ZAYAN'S POV
Do you know what's funny and interesting at the same time?
This.
That little devil and her three friends are crammed into one room like idiots, waiting for her stalker to "come back."
For what?
To play twenty fucking questions? To sit him down and have tea?
I swear to God, today after getting that damn proof, she's walking around like she's ready to set the world on fire. Fiesty. Bold. Reckless as hell. And her friends? They're either wasting their time… or they're actually interested in seeing who's stalking her.
Either way—they're dumb as fuck.
Because really… how the hell do you think anyone can slip in or out when it's a whole damn party in there? Too many eyes. Too many mouths. Too much noise.
Dumb girls.
I'm sitting on the balcony of the old house across from hers, boots propped up, elbows on my knees, just watching the circus.
And I laugh. Shake my head in disbelief.
If you're waiting for me, sweetheart… I should definitely come see you, right?
But no.
Not tonight.
Timing is everything.
When it's the right time, when the world aligns just enough for me to rip the air out of her lungs… yeah, then I'll go. And she won't just see me. She'll feel me.
I push up from the chair, leather gloves creasing against my palms, and leave.
Back to my mansion. Back to the Tavarian study that feels like a damn war room.
Next morning, sun barely cutting through the glass windows, I'm in my chair, legs stretched, phone in hand. I call Izar.
He picks up on the first ring.
"Sir?"
"Move Shadin to Italy," I say, my voice flat, controlled. "He stays there for a month."
There's a pause. I can picture Izar straightening up, his jaw tight.
"Sir, what if he realizes you moved him there?"
I lean back, fingers drumming on the armrest, my chain glinting against my collarbone.
"That bastard's juggling two universities at once. Business here. Physiology abroad. No one knows—not even Grandfather." My tone sharpens. "So if he stays here, playing ghost, that's not good. He wants to play games? Fine. But he's gonna pay for that little stunt."
I pause, my lip curling.
"And if he figures it out? I don't give a damn. He's got to explain himself first. Detailed. Why the fuck he's living like a shadow—attending meetings here, flying back for classes there. What the hell he's even doing. Until then? Italy."
"Yes, sir. Understood," Izar says without a hint of hesitation.
I hang up, tossing the phone on the desk.
My chair creaks as I recline, staring up at the ceiling like it's got the answers I already know.
You wanna stay close to my girl, huh, Shadin?
Dream big, bro.
That's not gonna happen.
Not this time.
Because right now, she's already riding the edge of insanity, thanks to me. And if you think I'm gonna let you lurk around, breathe the same air as her while she's this vulnerable?
Fuck no.
I'll tear the ground out from under your feet before I let that happen.
My fingers drag slowly over my mouth, a grin tugging at the corner despite the fire under my ribs.
She's mine.
Every second she doesn't even know it makes it worse.
But soon…
Soon, she will.
°°°°°°°
Her friends gave up.
Finally.
Guess they didn't find the "cute stalker" they were hoping for. Cute?, I should slit whoever came up with that word for me.
So tonight, it's just her. My girl. My madness.
I scale her balcony like it's my second home, boots silent against the railing, chain brushing my collarbone. Her lights are still on.
She's sitting on the bed like she owns the fucking planet. Back straight, chin high, eyes locked on nothing but looking like she's about to order an army to burn the world down.
God, look at her. Ruling kingdoms without knowing it.
My chest tightens. My hands curl. I shouldn't even be here, but staying away? Not an option.
She stands. Walks to her closet.
Pulls out a T-shirt—huge. Swallowed by it. Big brother's, probably.
Then it happens.
She hooks her fingers into the hem of the shirt she's wearing.
And my entire body locks.
Heat slams through me so fast I almost stumble. My breath stutters, my pulse riots against my throat.
"Fuck," I hiss, low, jaw clenching hard enough to ache.
I turn my head away before I see a single inch of skin.
Hands fist at my sides. Muscles tense. My chest burns like a live wire's running through it.
What the fuck are you doing, woman? Testing me like you don't already have me on my knees?
I've stalked her for a year. A year of sneaking in and out, biting her neck, leaving my mark on her, breathing her in every night like she's my only goddamn air supply.
