ZAYAN'S POV
---
God help me—
There's nothing more addictive than watching her scared.
Not terrified, not screaming-her-head-off scared. No. I mean that quiet, soft kind of scared where she's biting her lip, pacing, every little sound making her jump.
It's fucking art.
And tonight? I've got the best seat in the house.
I lean on the cracked railing of the old house balcony, the night wrapping around me like a second skin. A mug of coffee burns warm in my palm, steam curling up into the cool air.
Across the dark stretch of backyard, through her wide bedroom window, I watch it unfold.
She's found the portrait.
I left it neatly on her desk. Perfectly centered. Impossible to miss.
But the fan must've blown it under the bed, because now she's crouched, hair falling forward as she fishes for it like it's some cursed artifact.
And when she pulls it out?
That little gasp—sharp, soft, almost soundless—
God. It spears through me like a goddamn bullet.
She's staring at it, frozen, like she's not sure if she should scream or pray.
And fuck if she isn't breathtaking like this.
Eyes wide. Lips parted. Bare feet curling into the floor like she's anchoring herself against the weight of it.
Like she knows someone's watching.
Because I am.
---
Then she moves.
Locks the windows. Clicks the door shut. Draws the curtains so tight it's like she's sealing herself in a tomb.
My smirk stretches slow, curling around the rim of my coffee mug.
That's it, baby.
Lock it all up.
Because here's the thing—
When someone barricades themselves, thinking it'll keep the wolf out…
That's when the hunt really gets hot.
She scoops up Boo Boo, clutching that little bastard to her chest like it's her lifeline. She even presses a kiss to its tiny head, whispering something I can't hear.
And my jaw flexes so hard it aches.
Because yeah—I gave her that damn cat.
But seeing Boo Boo's smug little furball face pressed to her lips while I'm stuck out here?
Jealous doesn't even begin to cover it.
She turns off the light.
Room goes black.
Curtains shut.
Show's over… for her.
But for me?
It's just getting started.
---
I set the mug down, roll my shoulders, and cross the roofline like a shadow. A locked balcony door is nothing to me. Two clicks, a soft hiss of air, and I'm inside again.
The room smells like her.
Like warm skin and a little chaos.
My chest tightens, my body strung tight like a bowstring ready to snap, but tonight's not about touching her.
Not yet.
Tonight is about Boo Boo.
That damn cat's been purring its way into every second of her attention, sleeping on her, stealing her kisses, curling up on her lap where my hands should be.
It's not Boo Boo's fault, but my patience?
Shot.
I find the little bastard curled at the end of her bed, purring like it owns the place.
One soft scoop and it's in my arms, its tiny body warm against my chest. It doesn't even fight me. Just blinks those round eyes up at me like it knows exactly who I am.
Traitor.
I glance at her one last time.
She's asleep, curled tight under the blanket, completely oblivious to the man standing in her room stealing her cat.
If she opened her eyes right now, if she saw me—
She'd faint.
Or maybe scream so loud the entire street would hear.
But she doesn't wake.
She never does.
And I never let myself stay long enough to tempt fate.
With Boo Boo snug against me, I slip out the bedroom door, silent down the hall, past her parents' room.
One wrong move, one sound too loud, and I'd have to introduce myself in the most fucked-up family meeting of all time.
Hello, in-laws. Don't mind me—just abducting your daughter's cat in the middle of the night.
Outside, the night hits like a breath of fire and cold. I cross the yard, slide behind the wheel, and drive the dark streets back to my mansion.
By the time I step inside, Boo Boo's already asleep against my chest like it belongs here.
Maybe it does.
I carry it up the sweeping staircase, past the endless halls, and into the suite at the far end of the mansion.
My room.
Our room now.
I set it on the plush bed and watch it blink awake, tail curling in lazy little flicks.
"Welcome home, baby," I murmur, running a hand down its soft fur.
It lets out a small, questioning meow, like it recognizes this place.
