Chapter 5 I glance toward the place where the body had been. My attacker. The man who tried to hurt me. I should feel sick. I should feel guilt curling in my belly... but I don't. This isn't the first dead body I've seen. And if I'd had a decent weapon? I would've killed him myself. And it wouldn't have been the first time. I only remember flashes of the night my parents were murdered. I remember Semyon shoving us into a closet, Rafail yelling for us to stay put, Rodion trying to run-and Semyon threatening to hurt him if he did. I remember reaching for Rodion's hand. Holding it. Holding my breath as the unmistakable crack of gunfire echoed around us. That's all I have. I don't remember their funeral or the days after. Just small bits and pieces. Glimpses. The rest of my life has been one long act of survival, raised by brothers and a sister who love me fiercely. Maybe too fiercely. "Well then," I tell Seamus, my voice steadier now. "I'm set?" "Alright," he says, reaching down to brush his fingers against mine. A gentle, grounding touch. "Let's go." A few minutes later, I'm tucked into the passenger seat of a sturdy SUV. It smells like him, leather and spice and something clean and wild. Probably a rental. He's not from here. He doesn't turn on any music. Just drives and talks. He asks me how my night was. Who I was with. I give vague answers, careful answers. I don't want to give him too much. I wonder where his flat is. I wonder what it looks like. Will it smell like him? This moment with him, in the confines of his car... it feels stolen. Illicit. And yet I can't help the way my thoughts spin, racing with questions I shouldn't be asking. What would it be like to go home with him... without having to hide? To just be with him? I can't even imagine. But oh, I want to. God, I want to. I'm a virgin. And now I'm going home with the man I've been crushing on hardcore. Of course my mind leaps to sex. Not that casual sex has ever appealed to me. But this? This wouldn't be casual. Nothing with Seamus could ever be casual. He pulls up to a high-rise building tucked into the city and drives all the way to the back entrance. Discreet and private. Makes sense. "This it?" I ask. "Aye," he says. "You think you can walk on your own, lass?" I glance at him, playful. "You offering to carry me again?" His eyes sparkle. "My god, yer so fuckin' cute," he says, shaking his head. Then he's distracted for a second, talking to someone on the phone, low and clipped. "Go within the hour," he says into the receiver. "Before the game's over. Don't ask me again, McGekrin. You heard my answer." A pause. "Right. Go. Call me." He ends the call and slides his phone into his pocket. Then leans in close to me, his blue eyes piercing mine. And that damn dimple again. "You hungry, lass?" I nod, the fog lifting. The drugs are wearing off, and I feel it now. I'm so damn hungry. Hollowed out. "Yeah," I whisper. "Starving." As we approach the building, he nods at an elderly neighbor with a cane, and the man smiles and greets him back as if Seamus isn't dangerous. As if he didn't just kill someone tonight. And when we reach the entryway of the building, there's a woman trying to balance a baby on one hip and an armful of grocery bags on the other. "Here, I've got it," he says softly, taking the door with one hand and the grocery bags with the other. And my heart melts. He's exactly the kind of guy who would hit the news because of something terrible he did, and the neighbors would all say, "But he was the nicest man!" He's strong. Dangerous. But still a gentleman. I love that about him. I love everything about this man. I know it's a schoolgirl crush, and I'm well aware of my foolish heart. I know I'm infatuated, maybe even delusional. But right now? Right now, I enjoy it. My god, I savor it. And our secret relationship? It feels so good to have something of my own. Something I don't have to share with my family. Something that's mine, just mine. I wonder if he feels the same? So I watch him help his neighbor inside with the groceries, and I take note. If there are bodyguards nearby, they're damn good at discretion because I don't see any. And if anyone in this building is afraid of him, they hide it well. He seems liked. Trusted, even, which doesn't add up. But nothing about him ever really does. Even if this persona of his is just a front or a cover, the interactions seem real. Genuine. And when he opens the door to his flat, I don't know what I was expecting-but it sure as hell wasn't this. It's simple. Stoic. Clean, but lived in. There's a stack of unopened mail on the counter, a single coffee cup abandoned in the sink. There's a kind of old-school charm to it all. On the coffee table, a scattered pile of books, worn and used. Beside them, a notepad and a laptop. It's a studio apartment, compact and efficient. His bed is tucked in the corner, across from the television. A dark-green comforter that's thick and sleek. One single nightstand with a clock and a half-full glass of water. Nothing extravagant. Nothing that screams "Killer." And yet... "How are you feeling?" he asks gently. "Let's get you some food." All I want is to spend time with him. I want to know that I'm safe, that no one is coming after me. I want to live in this fragile little bubble we've created. Just us. Just for now. Please, just for a little while. "I'm definitely feeling better," I say, almost surprised by my own honesty. "Aye," he replies with a smirk. "That boy was a novice then." The way he says it-it's grim. Final. And maybe I should feel something. Horror? Sadness? Guilt? But I don't. "A novice?" I ask, my brows furrowed. I press for more. "What do you mean?" But he doesn't answer. He