And yet…
I've never seen more than her arms. The delicate curve of her neck. A glimpse of her collarbone when the night was merciful.
That's all.
She never wears anything short. Never gives the world a fraction of her.
And if I see it, it won't be like this.
Not while she's clueless that I'm here.
Not without her consent.
Not until she's mine—completely, shamelessly mine—and she wants me to see every inch.
I take a slow step back. My boots make no sound, my breath ragged and uneven.
Control. Hold the fuck on, Tavarian. You lose it now, you lose her forever.
I swing over the balcony railing, dropping from the second floor like a shadow. By the time my boots hit the ground, my lungs are on fire, my blood thick and molten.
I don't breathe right until I'm home.
And even then…
It's a mess.
I hit the mattress hard, chain biting into my skin. My fist tangles in the sheets, breath ragged, chest heaving.
I almost saw her. One second more and I would've crossed a line I can't uncross.
God, it's torture. Pure fucking torture.
Sleep? Not happening.
I'm on my feet before I know it, dragging myself to the gym like a man possessed. Gloves on, hands trembling—not from fear, from everything I'm holding back.
Phone in hand. One call.
Izar answers sounding dead. "Sir?"
"Downstairs. Gym. Now."
"…It's past midnight."
"I said now." My voice is sharp, final.
Twenty minutes later, he stumbles in looking like hell. Hair a wreck, shirt half-buttoned, lips swollen like he's been busy.
I lean against the ropes, eyeing him. "You look like shit."
He glares, rubbing his neck. "Thanks. Was having a good night with someone before you dragged me here."
My brow arches, slow, dangerous. "Who?"
He smirks, defiant. "That's my business."
I tilt my head, silent for a long moment, then let it go.
"Why'd you call me?" he mutters.
"Get in the ring."
He groans, head tipping back. "Zayan… it's late—"
"Get. In." My voice leaves no room for argument.
He sighs, muttering curses under his breath, but climbs through the ropes.
"Now what?"
"Hit me."
He freezes. "What?"
"Hit me," I growl, stepping forward, heat in my voice. "I'm letting you."
He studies me, realization dawning in his eyes. He knows. He sees it—the chaos beneath my control.
Then he swings.
First punch cracks my jaw, whipping my head to the side.
I take it.
Another slams into my ribs. Another.
Each hit lands hard, bruising bone, rattling breath. But I stand there, unmoving, silent, letting it all happen.
Because nothing hurts enough.
Not compared to her.
Not compared to almost losing my control on that balcony.
I let him hit me until his arms shake, sweat dripping down his temples.
Then I snap.
One punch.
Brutal. Precise.
He hits the mat with a guttural sound, sprawled out, clutching his side.
Dragging himself up, breath ragged, blood on his lip, he glares. "Damn, man… you know you've got that kind of strength… so why the fuck are you doing this to me?"
I stand there, chest heaving, sweat dripping, chain glinting under the lights.
Because I'd rather bleed a hundred times than break my control with her once.
________________________________
Four days.
Four days of staying the fuck away from her balcony.
Because I know she's waiting.
She's sitting there every night, lights on, pretending she's not looking for me but I can feel it.
And where's the thrill if I show up early?
Patience, Tavarian. You don't hunt by running into the trap she's setting. You let her ache for it. Let her want you there.
So, instead of being where I want to be—wrapped in the shadows outside her window—I'm here.
Golf field. Sun too damn bright. Grass trimmed to Tavarian perfection.
Grandfather's standing a few feet away, club in hand, shoulders still strong as steel at seventy-five. He's a living goddamn statue, a man who makes even predators hesitate.
He takes a sip of something green, thick, probably blended misery some dietitian sold him on. Still, his body looks like Brad Pitt decided to stick around for another prime.
His voice cuts through the air, deep, echoing like it crawled up from the bottom of the ocean. "Do you know why Shadin's in Italy?"
My hand pauses mid-swing.
Brows furrow. "Huh? Shadin's in Italy?"
Grandfather glances at me like he's testing me. "Isn't he supposed to be attending Columbia?"
I tilt my head slightly, let confusion flicker just enough to look real. Acting is easy. Breathing through it isn't.
