ARSHILA'S POV
The storm won't shut the fuck up.
Thunder rolls through the hospital walls like war drums, lightning flashing bright enough to cut through the darkness, slicing white streaks across the room. The rain hasn't stopped for hours—it hammers the glass like it's trying to break its way inside.
It's the middle of the night.
The world is quiet except for the storm, the soft hiss of the IV, and that steady, relentless beep… beep… beep from the monitor next to his bed.
Zayan Tavarian.
The name alone feels like it doesn't belong here, in this room, next to me.
He's sleeping on the other bed, chest rising and falling slowly, dark hair messy against the pillow, one arm hooked lazily over the blanket like he's still the fucking king of the world even while broken.
And he's beautiful.
So goddamn beautiful it hurts.
I stare at him for a long time—long enough that the pain in my body fades into the background, long enough that the only thing I feel is that old, stupid ache in my chest.
Because why the fuck… why the actual fuck…
…did God make him a Tavarian?
Why is he the one?
My first love.
The one person who could've wrecked me with just a glance.
And he's them.
He's not just one of them—he's the fucking heir.
If he were just an ordinary guy…
If he were just some nobody…
I would've confessed a long time ago.
I would've told him about the way my heart has been chewing itself alive for a year
But now?
Now that I know who he is… what he is…
I can't.
It would destroy me.
It would destroy everything.
So, the only sane thing left to do is to forget him.
Even as I'm lying here, watching him sleep like some creep in the middle of the night, memorizing the sharp cut of his jaw, the shadow of his lashes against his cheek, the faint twitch of his fingers when he dreams…
I tell myself: Forget him.
Forget the way his voice crawls down my spine.
Forget the way my heart wants to beat only for him.
Forget the way his existence makes me feel alive and doomed at the same time.
Just… fucking forget him.
I'm about to turn away, about to close my eyes and pretend sleep is anywhere close, when his lashes flutter.
His eyes open.
And I whip my head to the window so fast my neck almost snaps, like I wasn't just ogling him like a lunatic.
His voice, low and rough from sleep, cuts through the storm.
"You're not sleeping?"
Shit.
I swallow, keep my eyes on the rain. "Nope."
Silence.
Then his voice again, quieter this time, like a warning. "Why?"
God, even half-dead, he sounds like someone who could command armies.
"Why would I have to tell you?" I snap before my brain can stop my mouth.
And that's when it hits me.
Oh, fuck.
I almost forgot.
This man could kill me with a look.
I slowly, slowly turn my head.
And there it is—his eyebrow raised, that same Tavarian tilt that says try me again and see what happens.
Heat rushes up my neck, my stomach doing this dumb flip because somehow, even angry, even injured, he's hot as hell.
I cough, try to recover. "I mean… sleep just isn't coming."
I don't know why my voice sounds guilty, like I just got caught stealing candy instead of watching him breathe like a creep.
The monitor beside him beeps louder for a moment, like it's in on the secret.
His eyes stay on me, sharp, unreadable in the stormlight.
And for a second, I think maybe he knows.
Maybe he knows everything.
What the fuck is wrong with you?
Seriously.
My brain is doing that thing again—that psychotic, self-sabotaging thing where it convinces me to stare at him like he's the last man alive, like I didn't just spend the past year trying to exorcise this exact sickness out of my chest.
He knows.
He has to know.
He probably caught me watching him just now. Probably knows I've been silently losing my goddamn mind every time his stupidly perfect face twitches in his sleep.
And yet…
And yet this is the same man who once told me—straight to my face—that he loves someone else.
So why?
Why the hell is my heart beating like this?
"Forget this motherfucker," I hiss in my own head. "You're crazy. A crazy, stupid, pathetic little fuck."
My brain gives me a sarcastic thumbs-up. Okay then.
I turn my head slowly, my eyes dragging back to him against my will.
The storm light cuts across his face like a damn Renaissance painting, shadows carving into those lethal cheekbones, his lips relaxed into something dangerously close to a smirk even in silence.
I don't even think before blurting out, "What does it feel like?"
His eyes cut to mine, slow, sharp. "What?"
I swallow. "Being a Tavarian heir."
I gesture vaguely at his whole existence. "I mean… you guys have everything. Power. Money. Respect. How's it feel, knowing you can do anything you want?"
For a second, he doesn't move. Doesn't even blink.
And then—his voice drops, deep, unhurried, like a blade being unsheathed.