only gestures toward the couch. "Sit down, Zoya," he says. "Let me take a look at you." Then he crouches in front of me, his hands on either side of my hips. His hair curls slightly at the ends, brushing the tops of his ears. His eyes-god, those eyes-they're the brightest shade of blue I've ever seen. His features are carved, symmetrical, and his cheeks are ruddy. There's pride in the way he holds himself. A fierce, quiet confidence. It makes me feel safe. Untouchable. "Did I do the right thing? Texting you?" I ask, unsure, whispering my doubt out loud. "I told you to call me if you needed me," he replies firmly. "Of course you did the right thing." "I was just afraid that I-" My voice catches. He presses his finger gently to my lips, silencing the fear. "I understand. If you'd called your brothers, you would've opened a whole new kettle of fish, wouldn't you?" I nod. I've always liked the Irish turn of phrases. "I did the right thing," I whisper. He smiles. "Aye. You did." His approval does something to me, something that feels a lot like longing. Since I was a little girl, I always knew how this would end. I'd be married off, arranged by Rafail, no doubt. He'd try to find someone suitable for me, someone proper. My brother isn't a monster, but the family comes first. Love, though? Love has always been out of the question. "Let's get you settled, hmm?" he says, standing back up. Thank god. I could listen to him talk all night. His voice soothes something raw in me. I want to ask him to read to me. To tell me a story. Anything. "I love your voice," I whisper, my cheeks pinkening with the honesty. He glances at me and smiles, and I wonder... I wonder. Maybe he's not as dangerous as I fear. Maybe I've been so conditioned to see trouble where there is none that I've made him out to be more dangerous than he really is. Maybe we could have a future, just the two of us. It's stupid, I know. I've barely even kissed this man. He's only kissed me once. He's Mr. Thursday, not my fiancé. And yet... he saved me tonight. He protected me. I battle myself inside. My feelings. My logic. "I'll get us some grub." I smile. "Seamus," I say, trying it out. His eyes darken, his lids heavy. He steps back toward me. His pale-blue shirt stretches tight across his chest, making his eyes glow even brighter. Low-slung jeans. Heavy boots. A casual masterpiece. Mine. "Say that again," he growls. "I love my name on your lips. Say it again, lass." It's both a plea and a command. I'm powerless to disobey. He crouches down again, both knees to the floor, and takes my hand gently in his. "Say my name again, Zoya." So I do. I cup his cheek, my thumb brushing under his eye. "Seamus," I whisper. He closes his eyes, then brings my palm to his lips, kissing it softly before folding my fingers and pressing them against his chest. "Thank you." He exhales. "Nobody calls me that where I'm from." Huh. Really? "What do they call you?" He shakes his head, a sadness lingering in his eyes. "Not today, Zoya. We've already broken too many rules." He wraps his arms around me and pulls me close. I rest my head on his shoulder and breathe him in. He smells so damn good. Feels even better. I feel safe. And yet... there's that voice in my head again, whispering warnings. Reminding me that nothing this perfect lasts. "The best thing after a night like this is rest. Food. Hydration. A warm bed. Come on, sweet angel," he murmurs, kissing my cheek. "Now, what can I get you for dinner?" "I'm not really hungry anymore," I admit. He shakes his head. "Eh, no. That's not an option, lass. I asked you what you want. I expect an answer." He quirks a brow, all command, and heat rushes through me. "Do you understand me?" "Yes, sir." It slips out before I can stop it. Something instinctual. And I love the flash of approval in his eyes. "You can say that again too," he says with a crooked smirk. I shrug. "My brothers raised me to be polite." "Good girl," he praises. "Such a good girl." I rest my hand on his shoulder, feeling the solid heat of him. His arms are steel, sculpted. I swallow. "I don't know if we'll ever have a night like this again," I whisper. "Seamus... what do you want most?" He groans, deep and primal. "My fucking god, Zoya. Don't tempt me. Can't you see I'm trying to do right by you?" "Yes." I nod. "I know." "Doesn't mean I don't want more," he mutters. "Doesn't mean I don't ache for you." He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "Tonight, you called for me because you were in trouble. Tonight, I killed a man for you. Protected you." He sighs. "But who protects you from me, lass?" He means it. He means it. He's not playing games, and he's not trying to impress me. He cares. I sigh. "I don't know. It just feels like... like we won't get another chance." He groans again. "Aye, I know that. Don't I feckin' know it." He straightens, his voice shifting into command. "But right now, you have some basic needs. You'll eat. Then you'll get yer pretty arse into bed." That makes me giggle. "My pretty arse?" I repeat, standing. "Aye," he growls, his gaze heated as he grips "my pretty arse" in his big hand. "You do what you're told," he growls playfully. "Where I'm from, women obey their men. So-are you going to listen?" He raises a brow, daring me. My heart stutters. And to my shock, he gives my ass a sharp smack. I laugh, and my cheeks flame. I nod. Because I'll do anything he asks. And that might just be the problem. "How about toast?" he asks. "Mam always said toast was good for a sour stomach." "Mam?" I echo. "Aye." He says it with so much affection, I can't help but smile. "What about your dad? Do you get along with him?" "Aye. He's a good man," he says thoughtfully. "I