, not really. But it fits. It feels right. And I know in my bones he's telling the truth now. Seamus is the Irish form of James. "Call me Seamus," he says. "No one else does. Nobody else fucking does." "What do they call you then?" I ask, a small smile tugging at the corners of my lips. He hesitates for a beat before he whispers, "Boss." A jolt vibrates through my hips. My pulse kicks into overdrive. Of course they do, don't they? Then he slides me slowly, sensually down the length of his body, and his erection presses hot and hard against my stomach. I want him. God, I want him so bad it hurts. "Seamus," I beg. He stifles a groan when I say his name. "Please?" But he shakes his head, his jaw clenched. "No. Not now. We can't. It's too dangerous." He takes a deep breath. "If only you knew who I was..." His forehead meets mine on an exhale. The way his face is contorted like this, like nothing short of torture, tells me all I need to know. But how could he possibly be more dangerous than my brothers? Than the men I've grown up around? Yes, I know the Kopolovs are at war with the Irish syndicate, but this can't be the man they're fighting. Matvei said just this morning that the Irish syndicate is operating out of Dublin. They're not here, not in Moscow, and I've heard all the names thrown around, and no one's ever said Seamus. Just because he has an Irish accent doesn't mean he's the enemy. Panic and desire claw at me. I don't want to leave. I don't want to go back to the cold safety of home. I want to go with him. I have to voice my fear. "You don't want me?" I ask, the desperation leaking out before I can stop it. He curls his fingers around the back of my neck and pulls me against his chest. His arms wrap around me like a shield, warm and solid and protective. "I want you too badly," he whispers. "That's the problem, sweet Zoya. I want you so fucking badly, I don't trust myself." He presses a kiss to my forehead. "But you know you have to go home," he says, his voice thick. "Be a good girl for me." I nod, though it breaks me. "I'll see you next week," he says. There's something boyish in his tone now, some tender hope that doesn't match his hard edges. "You have my number," he adds. "If you need to call... if you need anything, lass... call me." And then we part, slowly, like tearing fabric. And with every step I take away from him, it gets harder to keep walking. I don't make it seven more days. I stare at his number over and over, thumb hovering, wondering what would happen if I just called. Or even sent one text. But I don't. It feels wrong somehow, like I'd be taking advantage of him. And I can't do that. Not to him. Not to this man I'm falling so desperately in love with. Can it even be love? It's too soon, too wild, too unknown. I don't even know his last name or where he really comes from. Well, I know he's from Ireland. Okay, that much I know. A small, coastal village, he said. And I believe him. I feel that truth in my bones. But still. I don't know his history. I don't know who he is when he's not looking at me like I'm his salvation. What I do know is this: I definitely have a crush. A dangerous, consuming, heart-in-my-throat crush on a man who is everything the boys Mia hangs around with, who drive fast and get shitfaced with cheap beer, are not. But I have to move on with my life. So I try. There has to be life beyond a man I can't have. So when Mia invites me to a football game, I say yes because I'm trying. Trying to feel normal. To be normal. But the boys she introduces me to? That's all they are. Boys. They don't have rough stubble that scrapes your skin in the best way. None of them have hands that could grip your waist like it's sacred. None of them carry danger and devotion in their eyes. Not like Seamus. My Seamus. The boy who sits next to me talks about video games. His statistics class. How hard midterms are. I stare at him and blow out a breath. He doesn't know how hard life is. His mother still gives him an allowance. I wonder if this boy has ever held a gun. If he could aim it steady and shoot someone right between the eyes to protect someone he loved. Nah. Sigh. Sitting there, surrounded by kids playing at adulthood, I realize I don't belong in this world. Maybe I never did. I was born and raised in the Bratva. And the thought of staying there forever with the old rules, the silent codes, the bloodshed and loyalty, terrifies me. But not as much as this emptiness does. I know what I need. I need someone who knows. Who understands. Someone who's already counted the cost of a life like mine. Who doesn't flinch at consequences. I'm so wrapped in my thoughts and longing that it all happens too fast. One second, I'm laughing at a joke I didn't hear, pretending to care about the score, or some professor's weird