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ZAYAN'S POV
The rain hasn't dried from my skin when I get home.
I don't bother with the lights. I don't bother with the shoes. I don't bother with anything but moving.
Straight down the hall.
Through the double doors.
Into the study.
The room is dark. Silent.
Except for the thing sitting on my desk.
A file.
Crisp. Closed.
Heavy enough to burn through the oak.
I know what's in it.
I know what Izar did the moment I stepped out of that car, looking like a man who'd just been dragged out of hell and given air for the first time.
He found her.
Not her body. Not her scent. Not the living, breathing, pulse-shattering version of her.
But her paper.
I stand there for a long time.
Just watching it.
Like if I touch it, it'll vanish again.
Like the universe is still playing its game, dangling her in front of me, waiting to rip her away.
Minutes stretch.
Turn to hours.
Then I move.
Slow.
Controlled.
Like an execution.
I sit down, elbows on the desk, hands clasped in front of me—just staring.
At the edge of the envelope.
At the way my name looks wrong next to hers.
Finally, I slide it closer.
Break the seal.
Open it.
And there she is.
Her photo.
Not the storm-drenched angel I saw today.
Not the laughing devil that ruined me three months ago.
Just her.
Clear. Captured. Pinned to this paper like the world thought it could contain her.
Her name printed underneath:
Arshila Eshaal Mirza.
My throat tightens.
A soundless curse sits on my tongue, then spills into my head,
Fuck.
Because of course.
Of course her name sounds like that.
Beautiful.
Sharp.
Something that doesn't belong to anyone else—never will.
I lean back in my chair, head tilted, eyes closed.
And I say it.
Once.
Twice.
A hundred fucking times.
Arshila. Arshila. Arshila.
Every syllable rolls off my tongue like it was made to fit there.
Every letter brands deeper than the last.
My hand grips the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening, because this—this is not what I fucking planned.
I didn't search that city.
Why the fuck would I?
An hour away. Too small. Too quiet. The kind of place Tavarians don't set foot in unless they're tearing it down to build something better.
I covered every corner of this city.
Every camera.
Every face.
And she was there—
Walking home in a school uniform.
Laughing in the rain.
Ruining me from a distance I never thought to look.
The irony is a knife I can't pull out.
I let out a low laugh.
It's not amused.
Not sane.
Just broken enough to echo in the empty room.
Izar steps in quietly. Doesn't need to speak. He knows.
"She's seventeen," he says finally.
My gaze slices to him.
"So?"
It's not a question.
It's a warning.
Sharp enough to cut through air.
Izar freezes. His mouth snaps shut. He nods once and leaves.
The door clicks behind him.
And I'm left alone.
Seventeen.
The number hangs in my skull like a noose.
I knew she was young.
The first time I saw her—
That soft face, flushed cheeks, wide eyes, a laugh that sounded like it hadn't been crushed by the world yet.
I knew.
But hearing it…
Seeing it stamped in black ink…
It stops me.
Stops me cold.
Because for all my sins, for all the ruin in my blood, for all the darkness under my skin—
I am not that.
I am not the kind of man who preys on what's still blooming.
Who takes what isn't ready to be taken.
I drag a hand down my face, fingers pressing hard against my eyes like I can burn this truth out.
But it stays.
Seventeen.
I could end this now.
I could walk out that door, get in my car, drive an hour, knock on that little house's door, and make sure she never forgets my name.
I could rewrite her entire fucking life in one night.
But that's not her choice.
And it's not who I am.
Even if it feels like it's killing me.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, breath harsh and uneven.
Because the decision is already made.
I'm leaving.
This weekend.
And when that plane takes off, I won't see her again.
Not until she hits twenty.
Not until the world can't accuse me of being something I'm not.
Not until she's old enough to stand in front of me without it feeling like sin.
The thought burns like acid.
Scalds my throat.
Hollows out my chest.
Makes my jaw ache from how hard I'm clenching it.
Three years.
Three years without seeing her face.
Without hearing her voice.
Without knowing if someone else sees what I see—
If someone else will try to take what's mine before I can even fucking claim it.
But this is the only way.
For her.
Even if it means I walk into that jet and leave half my soul bleeding on this desk.
I look at her photo again.
Trace my thumb over her name.
And swear to myself—
Softly.
Dangerously.
Like a vow carved in blood:
"I'll come back for you, Arshila."