mean, by my standards." I frown. "What do you mean?" He tilts his head. "Like your brothers. Would you say they're good men?" I nod slowly. "Now that makes sense," I say softly. And I exhale as he walks to the kitchen and puts bread into the toaster. I watch, perched on the edge of the couch, as he butters it, cuts it into triangles, and brings it to me. I eat it hungrily, crumbs falling onto the little plate while he watches me. "That's a good girl," he says. Then he talks to me about the little shops at home and how he'd love taking me to D'Agostinos, the only Italian place nearby. "They've got the best homemade bread with this seasoned olive oil," he says with a smile. When I finish the toast, he speaks gently. "Alright, enough chatter. You need rest. You take the bed. I'll sleep on the couch." Oh hell no. I did not wait six months to be alone with him so he could sleep on the couch. "Why?" I ask, playing innocent. As if I don't already know the reason. He growls under his breath, his eyes flashing with something hot and intense. He shakes his head, like he's trying to cast off the thoughts racing through his mind. When he brushes his palm through his hair, it stands on end, shaggy and untamed, and I fucking love it. "Should find you something to wear." I shake my head. "It's fine," I tell him." I've got little boy-shorts undies and a tee. I'll sleep in those." His eyes darken, and his jaw clenches. "Tempt the fuck out of me, why don't you?" he growls. I shrug, all innocence. But I want him to want me. I need to know I affect him the same way he affects me. No one ever has, not like this. No man has ever looked at me the way he does. Why not me? Why not now? "You won't even notice," I say innocently, "if you leave a little space." But I'm not innocent. Not even close. Fucking hell. He makes me feel things I didn't even know were possible. My heart doesn't just race-it slams, wild and unrelenting, before my pulse sinks low, sending heat between my legs. I didn't know a man's voice could make adrenaline burst through my limbs like wildfire. I didn't know a simple touch, or even the thought of one, could light me up from the inside. I'm discovering a world I never knew I needed. A world of adrenaline and breath and heat. And I want to explore every inch of it with him. So, I make a show of it. I shimmy out of my clothes... slow, deliberate. My boy shorts cling to the soft curve of my ass, barely covering anything. He groans-deep and guttural-and I feel it slice through the silence. I draw in a breath, then let it out, shaky and uneven. Then I reach under my tee, unhooking my bra. My breasts are small and perky, the nipples peaked beneath the thin cotton. "My fucking god, woman," he growls. "A man would have to have fucking nerves of steel not to be tempted by you." Oh really? I think, fighting a smirk. Just because no one's ever claimed me doesn't mean I'm not worth wanting. But rejection sinks in deep. I've gone to parties. Dances. I've smiled and flirted, tried. But my classmates knew who I was, and all it took was my brothers lurking in the background to make anyone vanish, like they already knew the price they'd be forced to pay. Like I cost too much. And maybe it's normal to internalize that. To start wondering if something's wrong with you. No man has ever truly wanted me. Not once. Mia used to say they looked sometimes. But boys back off when faced with real men. Boys don't step up. They don't defend you. They don't murder the bastard who drugged your drink. They don't protect you. I'm not in the presence of a boy. And I'm not a little girl anymore. I may be young, but I've lived through some shit. I'm not interested in childish games or small talk or endless flirting that goes nowhere. I want something real. With him. Forbidden or not. Because they're all forbidden except for the pathetic hangers-on my brothers approve of, the ones who are happy to lick their damn boots for access to the Kopolov throne. So I turn toward his bed and let him look, really look. Let him take me in like I'm something rare and forbidden. His arousal strains against the fabric of his pants, and the sight does something to me. It makes me feel... radiant. Dangerous. Desired. He's undressing me with his eyes, and I can feel every slow, deliberate stroke of it across my skin. I swallow hard, my heart hammering like a drumbeat in my chest. I lie back on his bed, the pillows cool beneath me. "Kiss me, Seamus," I whisper. I say his name softly, hoping the sound of it will break him. That maybe hearing it will be enough to make him touch me. His responding growl is raw, desperate. "Stop it, Zoya," he says, barely controlled. He's losing his grip. I can see it. I shake my head slowly. "I want you to touch me. Please." He growls again, a warning this time. "No." Fine. I know exactly what I'm doing now. If he won't touch me... then I'll do it myself. I spread my legs and slide a hand under my panties, between my thighs, slow and shameless, my breath coming faster as my fingers move through my slick folds. He watches, frozen, his chest heaving. I let out a moan. Then he curses and moves, prowling over. I circle my clit faster. He stops me, catching my wrist in his hand. Then he slides onto the bed beside me, curling his strong body around mine. His fingers find me-his touch rough and reverent all at once. I gasp, my hips jolting. Oh my god. "Seamus." I moan, immediately drowning in pleasure. He strokes, slow and skilled, until I'm shaking... until I'm moaning his name into the dark. His mouth meets mine. Our tongues touch. And when I come apart in his hands, it's not just release. It's surrender. 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...