"Yeah," I say slowly, steady, like I'm running the thought. "He's been at Columbia. Or so I thought."
Grandfather studies me. The silence stretches before he finally speaks again, voice lower now. "Yesterday, Director Moretti called me. Said Shadin got assigned there out of nowhere. I thought you knew about it."
My jaw doesn't so much as twitch. "I don't know anything about that."
A lie smooth as silk.
He nods once, gaze still locked on me like he's peeling layers. "You know he's only ten months older than you, right?"
"Mm."
"I don't know why the fucker's still obsessed with graduating in physiology. He's already got a mind for business. Hell, he could've been sitting here instead of chasing dead nerves in classrooms."
Grandfather's grip tightens on his club, his voice dropping into something almost amused, almost sharp. "He's got a nice-ass temper. Calm. Calculated. While you… you've got the shittiest temper of all Tavarians."
He takes another sip, chuckles under his breath. "Having that fucker around must've been nice for his parents. Makes them sleep easy at night."
I nod once, no words.
Because he's right.
Shadin's good. He's the Tavarian people smile at.
Kind. Steady.
The type of man who could save someone from fire.
Me?
I am the fire.
A fucking monster in black chains and sharp edges.
And maybe that's why I did what I did. Why Shadin's out of the country and I'm still here pretending to be calm.
Grandfather's eyes narrow, like he feels the storm under my skin. "You're quiet today."
I force a lazy smirk, adjusting my gloves. "Guess even my temper takes Sundays off."
It earns a dry huff from him, but it doesn't last. That gaze stays heavy, drilling into me like it knows too much.
And I've had enough.
I step back from the tee, shoulders rolling. "I've got an urgent matter to solve."
Grandfather tilts his head slightly. "Business?"
"Always."
He grunts, swinging his club as I walk away, but I can still feel his eyes on my back.
The weight of what I just heard, what I already knew—it coils in my gut like a live wire.
Shadin might be kind, good, calm…
But even good men don't get to stay near my woman.
Not now. Not ever.
--------------
Night,
Phone lights up. Again. Same group chat. Same late-night confession.
Maybe he backed off.
Maybe he won't come again.
But still.
Tonight I'm not sleeping.
Pray for me.
If anything happens—
it's him.
Okay?
I drag my thumb over the message, leaning back in my study chair. The room's dark except for the faint glow from the monitors lining the wall. My mouth curves into something that isn't a smile, not really—more like a sin I'm not even trying to repent for.
So you're waiting for me again, baby? Sitting there, all wound up, heart racing, praying I'll show? That's good behavior. That's exactly what I like—knowing you can't close those pretty eyes without wondering if I'm already in your room, breathing down your neck.
I push back from the desk, boots heavy on the hardwood floor, chain at my collarbone catching the faint light. I don't bother with my bike tonight. I want the silence of my car, the stillness before the storm.
---
Front door unlocks like it's been waiting for me. Every hinge sighs under my touch. I step inside, boots striking the quiet house with deliberate weight. Each sound is for her—every creak on the staircase, every slow drag of leather against polished wood. I want her pulse screaming before I even touch her air.
I stop in front of her door. My hand rests on the knob, head tilted, listening.
She's awake. Fucking liar. Lying there pretending to sleep, but her breathing's all wrong. She's not scared enough to cry. Not brave enough to get up and face me. Just frozen. Cute.
I scrape my boot against the floor, loud enough to tell her your stalker's here. I twist the knob—slow, deliberate—letting the metal whine and the door creak like it's groaning my name.
Dark room. Small bed. She's on her side, facing the wall, every line of her body tight.
I move closer.
Step.
Step.
Step.
Each one slow enough to make the floorboards ache. I kneel beside her bed, close enough to catch the faint scent of her shampoo. My breath grazes her neck, and goosebumps rise like I've branded her without a touch.
"You look hot when you pretend to sleep," I whisper, voice low enough to slip under her skin.
Her breath stops. Just… gone. Like she's holding it, praying if she stays still enough, I'll vanish.
I smirk, leaning back slightly, eyes on the back of her head.
You're killing me, baby. Every second of this—your fear, your silence—it's burning me alive, but this is what has to happen. This is how I keep you. This is how I make sure no one else ever gets this close.
