ZAYAN's pov
---
Night.
Quiet.
Not the kind of quiet that brings peace—
the kind that stalks, that prowls, that makes every breath a weapon.
I'm on the balcony of the old house, elbows on my knees, phone loose in my hand.
Her window's lit. Curtains drawn. But I can still see the faint glow spilling across her walls.
I dial.
One ring.
Two.
"Hello?"
Fuck.
Her voice.
Velvet and sharp. Sweet enough to drink, bitter enough to cut.
I say nothing.
Just breathe.
She hesitates.
Then again, a little more impatient this time.
"Hello?"
I let a single breath slip through my teeth.
Controlled. Quiet.
But it's enough.
Because I can hear her frown through the line.
She exhales, annoyed. "Fuck off."
And goddamn—
My lips pull into a slow, dark smile before I can stop it.
There it is.
That bite.
That little slice of defiance that makes me want to ruin her, wreck her until she can't say anything but my name.
I end the call.
---
Minutes bleed by.
Then her room light flares brighter.
Her voice cuts through the night—raw, loud enough to wake every goddamn neighbor but not stop her:
"Fuck Shakespeare! Fuck this project! FUCK ME!"
My head drops back.
My laugh—quiet, deep—shakes out of me before I can hold it in.
"Yes, darling," I murmur to myself, voice dark silk in the night. "I fucking will."
Her light goes dark after a while.
The house falls silent.
But me?
I don't stay in silence.
Not when I can have more.
The lock is already mine.
The balcony door doesn't fight me.
One push, and I'm in her room again.
She's sleeping.
Blanket wrapped tight around her like armor that'll never protect her from me.
The faintest glow from the moon slips across her face, softening every sharp line she throws at the world when she's awake.
And fuck—
She's beautiful.
Three years ago, she was chaos wrapped in a school uniform.
Now?
Now she's a goddamn inferno sleeping in satin sheets.
And I can't touch her.
Not the way I want.
Not yet.
My breath shakes as I step closer.
Her lashes flutter in sleep.
Her lips part slightly when she exhales.
And it hits me—
this impossible, clawing urge to make her know.
To brand her.
To leave something behind that whispers mine every time she looks in the mirror.
I kneel.
Slow.
Controlled.
My knees press into her soft rug, my hands curling into fists to keep from shaking as I lean in.
Closer.
Close enough to see the tiny pulse thrumming in her neck.
Close enough to smell the warmth of her skin beneath the faint trace of vanilla lotion.
My lips hover first.
Just a breath away.
And then—
I bite.
Not hard.
Not enough to wake her.
But slow.
Deliberate.
My teeth sink just enough to leave the faintest promise behind.
The kind that says:
You're already claimed.
You've always been claimed.
She stirs.
A little sound slips past her lips—soft, wrecked even in sleep.
My jaw tightens.
My entire body nearly caves with the force it takes not to do more.
I pull back.
Watch the mark bloom faintly against her skin, glowing like victory under the moonlight.
My voice is a ghost as I murmur near her ear, low and sinful, for no one but her dreams to catch:
"See you tomorrow."
And then I'm gone.
Leaving her bed as untouched as before—
except for the mark that'll burn every time she wonders who put it there.
---
---
Morning.
I shouldn't be here.
Not on this bus. Not in this hoodie. Not crammed into a seat like I'm not Adam fucking Zayan Tavarian, who can have a fleet of blacked-out sedans and drivers at a single fucking snap.
But I'm here.
And no one knows.
Not Izar. Not Eshan. Not even those bastards who think they know every goddamn move I make.
This is mine.
My secret.
The bus hisses to a stop.
And there she is.
Three fucking years and my heart still can't take it.
She climbs on, hair brushing over her shoulder, face lit with that glare she gives the world like she's ready to burn it all down if it so much as blinks wrong at her.
Her scent hits me the second she passes.
Vanilla. Soap. Something sweet, something sharp.
And fuck me sideways—
I actually grip the edge of my hoodie pocket to stop my hand from reaching out and yanking her straight into my lap right there.
She doesn't notice me.
Doesn't even glance.
Good.
It's safer that way.
For her. For me.
For everyone who'd die if they knew just how far I'd go for her.
The bus jerks.
Slams to a stop like Satan himself grabbed the brakes.
And then—
It happens.
She flies.
No, not just flies—she lands.
On me.
Every nerve in my body riots at once.
My hands—traitorous bastards—move before my brain does, gripping her waist, solid and warm under my fingers.
Her knees hit my thighs.
Not soft. Not clumsy.
Perfectly.
Like she fucking belongs there.
Holy fuck.
My heart is a war drum.
Pounding so loud I'm shocked the whole bus doesn't turn around and call me out for being a sinner of the highest order.
Three years of control, of restraint, of staying the hell away—
And now?
Now she's on my lap like it's the only place she's ever meant to be.
I can't breathe.
Not properly.
Not with her weight on me, not with the heat of her body searing through the thin barrier of clothes.