"Even if I killed you right here," he says, calm as still water, "no one would ask me why I did it."
The air between us goes ice-cold.
My lungs freeze.
"They'd know," he continues, his gaze locking on mine with terrifying precision. "They'd know there was a reason. A good one."
I can't breathe.
He doesn't raise his voice. Doesn't shift his tone. But the weight of it… God, it's like the storm outside crawled through the walls and sat on my chest.
And still—he just looks.
Deep, unblinking, holding me there until my pulse trips over itself.
I tear my gaze away like a coward, my voice a shaky whisper. "Then why… are you hidden?"
His brow ticks up.
I force myself to continue, even though every nerve in me is screaming. "I mean… why don't you people make it public? That you're the heir. Why stay in the shadows?"
He tilts his head slightly, and my heart does this suicidal lurch because even that—that tiny tilt—is pure sin.
"Business strategy," he says finally, like that explains everything. Like that's enough to silence me.
And maybe it should be.
But my dumbass mouth doesn't shut up.
"But now I know who you are," I push, voice brittle.
He doesn't blink. Doesn't even twitch. Just… lets that predator stillness wrap around me until my stomach knots.
Then—softly, with that quiet dominance that makes my bones want to bend—
"But you're here, right?"
Something in my chest caves.
"You can't even leave," he adds, tone almost gentle. Almost. "Not without my permission."
The words sink like stones in my gut.
And like the true idiot I am, I blurt, "So it's true then… you'd kill me?"
A shadow cuts through his expression.
His voice dips lower, dark and slow. "Do you want me to?"
My breath stutters.
And fuck me—
Fuck me,—
Why is he hot when he's actually threatening me?
My brain short-circuits. My spine feels like electricity is crawling up it, my stomach flips, and I can't tell if I'm terrified or… something worse.
I laugh.
A horrible, awkward, cracked sound. "Hahaha… I'm not scared of you."
Lie.
Lie-lie-lie.
I'm scared as shit.
But I don't stop smiling like a deranged fool, trying to save face as my hands curl tight under the blanket.
Zayan just watches me for a long, unbearable second.
Then—
"You sure about that?"
The way he says it, low and taunting, makes my insides twist.
I glance at him, ready to spit out another lie, but—
He smiles first.
Slow. Small. Wickedly knowing.
And it's not fair.
Not fair that a smile could do this much damage.
Because it's the most beautiful goddamn thing I've ever seen on a man.
It's not sweet. It's not soft. It's lethal—devastating in its perfection. The kind of smile that could burn empires to the ground and have people thanking him for it.
And all I can think is:
Why the fuck… why does this motherfucker look like this?
And
What…
What the fuck was that?
That smile. That goddamn, soul-ruining smile.
It wasn't even full—just this slight curve of his lips, sharp enough to cut my sanity into confetti.
Why does it look like that?
Why is it so fucking beautiful?
It's not fair.
I'm over here, barely holding my shit together, trying to forget him, trying to remind myself that this man will definitely kill me one day, and then he just—
He just does that.
A smile like sin and salvation wrapped together, thrown in my face like a goddamn weapon.
"What's wrong with you, Arshila?" my brain hisses. "Are you seriously thirsting over your fucking reaper?"
Yes.
Yes, apparently I am.
God must be laughing right now. Big cosmic belly laugh at how pathetically doomed I am.
I dig my nails into the blanket, whispering to myself, "Nope. No. Not doing this. He's lethal. He's a Tavarian. He's… death wearing a perfect jawline."
But my stupid, traitorous body?
It's humming.
Humming like it wants to get burned.
I risk a glance at him.
Zayan is lying there, perfectly still, one arm hooked casually over his chest like he doesn't have a single care in the world.
And his eyes—God help me—aren't even on me this time.
He's staring at the ceiling.
Jaw tight.
Adam's apple shifting with a slow swallow.
That chain glinting faintly against his collarbone, making me imagine—
No. Nope. Abort mission.
I squeeze my eyes shut, silently screaming into the darkness.
Because right now, looking at him like that, I know—
There's no way in hell I'm getting any sleep tonight.
---
Morning comes like a slap.
I don't even know when the hell I fell asleep. One second, I'm wide awake, silently cursing him and that sinful voice of his… next thing I know, I'm sitting here, a tray of hospital breakfast in front of me, and my brain's foggy as hell.
And God, I miss the curtains.