"Yeah," I breathe, voice low, rough. "You're here again. Where you fucking belong."
I sink onto the edge of the bed, elbows on my knees, eyes locked on the little creature.
"Tomorrow, she's gonna be sad," I say, voice dipping to something dark and molten. "She's gonna search every corner for you, calling your name, thinking you ran off or got snatched. She's gonna cry, isn't she?"
My jaw tightens, my hand stilling against its fur.
"It's been three years you've been with her," I continue, teeth gritted like confession burns, "but now it's time you're with me. I've been patient, too fucking patient, watching you take what should've been mine."
The cat blinks up at me like it understands every word.
"I know you like your mamy," I whisper, lips twisting into a smirk that feels carved from sin itself.
"But.......... I like your mamy too."
I stand, running a hand through my hair, veins thrumming hot.
"She just doesn't know it yet."
The room is silent but for the cat's soft purr.
And me?
I'm sitting here, sleepless, pulse pounding like a war drum, thinking about the girl sleeping in that other house with no idea what's coming.
Tomorrow she'll wake up, find Boo Boo gone, panic like hell.
And I'll be here, holding the one thing she clings to most, knowing damn well it's only a matter of time before I take her, too.
Because Boo Boo's just the beginning.
Then
Phone vibrates against the glass desk. I glance down, see Eshan's name flashing. I swipe to answer, voice rough from the hour. "What?"
"Come to the stadium," he says, like it's midday and not dead of night. "Razmir rented it for tonight. A match."
I drag a hand down my face. "It's one a.m."
"Ten minutes," Eshan fires back. No explanation. No mercy.
I stare at the phone after he hangs up, laugh low, dark. "This is what happens when you've got too much money and no fucking clue what to do with it. You wake up, throw millions, and rent out a stadium that's hosted World Cups… for fun."
When I roll up to the stadium, the place is glowing like a diamond dropped in darkness. Empty stands. Floodlights blasting.
And there they are—three devils in sneakers, already on the pitch like they own it.
I cut across the field, boots silent against the grass, voice carrying when I'm close enough. "Are you out of your fucking minds?"
Razmir grins, arms spread wide like he's presenting madness as art. "Yes, buddy. Love you."
I stop dead, jaw ticking. "You actually rented this whole place?"
He nods like a lunatic. "One day."
Eshan throws a ball up, catches it. "Two days," he corrects.
Rafaen's leaning on his hip, calm as sin. "What's a stadium if not a playground?"
I just shake my head, muttering under my breath, "Insanity. Pure fucking insanity."
Razmir slaps a hand on my shoulder as he jogs past. "Get in the game, Tavarian. Let's make the ground remember us."
And so we do—just four heirs under the floodlights, kicking, sprinting, clashing like kings who don't know how to be anything else.
But my head's not fully here. Every goal, every laugh that rips through the empty stadium, there's this weight sitting in my chest. My body's running, tackling, driving the ball like a predator, but my mind's somewhere else entirely.
With her.
And the goddamn cat.
I can feel it.
The itch under my skin. The hunger that won't go away. The thing inside me that's clawing at the walls of my chest, threatening to break out. And no matter how much I try to drown it—through the ball, through the banter with my friends—it doesn't stop. The unease. The way everything feels too tight, too small.
I need control.
I need to remind myself who the hell I am.
Because right now? I'm a man who's starting to worry about what's left inside of him. I've never been the creepy guy. I've never been the one who does things like stalk women or steal their cats.
But what's happening to me? Every damn second I'm away from her, I feel like I'm losing something. And I hate it. I fucking hate it.
But maybe if I do something violent—something to jar me back into who I used to be—then I'll feel better. Like myself again.
I glance at Eshan, a grin already stretching across my face, the urge to fight simmering underneath. The tension is thick in the air. He's running toward me, and I don't know why I decide to do it, but I move first.
I shove him. Hard.