haircut, while someone presses me for manicure and G-string opinions for an upcoming trip. My drink sloshes in my hand. I'm thirsty and gulp the whole damn thing. My vision's blurry, then somehow... I'm alone, separated from the others in the crowd. My head throbs. My gaze is unfocused. I stare down at my phone, trying to remember what happened. What the hell is going on? Why does my body feel wrong? Why do I feel like I'm floating away from myself? Oh my god. Did somebody⁠-? What did I drink? How did I get here? I stumble forward, trying to turn back toward the stadium seating, when a hand snatches my wrist. "Hey, gorgeous." It's someone I barely know, a guy from earlier. I don't even remember his name. He wasn't even the dumb one who kept whining about his statistics grade. I barely register him, one of the guys sitting behind us. I think? He smiles at me like he's owed something. "What did you do to me?" I ask, my voice shaking. "My head-did you give me something? You fucking gave me something, didn't you?" Anger surges through me. I'm Zoya fucking Kopolova. My brothers would slit his fucking throat and tear his limbs from his body. Hell, my sister would. I slap at him, but my limbs feel heavy. I'm floating. My voice wobbles. "Leave me alone." My skin is burning, too hot. My heartbeat is a frantic, uneven mess. I don't have enough strength to get away from him. What kind of a fucking loser drugs someone's soda? He steps closer. I go to scream, and his hand clamps over my mouth. "No," he growls. "Uh-uh. You're not gonna make a scene." "Leave me alone," I try again, louder this time. "Don't touch me." I fumble for the phone in my pocket, my fingers trembling. I could call Rafail, Rodion, Semyon. Any of my brothers would come. But if I do... That's the end of pretending. School? Gone. Freedom? A memory. Instead, I smile through the panic. "Alright, alright. Let's take a selfie," I say sweetly. "You want proof, don't you? Sex under the bleachers? Sounds hot." He scowls. "Put that away." I hear voices. Distant, echoing. "Hello? Zoya? Where'd you guys go?" He stiffens and takes a step back. "Don't move," he hisses. His breath reeks of stale beer. "You stay right fucking here." The moment he turns away, I don't even think about what I do. I text Seamus, my fingers trembling. I don't have a lot of time. Help. Under the bleachers. Bobola Stadium. Drugged. Can't fight. My hands tremble. Will the text go through? I don't know. I don't know. Seconds later, a reply bubble pops up. Relief surges through my veins. Seamus Fucking hell stay there. I'm on my way. Whatever you do DO NOT LEAVE STALL How? How do I stall a man who's trying to hurt me? He comes back, and I force myself to smile. My voice wobbles, and my thoughts are scrambled. "What did you tell them?" "I said we needed a minute alone," he says. I force a giggle. "All you need is a minute?" My knees buckle. I collapse like my legs have given out. I gag. And then I vomit, right there. On the cement. "Oh, gross," he groans, backing up. "It's your fault," I spit, wiping my mouth, retching again for effect. "You put something in my drink. What'd you think was gonna happen? I'd fall in love with you?" He snarls and then shoves me. I fall, cracking my head against the underside of the bleachers. Blood trickles into my eye. My god. This is exactly what Rafail warned me about, exactly what I am supposed to avoid. And yet-here I am. Under the bleachers. With children. And I'm done pretending. I'm only twenty, but I am not a child. I was born into war, raised by criminals, and lived through the brutal assassination of my own parents. I don't belong in this fake-normal world. I fumble for the blade in my boot, but I don't trust myself to use it. He's too big. Too fast. If I slice him and he catches me, the price will be too high. I always bring a knife because I can't carry a gun on campus. They'd find out, and I'd be done. But a knife is tricky and hard to handle in situations like this. The screech of tires. He's here. I don't know how I can be filled with relief and dread simultaneously, but I am. We aren't far from the pub, but he must've flown like the wind. Footsteps... fast, controlled, heavy. And then he's there. Seamus. All black, from head to toe. His eyes are murderous. He doesn't speak. He moves. "What the fuck?" the guy blurts-seconds before Seamus is on him. No warning. No words. Just violence. One punch, then two. Bone cracks, then screams. This isn't a fight but a sentence. He drags the idiot to his feet. A blade gleams in his hand, pulled from somewhere I didn't see. "You don't get to scream through this," he growls. "No one's finding you tonight. How fucking dare you touch her?" As I turn away, there's a sound. A stifled scream. A cry. A gargle. Then silence. Oh god, oh god. When I turn