Her hands clutch my shoulders, small but strong.
And for one single, sinful second, my brain flashes a picture of those same hands tied in my fist, clinging while I—
No.
No, no, no.
Control, Tavarian.
You promised yourself control.
She's not ready.
She has no fucking clue what you are, what you'll do to her, what you already did.
So instead, I tip my head just enough that my voice can reach her.
Low.
Silk-wrapped steel.
"Do you plan to sit here forever?"
Her breath hitches.
I feel it.
On my throat.
Through every goddamn bone in my body.
She scrambles, robotic, trying to pull away.
The bus jerks again, knee brushing my inner thigh—
My entire body locks.
The vein in my neck pulses.
And I swear on every unholy thing I believe in—
I've never wanted to break my own rules more than I do in that moment.
I don't.
Somehow, by sheer fucking force of will, I don't.
I let her go.
I let her stand, fingers twitching from the ghost of her heat, the imprint of her waist burned into my palms.
She doesn't look back.
Doesn't see the way my knuckles turn white gripping the seat.
Doesn't see me watching her every second, memorizing how her shoulders tense, how her breath shakes when she catches herself staring out the window like she's running from something she doesn't understand.
And me?
I ride the rest of the way without moving a muscle.
No one notices the heir of the Tavarian empire sitting in a fucking bus seat, hiding in plain sight.
No one notices the storm under my hoodie.
Because I'd do anything—
Ride this bus every morning, live like a shadow, burn every inch of control I have to ash—
Just to be this close to her again.
---
I tell myself this is the last time.
But the second I slide that cap low and step onto campus, I already know I'm full of shit.
I can't stay away. I've tried. God knows I've fucking tried. But there's a gravitational pull to her, something primal and vicious, like my veins are chained to her and every day I fight those chains until they slice my skin open.
Today, no plans to back off.
No distance. No restraint.
Today, I go straight to her class.
It's not my first time here. Hell, I've been doing this long enough to know the perfect seat, the perfect timing, the exact moment to slip in unnoticed. I even paid some desperate bastard—through another bastard who doesn't know my name—to give up this seat permanently. He thinks some random guy took it. He doesn't know a Tavarian is breathing his air.
Now I'm at the back, cap low, hoodie zipped, a predator in plain sight. My elbows rest on the desk, posture lazy, but my blood is anything but calm. My mind's still on the bus,
And now—there she is.
Front row chaos wrapped in soft skin.
She's not even pretending to care about the lecture. Not even trying to play it safe. She's leaning toward her friends, talking, smiling like the world bends when she wants it to. And it does.
She's not mine.
Not yet.
But every time I watch her like this, every time I see her laugh and fight and just be… my future stops feeling like a choice and starts feeling like a fucking prophecy.
I want to go down there. I want to wrap my hand around her neck—not to hurt, never to hurt—but just to remind her that she can't run from me. That she's mine even if she doesn't know my name.
But if she knew now?
She'd bolt.
And I wouldn't let her get far. I'd hunt her down. Drag her back. Chain her to me with something deeper than iron.
Which is why I stay hidden.
I watch.
I burn.
And I pretend like this is enough.
Then it happens.
"I'm going to burn this institution down" her voice raise.
Ifrah—the little one who looks like a deer on caffeine—starts blinking like she's sending a damn Morse code apology. Hands clenched like she's praying for salvation. Ruby's already shifting on her feet, probably planning some dramatic speech that'll get them out of trouble. Shaiza? She's just waiting to see the whole thing burn.
And then—silence.
The kind that makes your skin crawl.
The kind that says someone's about to die.
Every pair of eyes in the room swivels. The professor stops mid-word, glasses lowered, eyebrows climbing like he just caught a pack of criminals plotting a coup.
"Miss 'I Am Going To Burn This Institution Down,'" he says, voice dripping with sarcasm, "would you and your incredibly vocal support group like to share what's so urgent at this hour?"
Her head jerks up, caught.
I swear to God, it feels like someone reaches inside my chest and squeezes. She's stiff as a statue, frozen, voice cracking when she says, "No, sir."
The bastard tilts his head, like a wolf circling wounded prey.
"No?"
"No," she repeats, and fuck me, her throat's so dry I can feel it from here.
He doesn't let it go. Looks at the other three, voice sharper now:
"And you three?"
Ifrah chokes on nothing. Shaiza wipes away invisible tears like they're at a funeral. Ruby—God bless her chaos—clears her throat like she's about to deliver a royal decree.
The professor just folds his arms, unimpressed, ready to skin them alive.
"Since you all seem so… energetic," he drawls, "why don't you share that enthusiasm with the rest of the class? All four of you. Front. Now."
Something in me snaps.
Every instinct screams at me to stand up, to shut this man up for daring to humiliate her like this. One word from me, one step forward, and I could end his career. I could make him beg.
But that would expose me.
Expose what she means to me.
So instead…
I laugh.