"Come on, Eshan," I growl, my voice deep, low. "Let's see what you've got."
I know it's reckless. I know I'm provoking him. But that's the point, right? He'll hit back, no hesitation. That's what we've always done. We fight, and it's over. No emotions. No hard feelings. It's just the way things go.
Except this time, I'm not so sure I want it to be over. I'm not so sure I deserve to feel that release.
Eshan's eyes flare, and in a second, he's got his fists up, moving faster than I anticipated. I can tell by the way his body shifts that he knows exactly what I'm doing.
"Zayan—" He starts, like he's trying to warn me, but I don't want warnings. I don't want caution. I want the pain.
His fist slams into my side before I even register it.
The impact makes me stagger. The punch hurts—like a motherfucker—but it's nothing I can't handle. I've been hit worse, and it's almost like I want to feel it. I need to feel something other than this gnawing emptiness.
I swing back.
And then, before I even make contact, I realize it.
The sharpness of what I'm about to do, the stupid anger I'm letting control me.
I stop.
Right in the middle of the swing, my fist suspended in the air. My chest burns. I'm panting. Blood rushes to my ears, and I can taste it. The violence.
But I can't. I can't hit him.
Not like this.
I drop my fist. I stagger back, hands going to my face, shaking my head like I can shake off the dark part of me that's clawing to the surface.
"What the hell, Zayan?" Eshan snaps, eyes wide with confusion and something close to worry.
I can barely look at him. I can barely look at anyone right now.
I bring my hand to my mouth and taste the blood pooling there—my lip's split open, and it's bleeding, but it doesn't matter. The pain doesn't matter.
I clench my jaw, grit my teeth, and everything in me screams to do something else—to hit back, to end this fight, to prove I'm not the same person who just backed down.
But I can't.
Fuck.
"Enough," I say through gritted teeth, blood dripping onto the ground. I can barely hear myself over the sound of my heartbeat pounding in my ears. "It's over. I didn't mean that."
The guys are still staring at me—confused, but no one says anything. No one moves. I can feel the weight of their stares on me, and all I want to do is walk away, disappear, and never come back.
But I can't.
Because she won't let me.
I push past Eshan, my chest tight, and make my way to the edge of the field, away from everyone. I don't want them to see this. I don't want anyone to see this. The blood on my lips, the shaking hands, the goddamn weakness that's starting to show.
I'm not that man.
I shouldn't be that man.
And I'm so close to losing myself to whatever the hell I'm turning into.
The grass is cold. Damp from the sweat and the breath of the earth. I lay on it anyway, blood still running from the corner of my mouth, the copper sting mixing with the rage sitting thick on my tongue. My chest heaves. My fists clench.
I growl. Low. Animal.
I hear them approaching. Footsteps first—quick, hesitant. Then voices.
"Bro—what the fuck?"
"Zayan."
"Get up, man."
I don't move. I stare at the dark sky. The wind stings where the split on my lip opens wider. Maybe it's still raining. Maybe it's just sweat on my skin. I don't care.
Rafaen's voice cuts through the others. "What's your problem?"
Eshan's quieter. "You want to talk, or you want another punch?"
I close my eyes.
I want to scream. I want to rip out whatever the fuck is happening inside me and crush it under my boot. I want to stop feeling this thing. This… obsession. This fucking uninvited madness.
"I'm becoming a mess," I whisper.
They go silent.
Then Razmir says, "What?"
He sounds… confused. Not mocking. Not judging. Just completely lost—like they all are.
And why wouldn't they be?
I've never been like this.
Never felt like this.
Never wanted anyone enough to make me weak. Enough to turn me into something I don't recognize. Something pathetic.
I've never been interested in girls. Never gave a damn. They were loud, they were clingy, they were predictable.
Until her.
Until that fucking slip in the rain.
Until that wink.
Until she fucking laughed like the storm was hers to own.
Mine.