-------------------------------------------
Three fucking years.
That's how long it's been since I stood on this same street, rain-soaked, breathless, watching her disappear into that house like a dream I wasn't allowed to touch.
Three years since I ripped myself away, boarded a plane, and let an entire ocean choke me out rather than risk taking what wasn't mine to take.
And now…
Now I'm back.
Not as the boy unraveling for the first time in his life.
Not as the Tavarian heir chained to someone else's legacy.
But as the man who built his own empire, sharpened his own claws, and still—still—can't fucking breathe without her name carved under my ribs.
It's midnight.
Silence eats the street whole. The air is damp, heavy, laced with jasmine and memories I wish I could burn out of my skull.
The black car is parked far enough no one would notice. Izar's here, a silent shadow leaning against another car, watching me like he knows exactly what's tearing me apart.
He doesn't speak. He doesn't move.
Because this isn't his moment.
It's mine.
Three years.
But don't mistake that for absence.
Even oceans away, buried in deals and blood and power, I knew every fucking detail of her life.
Izar made sure of it.
Every friend. Every tear. Every smile.
Every secret she thought was hers alone.
When she turned eighteen, I raised a white, fluffy kitten in my mansion. It clawed my shirts, curled against my throat when I worked, followed me like it owned me.
And one night, without anyone seeing, it vanished from my arms and appeared on her porch with a bow.
On her nineteenth?
She got her favorite author's unpublished first edition. Signed. Personalized. The kind of artifact collectors would sell their souls for.
That was me.
And her twentieth?
I drowned this whole fucking town in darkness.
Every light gone in one perfect sweep. The sky exploded with fireworks spelling out Happy Birthday in gold, burning bright enough to be seen for miles.
She probably thought it was magic.
But it was just me.
Always me.
And now…
Three years gone.
Three years of biting down on chains every time I thought of coming back too soon.
Three years of pretending I could survive without her.
And here I am again.
Front of her house.
Nothing's changed—white fence, crooked mailbox, the soft glow of light spilling from a kitchen window where she probably brewed tea before bed.
But everything's different.
Because this time…
I'm not leaving.
I stand there, hands shoved in my pockets, every muscle in my body wound so tight I could snap steel in half. My jaw aches from clenching it, breath burning like fire in my lungs.
And then—
A sound.
Soft. Gentle.
The window creaks.
My head snaps up.
And there she is.
Not the seventeen-year-old chaos with rain in her hair and danger in her smile.
Not the reckless girl who made my pulse stutter like it had never learned rhythm.
No.
This is something else.
Something worse.
Something better.
She's older now.
A woman carved by time and defiance, standing at that window like she owns the night.
Her hair's longer, darker, spilling over her shoulders like ink under moonlight. Her face—God, her face—is sharper yet softer where it matters, like the universe spent three years perfecting what already shattered me.
She's in a loose tee, nothing special, but it clings just enough to make my throat dry. She leans against the sill, looking at the moon like she's whispering secrets only the sky can hold.
And the moon—fuck the moon—paints her in silver.
Traces the line of her jaw, glints off her lashes, bleeds across lips that look like sin wrapped in softness.
I stop breathing.
Three years without her.
Three years of exile.
Three years of darkness.
And yet—this is worse.
Because now she's not just beautiful.
She's a problem.
A devil dressed in moonlight.
The kind of beauty that doesn't just ruin men—it unravels entire kingdoms.
And she's mine.
She just doesn't know it yet.
The darkness inside me—the part that's been festering since she winked at me in that storm—uncoils, stretches, bares its teeth.
Because while she's been laughing, crying, dreaming under this roof…
I've been out there, carving myself into a weapon.
A weapon meant for one thing only:
Her.
I grip the fence, nails biting into wood, every instinct screaming to tear this quiet night apart and climb to her window like a man possessed.
But I don't.
Not yet.
Not tonight.
Because she's looking at the moon like it's her confidant.
And I'm standing here, silent, watching like a predator starved for years.
Knowing that the real darkness—the one that's coming for her—isn't up there in the sky.
It's me.
And this time…
I'm not letting her go.
____________
The house across from hers is old. Two floors. Peeling paint. Empty for years.
Perfect.
One transaction. No Tavarian name on the papers. No trace. And now it's mine.
But I don't live there. I don't use it.
It exists for one purpose only—
the balcony.
From there, I can see her room. The same window I stood under the night I came back.