At least when they were up, I had that barrier. That safe, thin shield where I could sneak glances at him without getting caught.
Now? Nothing. Just open air between our beds, his presence spilling into every inch of the damn room like gravity. I can't look at him, can't not look at him, and it's torture.
I'm mid-spoonful, trying to pretend the oatmeal doesn't taste like punishment, when the door clicks open.
The spoon freezes halfway to my mouth.
Someone steps in—
A man.
Tall. Sharp suit. Black. Perfectly tailored. The kind of presence that screams dangerous but controlled.
Not one of Zayan's terrifying friends. This guy looks… different. More polished. Professional. The kind of person you don't notice until it's already too late.
My pulse spikes, and I immediately drop my eyes to the tray, shoving another bite into my mouth like nothing's happening.
But then—
"Sir."
The word's deep. Firm. Smooth as steel.
My chest tightens. My spoon clinks against the bowl.
From the corner of my eye, I see him lean down, murmuring something to Zayan. Low. Quiet. I can't hear a thing.
And Zayan—
Doesn't even look up from his coffee. Just hums an unimpressed "mm," like a king granting permission for a peasant to speak.
Then, as fast as he appeared, the man straightens, leaves without another word, and the door shuts.
I blink. Twice. My brain catching up.
"Who was that?" I ask, trying to sound casual. Totally failing.
Zayan doesn't even glance my way. "My bodyguard."
I blink again.
"Oh." My spoon dips back into the oatmeal. "He's… uh… handsome. What's his name?"
That finally earns me a look. A slow turn of his head, dark eyes pinning me like I just confessed to a crime.
"What do you want to know his name for?"
I shrug, faking nonchalance like my life depends on it.
"Just… to know. Basic curiosity. That's all."
He stares a second longer, like he doesn't believe a word of it, before finally saying,
"Izar."
I let out a low whistle. "Waah. That's… beautiful. Fancy. Sounds like it belongs in a movie."
Zayan says nothing. Just goes back to sipping his coffee like a smug, unreadable bastard while my mind spins.
---
ZAYAN'S POV
The fuck??
Did she—
Did she just call Izar handsome?
Yeah, okay… technically… maybe he is. Clean-cut. Sharp. Knows how to wear a suit. Fine. I'll give him that.
But her saying it?
Her saying it like that spoon isn't already making me insane this morning?
Nah.
My jaw locks so hard I can feel my teeth grind. She doesn't even notice, doesn't see me gripping the sheet like it's keeping me from putting a bullet in my own damn bodyguard.
And it's ridiculous because—what the fuck is this?
Jealousy?
Over Izar?
Nope. Not happening. I don't get jealous. I don't.
But tell that to the part of me that's already imagining dragging her spoon out of her hand, throwing it across the room, and leaning over just to make her say my name instead of calling anyone else "handsome."
Because that's the thing—she thinks she's locked here with me, thinks this whole hospital stay is just about keeping my precious Tavarian secret safe.
Cute.
She doesn't realize the truth is darker than that.
She's not here because she knows.
She's here because I'm not letting her leave.
And if I tell her that—if I really show her what I am, what she does to me—she'd run. She'd run so fucking fast she wouldn't even look back.
My hands twitch just thinking about it.
No.
She doesn't get to run.
Not now.
Not ever.
I swallow down the storm clawing up my throat, my face perfectly calm, but my stare locked on her like a brand.
Izar can fuck himself.
Because soon enough, the only man she's going to think about, breathe for, fall apart under…
Is me.
She's been quiet for a while now, just sitting there on her hospital bed, spoon tapping against the tray like she's got all the time in the world while I'm sitting here—broken ribs, half-dead, losing my fucking mind because every time she opens her mouth, I don't know if I want to strangle her or kiss her senseless.
And then—out of nowhere—
"Where did you graduate from? Your degree?"
My eyes snap to hers. I wasn't expecting that. My voice is flat, sharp. "Columbia."
Her eyes widen like I just told her I own the moon.
"Waaah," she whispers, all impressed, like it's some damn miracle.
I glare. "What?"
She just shrugs, looking like she's trying not to smile.
Something tightens in my chest. I hate that shrug. I hate how it makes her look cute.
I narrow my eyes. "What are you going to do after this?"
She looks at me blankly. "Nothing."
"Nothing?" My voice drops lower, harder. "You get dragged into the Tavarian hospital, survive a damn near fatal accident, and your grand plan is… nothing?"