It's not cruel. Not even loud. Just low. Drawn out. A dark, uncontainable sound that slips past my lips before I can stop it.
And fuck… it feels good.
Because she spins. Like lightning. Fury blazing in those eyes. She's searching for the bastard who dared laugh at her downfall, ready to set someone's world on fire.
But she doesn't find me.
All she sees is some faceless guy in a cap, head bowed, shoulders shaking like he's laughing into his desk.
She has no clue it's me.
No clue that beneath this hat, every muscle in my body is fighting the urge to move, to go down there and drag her out of this room, throw her over my shoulder, and make damn sure no one ever looks at her like this again.
I bite down hard, force the laugh away before it gives me up. If she knew—if she even suspected—
She'd run.
And I wouldn't let her.
But not today.
Today, I stay hidden.
Let her think this is just another humiliation.
Meanwhile, I sit here burning alive, knowing that one day, when I finally step out of these shadows…
She won't just know who's been laughing.
She'll know who's been watching.
Who's been waiting.
Who's been hers long before she even knew my name.
______
The bell rings, and every muscle in my body coils tighter. If I don't get out of this campus right now, I'll do something I can't fucking undo.
So I leave.
Silent. Controlled. Like the predator I've spent my whole life perfecting.
I get in the car, engine purring low, and I don't look back at the building because if I do, if I catch even one last glimpse of her walking out of that classroom with her friends, I'll tear apart every brick in this place just to have her to myself.
She doesn't know I'm here.
And she can't know—not yet.
Because the second she finds out, she'll run. And I'll burn down the whole fucking world to get her back.
So I drive. Knuckles flexing, jaw locked, thinking about the way she looked when the professor called her out. Thinking about that tiny moment when my laugh slipped—just once—and almost gave me away.
I'm halfway home when my phone lights up. Izar.
I swipe to answer. "What."
"Sir," Izar says, voice clipped, urgent. "I think there's a problem."
My pulse spikes. "What problem?"
"She was slapped," Izar says. "By Cassandra Monroe. Senior student. Daughter of Gerard Monroe—founder of Monroe International Group, sits on the university's Board of Faculty."
Gerard fucking Monroe. Of course.
Izar continues, "No video evidence. No witnesses stepping forward. But Arshila slapped Cassandra back—in front of the entire class and a professor. The dean called her in, but she walked out without punishment. I believe Young Master Shadin intervened."
I hit the brakes so hard the tires scream.
"Repeat that," I bite out.
"I believe Young Master Shadin handled it."
Shadin.
Every ounce of control I had? Gone. The street, the steering wheel, even the air feels like it's trembling under my grip.
Shadin Tavarian. My cousin. My fucking shadow.
Supposed to be overseas. Supposed to be attending his own fancy-ass university, living his double life far away from here.
And yet—he's been here.
Two. Goddamn. Years.
Two years of standing beside her. Being her best friend. Watching over her while I've been forced to watch from the shadows, keeping my distance to protect her.
And now he's cleaning up her fights, using Tavarian power to wipe her record like it's nothing—like he owns the right to protect what's mine.
What the fuck is his deal?
What the fuck game is he playing, juggling two universities at once, hiding this from me, moving under everyone's radar?
There's always a motive with Shadin. He doesn't lift a finger unless it moves him closer to something he wants.
And if what he wants is her—
My hand tightens on the wheel until my veins stand out like ropes.
Cassandra Monroe.
That name is a brand I'll carve into my memory until the day I make her regret ever raising a hand to my girl. Board member's daughter or not, she's already dead—she just doesn't know it yet.
But Shadin?
Shadin's a different problem.
Because he knows her. Knows every scar, every secret, every little thing that makes her light up or lose her temper.
And I've known this whole time.
I've let it go because he's family, because he's only ever been her friend.
But now he's standing where I should've been. Shielding her. Fighting for her.
And the thought of him being the one she looks at when she needs saving?
It makes something inside me snap.
Someone's going to bleed for this.
Maybe Cassandra Monroe.
Maybe Gerard Monroe.
Maybe Shadin Tavarian himself.
But one thing is fucking certain—
Nobody touches what's mine and walks away breathing.
_______________
He's back. He's in her room. And she has no fucking idea. 🥀
While she's out there throwing fire at professors and slapping heiresses, he's here—silent, stalking, leaving a bite mark like a vow carved in blood.
And that bus scene?? This man let her land on his lap and didn't lose control??? He's a green flag hidden in a blood-soaked red, and honestly, that's even more dangerous.
This chapter is the shadow of her POV…
She thinks she's fighting battles alone, but the predator is already in her walls, already watching, already branding her as his.
💌 Tell me—
Is Zayan the ultimate protector or the nightmare you can't escape?
Did the mark scene wreck you, or was it the silent laugh in class that almost gave him away?
⚡ Hit comment, throw it into your collection, and drop a 🕷️ if you're ready for the moment these POVs finally collide—and all hell breaks loose.