I straighten, stepping away without a single sound this time. Down the stairs. Out the front door.
Night air hits my face as I walk through her yard, boots crushing gravel like bones underfoot. I stop in the middle of the silence, knowing her curtains are barely parted. I can feel her eyes on me—wide, terrified, beautiful.
I turn my head, slow as sin.
The mask hides my face—ghost white, hollow, inhuman. I tilt my head, deliberate, the way predators do when they're deciding whether to devour or play with their prey.
She's frozen at the window. Pale, wide-eyed, looking like she's staring at the devil himself.
And fuck, it's gorgeous. It hurts—deep, sharp, twisted—because I know I'm breaking her piece by piece. But that's the job. That's the assignment.
I let it hang there—me staring at her, her staring at me—until the night itself feels too heavy to hold. Then I turn and disappear into the dark, leaving her breathless and knowing she'll never sleep again.
Good. That's what I want.
____________
Yesterday was fun.
Her face… god, her fucking face.
Breathless. Pale. Frozen by fear, yet still trying so hard to be brave.
What would it look like when she's not afraid of me? When she's under me instead—breathless because she's begging me not to stop? Asking me for more, not pretending to sleep and holding her damn breath like a deer in headlights?
I drag a hand down my face and let out a low laugh that's all edge, no humor.
I'm such a creep. Hell, probably a fucking pervert too.
Morning sun's spilling into my room like it doesn't know a devil sits here. I'm in front of my monitor, controller in hand, killing noobs online like my life depends on it.
Except this isn't just anyone on the other end of the line.
It's her little brother.
Yeah, no one knows. Not him. Not her. Not anyone. I started this a year ago—not planned, not some master scheme. I just… wanted a way in. A way to understand her world. A way to get close without actually getting close.
Turns out, the kid's a natural. Smart, fast, deadly. And every time I play with him, I get these tiny, stolen pieces of her.
Sometimes she's yelling at him from the hallway. Sometimes her mom's screaming at both of them for fighting. Sometimes, just sometimes, I catch her laugh in the background, and it wrecks me every damn time.
I lean back in my chair, spinning lazily, chain dragging cool against my collarbone, lips curling into a grin.
Because I remember that day.
That day she went off on her brother:
"Why are you always playing games with jobless online dudes who probably live in their moms' basements and cry into Cheetos?"
Jobless online dudes.
She was talking about me.
Me—her future billionaire husband.
Fuck me, if that isn't the funniest thing I've ever heard. I nearly threw my headset off that day from laughing. I can still picture it—her pacing, losing her shit, her brother snapping back, their mom charging in with a slipper like a goddamn warlord.
Phone buzzes. Izar.
"Mm," I answer, still spinning.
"She filed a case," Izar says.
I stop spinning. A slow, dark smirk spreads across my face.
Oh, baby… you've really stepped up the game, huh? Filing a case ?
I toss the controller aside and text her little brother: i'll play later.
Because right now?
Daddy's got work.
---
Private room. My kingdom. Monitors, codes, shadows.
I slide into the chair like it's a throne, fingers flying over keys, pulling up the police system before the ink on her damn complaint is even dry.
Smart little devil. You even turned in that drawing, didn't you? Babe, you got a photo too? Damn… thinking ahead. I like it.
Seconds. That's all it takes. The file's gone. Wiped like it never existed.
I lean back, staring at the blank screen, chain glinting under the low light.
Should I play dirty now? Let you think you're winning? Or make you feel like I've abandoned you—gone for good, safe to breathe again?
My lips twitch.
No. That's too fucking soft.
This game? It's barely started.
Every second she's scared, every time her breath hitches because of me…
That's mine.
And no cop, no report, no one—
is ever gonna take that away from me.
__________
AUTHOR NOTE
Tavarian's losing it, and he knows it.
He moved Shadin out of the way, punched his bodyguard bloody, lied to his grandfather, watched her undress—and still walked away.
And then?
He showed up masked at her window like the nightmare she swears isn't real.
Pray for her. Pray for him. Comment like you're on fire because this man just broke every boundary but hasn't even started yet. 🖤🔥
And never forget add to collection and give me power stones 🤍