I sit up slowly, running a hand down my face. The blood smears across my skin. I don't care.
"She's in my head," I mutter. "All the fucking time."
Eshan crouches beside me, brows drawn. "Who?"
I don't answer.
Rafaen clicks his tongue. "Oh fuck. It's a girl?"
Razmir whistles. "Okay, this is serious. Zayan Tavarian—our emotionless king—is spiraling over a girl?"
They all stare at me like I've grown a second head. But I don't move. I don't respond. I just look past them, at the sky, like it might hold the answer to this fucked-up shitshow happening inside me.
Eshan raises a brow. "You like her?"
"No," I say too fast. Too sharp. "I don't like her."
I want to own her.
I want her to fear me, hate me, fight me—and never fucking leave.
And that's the problem. That's why I'm here. On the ground. Bloodied. Silent. Ruined.
Because this isn't about love. It's something worse. Darker. Mine.
Rafaen watches me with an unreadable expression. "Then what is it?"
My jaw clenches. "She's… inside me."
Razmir blinks. "Bro, that sounds ten kinds of wrong."
"She's like a disease," I spit. "I see her face when I close my eyes. I hear her voice when the room's silent. And it's not romantic. It's not sweet. It's fucking torture."
None of them laugh. None of them say shit. Maybe they're starting to realize this isn't one of those 'ha-ha Zayan's being dramatic' moments.
Eshan finally breaks the silence, voice careful. "What are you gonna do?"
I drag in a breath. "I don't know. But I can't be this. I can't be some creepy, possessive bastard who steals her fucking cat and watches her through windows."
They all freeze.
"You what?" Rafaen says, eyes wide.
I shake my head. "Forget it."
But I know they won't. Because I can't.
Because she's already too far inside me.
And I don't know how the fuck to get her out.
They surround me now. Like hyenas circling a wounded lion. Not out of cruelty—out of curiosity. Hungry for answers I don't want to give.
Rafaen squints, leans forward with both elbows on his knees like we're in a damn therapy session. "Hold on. Back up. This is the first time you've ever talked about a girl like this. Actually talked—not rolled your eyes, not changed the subject, not said 'irrelevant.' You said she's inside you. That's big, bro."
Eshan whistles, dragging a hand down his face. "Holy shit. You're not just gone. You're fucked."
Razmir narrows his eyes. "Wait—have we even seen her? Like in passing? Has she ever shown up to an event? Anything?"
I don't answer. I can't. Because if I open my mouth now, I might say her name. And I'm not giving them that. Not yet. Not when the thought of anyone else even looking at her makes my jaw tighten.
Rafaen grins slowly. "Come on, man. Don't hold out on us now. Is she pretty? Is she like... soft-pretty or sharp-pretty?"
Eshan cuts in, "Or hot? Is she the kind of hot that slaps you in the face, or the kind that sneaks up and haunts your dreams?"
Razmir shrugs with mock seriousness. "Important clarification. Does she look like she reads poetry on rainy nights or like she burns the house down while dancing in her pajamas?"
Eshan laughs. "Or does she look like someone's mommy? Like hot but scary? You know—tight bun, clean-cut blazer, stiletto heels, murder behind the smile."
Rafaen hums. "Or is she the cute chaos kind? Big eyes, messy hair, talks too much, probably forgets her phone on the roof of her car and drives off."
I run a hand over my face. "You're all idiots."
Razmir ignores me. "Chuppy? Slim? That snatched waist vibe?"
Eshan smirks. "Or like—walks in and everyone shuts the fuck up?"
They're not being serious. But I am.
Because I can see her. Right now. Like she's branded behind my eyelids.
I don't want to describe her. Because no matter what I say, they won't get it.
They won't see the way she tilts her head when she's annoyed.
They won't hear the sharp edge in her laugh when she's hiding something.
They won't feel that tight pull in their chest when she bites her lower lip without realizing.
They won't know how she talks to her cat like it understands human sarcasm.