back, my attacker is a crumpled mess. Bloody. Still. His eyes are vacant as he bleeds out onto the gravel. Seamus kneels, then wipes the knife clean. Taps something into his phone like it's routine, as if he's placing a goddamn food order. Then he looks up at me, stormy blue eyes blazing. He cleans his hands on his pants, and the black fabric soaks up the blood. "You alright, love?" he asks, his brows knit over the concern in his eyes. Love. Not girl. Not baby. Not even my name. Just-love. My heart stutters. "I'm fine," I whisper. But it's a lie. I'm not fine. I'm in too deep. And for the first time in my life... I don't want out. He's kneeling on one knee. So gentle. So tender. "You sure yer okay?" I don't know what to do with myself. How can someone be so harsh, so violent-and then suddenly shift into this? It's disorienting. Unnerving. And yet something warm unfurls in my chest, spreading like molten honey. "Yeah." I'm still a little foggy. "But I-I can't go home like this." My throat's scratchy and raw. He nods, not asking questions, and I'm so grateful for that small mercy. I don't have it in me to explain why. If I went home in this state, my brothers would demand to know what happened. Where I'd been. Who touched me. Who hurt me. And if not them, then their wives would. They're like sisters now, just as protective, if not more intuitive. Less oppressive, maybe, but every bit as watchful. I don't want to start another war. I don't want blood on my hands. I don't want to see anyone else punished. This was one person. One predator. And he's already paid the ultimate price. I stare at Seamus. Who is he? And what else is he capable of? "I know, lass," he says, his brogue curling around the words. "I'll take you back to my flat. But only for a bit. Just a little while. You know it's dangerous," he adds with a sad smile. "And I don't want your brothers coming after me." He winks, and that damn dimple appears again, sharp enough to cut through the haze in my head. But there's something underneath his words that makes me hesitate. "Are you sure?" I ask, unsure of everything, especially myself. "I'm sure," he says, more resolute. "Come with me now, lass." He leads me by the hand past the bleachers to the open night air, before he bends and lifts me. I stifle a gasp as his arms come around me and he cradles me to his chest. I shake my head stubbornly. "I can walk," I sing out as we march forward quickly, trying to sound confident. "That's enough now, Zoya." My belly melts when he says my name. "Come back with me. I'll get you something to eat. Maybe it's the lingering drugs or the adrenaline crash, but suddenly my skin feels too tight, my body too warm. I swallow hard, nod, and grab my phone. I text Rodion first-the youngest of my older brothers. He's the most laid-back, the most forgiving. He's covered for me before. He knows what it's like to get into trouble too. Hey, I'm staying at Mia's tonight. We're gonna watch some movies, have popcorn. Nothing wild. He doesn't reply immediately, but I know he's seen it. I know how this works. Mia and I have a system. I always carry a tracking device on me. A small, sleek little thing clipped into my clothes. She has my backup stuffed animal-my old Teddy. All she has to do is bring it into her room and drop the tracker inside. My brothers won't ask questions. They never do because I never give them a reason to. Until now. Until I'm about to do something that would make them lose their minds. I can already picture it-the vein popping in Rafail's forehead, throbbing like it might burst. Semyon's cold, disapproving glare, slicing right through me. Even Rodion, who'd usually take my side, would cross his arms and shake his head. Not angry. Worse, disappointed. I'm not a child anymore. They can't ground me or take away my phone. But I'd still be in massive trouble. I text Mia next. Hey, sorry, but I left early. I'm gonna be out the rest of the night. Can you cover for me? She replies instantly. Mia Of course. Fill me in on the juicy details later. Guilt twists in my chest. I'm lying to my best friend. Sorry to disappoint, there are no juicy details. Not the kind you're thinking of. I gulp. My heart is beating too fast. Mia Fair, fair. I get it. But if juicy things do happen... you better tell me. Will do. I send it, even though we both know I won't. What am I supposed to say? Hey, I almost got raped under the stadium bleachers. Then the dangerous Irish guy who's definitely some kind of criminal, the one I've been quietly obsessing over, murdered my attacker and took me back to his flat. NBD, hugs! Yeah. No. Rodion's response finally comes in. It's brief, but it's enough. Rodion Okay. Be safe. That's all I need. My alibi is set. The night is mine. 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...