She doesn't flinch. Doesn't even look guilty. "I want to write a book."
I lean forward slightly, head tilting, my temper already fraying. "A book?"
She nods like it's the most normal thing in the world.
"About what?"
She says it without a pause, without a second thought—like she's been waiting to say it to someone.
"My first love. The man I can't forget."
I swear to fucking God—
Every muscle in my body locks up. My jaw grinds so hard it hurts. My ribs ache worse than before, and my fists curl against the sheets.
Again.
Again with this unknown bastard. This faceless prick who's been living in her head for a year while I'm sitting right the fuck here.
I can practically feel the rage clawing its way up my throat, burning through my chest. The kind of rage that doesn't shout—it kills.
My voice comes out like a blade. "Then it'll be a flop."
She blinks, caught off guard. "What?"
I let out a humorless laugh, leaning back against the pillows like I'm not seconds away from ripping this room apart. "Isn't it absurd? You see a guy once—in fucking traffic—and you've been obsessed with him for over a year. He doesn't even know you exist, doesn't know your name, probably doesn't give a single shit, and here you are… still clinging to some fantasy, planning to write a goddamn book about him."
My words get sharper, each one slicing out of me before I can stop it.
"Bullshit."
Her lips part, eyes wide, disbelief painted all over her face.
"Excuse me?" she snaps. "Who the hell are you to talk like that?"
I don't move. Don't blink. Just slowly raise an eyebrow, like I'm daring her to keep running that pretty little mouth.
She swallows hard, the fight in her faltering. Finally, she mutters, "It's my personal life. Why are you so rude?"
I let out a low laugh, but there's nothing soft about it—it's dark, dangerous, laced with venom.
"I'm not rude," I say, voice low enough to vibrate between us. "I'm telling you the truth. It's absurd. It's fucking ridiculous."
Inside, my blood is boiling so hot it's a wonder the monitors aren't screaming. Every word she just said is a knife I can't pull out, twisting deeper with each beat of her heart.
She's mine.
I don't care who the hell this "first love" is, or what kind of bullshit fairytale she's written in her head—she's mine, and if this phantom bastard ever shows his face, I'll bury him so deep even the devil won't find him.
But on the outside, all she sees is me—cold, cruel, the man tearing apart her little dream with nothing but words.
And God help me, I'd do it again.
---
ARSHILA'S POV
What's his problem?? Seriously, what the actual fuck is wrong with this man?
Just because he's a Tavarian doesn't mean he gets a free pass to talk to me like that. Rude, arrogant, cold as ice—and that voice. God, that voice. Deep, heavy, like he's dragging my sanity down with every word.
And how the hell am I supposed to explain that I'm talking about him? My so-called first love, the man stuck in my head for a year—yeah, surprise, asshole, it's you. But I can't say that, can I? Not when every time he raises that perfect brow, my stupid heart stops working.
He's right though. God help me, but he's right.
It is absurd.
Absurd that I met him once, saw him in traffic, and my heart decided to tattoo his face in my chest. Absurd that even now, lying in this hospital bed beside him, my brain won't shut up about him.
Forget him, I tell myself, gripping the blanket. Please, brain. Please, heart. He's not in our league. We can find another one. A normal one. One who doesn't look like he could kill you and still make it the hottest thing you've ever seen.
My hands shake, anger itching under my skin. I can't even scream at him. Of course not. He's a Tavarian. The Tavarian. Sharing a room with him is already nightmare enough.
So I do the only thing I can.
I grab the remote and flick the TV on, drowning in static noise until a news anchor's voice cuts through.
Click. Click. Click.
Finally, I stop on a news channel.
A suited anchorwoman sits behind the desk, voice sharp and urgent:
> "Breaking news tonight—Star Group's CEO, Alexander Reed, has officially been declared missing. It's been over three months since his disappearance, with no confirmed sightings or communication. Family members remain concerned as investigators report zero leads. Speculation continues to grow around whether this is a voluntary disappearance or a potential corporate abduction."
My finger freezes on the remote.
Missing?
Three months?
My stomach knots, unease crawling under my skin.
I whisper to myself, voice barely audible over the hum of machines,
"Missing…? Where the hell is he?"
________
Author's Note:
God help me, this chapter nearly killed me to write 😭🔥 Arshila's down bad for her reaper, Zayan's out here jealous of his own damn bodyguard, and meanwhile I'm just… feral. Enjoy the chaos, babes. Tavarian menace unlocked
.