And every night since.
---
She's always there.
Always with the white fluffball I gave her.
Boo Boo.
What the fuck kind of name is Boo Boo?
She had the entire Tavarian fortune unknowingly at her fingertips and that's what she came up with? A name that sounds like a dying clown?
And worse—
The little demon acts like her.
Sassy. Stubborn. Full of attitude that makes me want to throw it off a roof and then jump after it because I can't stand to see her cry.
Every time I watch her scratch its chin, whisper secrets into its fur, or scold it for clawing her books, I feel it—
That burn in my chest.
That reminder that it's been three years of restraint.
And still, just one look from her could rip me to my knees.
---
But tonight…
Tonight, watching isn't enough.
Tonight, I want to play.
_______________
The lock is nothing.
A joke.
One device, thirty seconds, and it gives beneath my touch.
Now I own her house too.
Every door. Every entry point. Every lock that was supposed to protect her? Mine.
She'll never know.
I move through the hallway like a shadow that belongs here.
Past her parents' room. Past her little brother's door.
Every creak memorized. Every path calculated.
Until I'm standing at hers.
She's curled up on her bed, blanket tangled around her, hair spread out like she's chaos even in sleep.
And there's Boo Boo—
sitting on her pillow, staring straight at me.
Recognizes me instantly.
Doesn't make a sound.
Good.
Even her fucking cat knows better than to challenge me.
I lean against the wall, watching her breathe.
Slow. Peaceful. Completely unaware of the darkness standing just a few feet away.
My hands ache to touch. To just—brush her cheek.
But I don't.
I won't.
She's not ready for me.
Not yet.
Instead, my gaze lands on the book in her hand.
She's fallen asleep mid-page.
I take it. Silent. Clean.
She stirs but doesn't wake.
And then I leave.
Back through the house. Through the useless lock.
Gone before anyone knows I was ever there.
_______________
The next night, I return.
Slip the book back exactly where it was.
Like it never went missing.
But tonight…
I want to see her awake.
Her phone is on the nightstand.
I don't touch it.
I don't have to.
Because while I was in London, while everyone thought I was buried in economics , I was learning something else—
How to own a digital world just as easily as I own the real one.
And now?
Hacking Shadin's phone is child's play.
I'm sitting on the hallway swing, far end, where the shadows are thick but not enough to hide me if she looked hard.
I hold my phone.
Dial.
Her screen lights up with Shadin's name.
She answers, voice sharp. "What the fuck do you want this time?"
I don't speak.
Just… listen.
To her annoyance. To her pulse hidden in the edge of her tone. To the way she paces, trying to mask nerves with venom.
And fuck—
Hearing her like this, hearing her believe she's talking to someone else…
It's intoxicating.
She thinks it's Shadin saying those words.
The flirting. The dark teasing.
But it's me.
Every syllable. Every quiet, deliberate breath.
I know exactly how to lace my voice, drop it low, make it velvet-slick and wrong enough to crawl under her skin.
And she doesn't block me.
Doesn't hang up.
Because deep down, she likes it.
Likes me.
Even if she doesn't know it yet.
When she snaps that if she sees Shadin near her window, she'll throw Boo Boo like a grenade, I almost laugh.
Almost.
Instead, I let the silence linger, tasting every ounce of her defiance.
And then I end the call.
Just to watch her freeze.
Watch her type.
Watch her threaten the wrong man while I sit not twenty feet away, hidden in her own hallway, knowing I could walk into her room again right now if I wanted.
But I don't.
Not yet.
Because this game?
This is only the beginning.
---
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AUTHOR NOTE {DON'T IGNORE IT}
OH, HE'S BACK. 🖤
The predator is back for his prey, and I swear to God this man is the biggest green flag wrapped in a red flag package I've ever written. Like—who else disappears for three damn years just to not ruin her, stalks her with a whole mansion across the street, hacks phones, buys houses for balconies… and somehow still feels like the safest place to land??
I don't know if I want to hug him or file a restraining order but either way—he owns me. 🥀
💌 Now you tell me:
Is Zayan your dark savior or just one perfectly tailored walking sin?
What's your favorite part—him whispering her name like a prayer or breaking into her house like it's foreplay?
🔥 Smash that comment section like Boo Boo claws at books, throw this into your collection, and if you're screaming like I am… drop a 💀 below so I know you've fully lost it with me.