They won't get how I watch her—not just because she's beautiful—but because I can't stop.
Because if I blink too long, I'm afraid she'll vanish.
Still, Rafaen won't let it go. "Just give us something, man. We've known you for years. You've never even glanced at a girl. Never given a damn. And now here you are, talking about someone like she lives in your blood."
"She does," I mutter before I can stop myself.
They freeze. All three of them.
Then—
Razmir groans dramatically. "I knew it. He's officially lost it."
Eshan leans back, lips twitching. "Goddamn. This is gonna be fun."
"Is she real, though?" Rafaen raises a brow. "Or did you invent her in your head while staring out windows like some tortured artist?"
"She's real," I snap.
Too fast. Too hard.
They all exchange a look.
"She must be," Eshan mutters. "To make him like this? She's gotta be something else."
Razmir smirks. "So when do we get to meet her?"
"Never," I growl.
"Why not?"
"Because you'll scare her off."
Eshan scoffs. "Us? You literally punched me and bled on the grass like a feral wolf. You think we're the problem?"
Rafaen whistles. "Ohhhh. He's possessive possessive."
Razmir leans in, eyes sparkling. "Do you want her?"
Yes.
"No."
They all groan.
Eshan sighs. "You're hopeless."
And I fucking am.
Because the worst part is—I don't just want her.
I need her.
And that's what's going to ruin me.
They don't shut up.
They don't fucking let go.
We're sprawled on the grass like idiots—drenched in sweat, bruised from the match, mud on our clothes—but none of them are talking about the game anymore. No, of course not. They're all latched onto her like vultures circling fresh meat.
And I'm the idiot who gave them a drop of blood.
Now they want the whole fucking vein.
"Just say her name," Rafaen drawls, tossing a football up and catching it with one hand. "That's it. One name. We won't stalk her. Promise."
Razmir scoffs. "Speak for yourself. If she's got you bleeding and growling like an unhinged dog, I need to know who she is. Might just crown her queen of the world myself."
Eshan raises a brow, still half-lounging against the bench. "You're obsessed. That's fine. Own it. But at least tell us who's responsible for this emotional catastrophe. Come on, man. Her name. We deserve that much."
I grit my jaw.
Her name tastes like a secret on my tongue. Something sacred. Mine.
I haven't said it out loud before. Not like this.
Not to anyone.
Not with my chest this tight and my fucking heartbeat crawling up my throat.
They're still staring. Waiting. And for some reason, I can't walk away from it this time.
So I exhale. Slow. Heavy. Like it's costing me something.
And I say it.
Voice low, gravelly, almost a warning.
"Arshila... Eshaal Mirza."
Silence.
Even the wind dies a little.
They all freeze.
Like I just lit a fucking match.
Rafaen blinks. "...that's a name."
Eshan whistles under his breath. "Damn. That's not just a name, that's... poetic punishment. Like some tragic heroine from a book you'd throw at the wall because she ruined the main character's life and made it beautiful at the same time."
Razmir looks stunned for once. "Arshila Eshaal Mirza," he repeats slowly, testing each syllable like he's trying to taste it. "It sounds like something you'd whisper before a war starts."
I don't say anything.
Because they're not wrong.
Her name isn't soft. It doesn't fade. It echoes. Hits the back of your teeth and lingers like smoke.
Eshan leans forward. "Who is she?"
I shake my head. "You don't know her."
"But you do?" Rafaen asks, eyes narrowing.
My jaw clenches.
Razmir tilts his head. "How'd you meet her?"
I don't answer.
Eshan's smile turns slow and dangerous. "What does she look like?"
My silence stretches.
"Do not tell me she's the soft kind," Rafaen mutters. "You'd never go soft."
I look up at them. All of them.
And I say it with a voice like broken glass.
"She's got a resting face that looks like she could kill someone and sleep peacefully after. Talks back. Sharp as hell. Curses like she invented every word. And when she smiles—"
I stop.
I can't say the rest.
Because I think my fucking ribs might cave in.
They stare at me. None of them are laughing now.
Eshan runs a hand through his hair, suddenly looking more serious than before. "You're in deep, aren't you?"
I look away. "Too fucking deep."
Rafaen hums. "Possessive deep?"
My eyes snap to his. Deadly quiet. "If any of you even look at her… I'll bury you myself."
That's when they finally shut up.
__________
I'm done with the Tavarian shit for the day. Meetings. Calls. Papers that could start wars if I let them. All finished.
Finally.
I step into my closet, black shirts lined like soldiers, boots waiting. My fingers trail over the leather jacket, and it feels like power slipping onto my skin. Black on black. No one sees me leave the estate. No one knows where I go.
And that's exactly how I want it.
I take the bike tonight. , black as sin, purring like it knows me. The moment I twist the throttle, the world blurs. Three hundred. Asphalt roaring. Wind screaming. Come on, death angel, pick me if you dare.
But I don't crash. I never crash.
I know exactly what I'm doing.
Silent alley. Engine cut. Boots hit the ground. The house waits like a loyal accomplice. I climb to the balcony, shadows curling around me like I'm part of them.
And there she is.
Every lock undone. Window cracked. Balcony door unlatched.
God, this woman.
She's daring me. Begging me. Like she's standing there whispering, Come on, break in. I dare you.
And fuck me, I want it.
I slip inside. She's asleep, hair a mess, breathing soft. My teeth sink slow into her neck—not deep, just enough to taste. To mark. To remind myself she's real.
Mine.
I draw her again. Pages knowing her shape better than my own reflection. I leave it on the book, knowing the second her skin brushes it, it'll vanish like it was never there.
But tonight, something's different.
She's sad.
No Boo Boo. No little furball curled up beside her. And I know why. I know because I fucking stole it.
I should feel guilty. I don't.
I leave. Shadows swallow me, boots silent. Back to the bike. Back to pretending I'm sane.
___________
Next day, I'm buried under Tavarian work. Calls. Reports. Deals that could flip the economy. I almost cancel tonight. Almost let her sleep without me watching.
Then my phone buzzes.
Her message.
I see everything she types because I hacked her phone . I shouldn't laugh, but hell—
"Today's the fucking day.
I'm getting proof tonight.
Mark my words—tomorrow, I'm gonna walk in and slap it on the desk and watch your dumbass faces try to crawl back into your skulls.
You're all dead for not believing me. Dead. Fucking. Meat."
I smirk.
Smart girl. Figured out the ink vanishes on touch. She's hunting proof. My proof.
And what kind of man would I be if I didn't give it to her?
Night falls. I ride again. Same alley. Same balcony.
And there she goes—every lock open like she's throwing gasoline on my control.
"Please don't do this, woman," I whisper under my breath. You're gonna make me lose it. One more night of this and I'm slinging you over my shoulder and locking you in my house where no one—not even air—can touch you.
I don't bite her tonight. Too much pain in it. I just draw. Quiet. Careful. Slide the page under her nightstand where I know she'll find it.
Then I'm gone.
Back to being Tavarian's ghost heir.
Because no one knows the truth. No one knows it's me pulling every string, running empires from behind closed doors. To the world, I'm just a bratty rich kid.
But under it all…
I'm hers.
And she has no fucking idea.
_______________
AUTHOR NOTE
The fucker's possessed. Full stop.
He's bleeding, shaking, confessing, stealing cats, hacking phones—and still says "I don't like her."
HAHAHAHA. Okay, Tavarian. Sure.
Drop your theories, scream at him, or worship him—I don't care, but don't stay silent. If you stay quiet, I'll assume you're siding with him when he finally throws her over his shoulder and locks her in his mansion.
Comment like your life depends on it. 🖤🔥
AND FOLLOW, SUPPORT