ARSHILA'S POV
"EBRAHIM."
The sound cracks through the air like thunder. A growl, deep and guttural, vibrating against the stone walls around us.
Ebrahim's hand freezes midair. His head jerks over his shoulder, and then—slowly—he smirks. Like the devil himself just got caught with blood on his hands, and instead of fear, he finds it amusing.
"Well, well." His voice drops into a lazy mock. "There's the fucking loyal dog."
My knees nearly give out.
Izar.
He's standing there, broad shoulders blocking the sunlight, eyes locked on Ebrahim with a darkness that could level cities. He doesn't blink. Doesn't breathe wrong. Just radiates this terrifying calm that makes even the air feel sharper.
"Step away from her." His words are low, controlled—but they don't sound like a request. They sound like a sentence.
Ebrahim barks a laugh, dragging his gaze back to me, then to Izar again. "Who the fuck are you to tell me what to do?"
Izar doesn't flinch. He moves. One step. Two. A blur of lethal patience until he's close enough to press a hand against Ebrahim's shoulder. A warning. A command without words.
"Move," Izar says again. His tone is still calm, but underneath, it hums with danger.
Ebrahim's smirk splits wider. He knocks Izar's hand off like it burns, then fists Izar's collar in a violent jerk. The fabric strains. My lungs lock.
"Who the fuck do you think you are?" he snarls, spit flying. His face is inches from Izar's, eyes wild, teeth bared like an animal. "Putting your filthy hand on me? Talking like you own this fucking ground?"
Izar doesn't shove him off. Doesn't react. Bloodthirsty silence cloaks him, and then he speaks—voice steady, lethal. "I'm not asking. It's a command. You will do exactly what I said."
The sound of knuckles connecting with flesh snaps through the garden. Ebrahim's fist crashes into Izar's face, brutal, sharp. Blood streaks down from Izar's split lip, vivid against the hard line of his jaw.
My breath stutters. He doesn't even stumble. He just stands there, wiping the blood with the back of his hand like it's rain.
"You fucking Tavarian dog," Ebrahim spits, chest heaving. "Don't you ever command me. Don't you dare. You're nothing but their chained mutt." He pulls his arm back again, fist cocked, ready to swing harder, ready to split more than skin.
But Izar moves. Quick. A hand shoots up, iron-clad fingers locking around Ebrahim's wrist midair. The crack of stopped momentum echoes as Izar twists, slow and deliberate, forcing Ebrahim's arm down until his own joints strain.
"You should put your hands off me," Izar says, voice still maddeningly calm, eyes like sharpened steel.
Ebrahim's laugh breaks out again, jagged and manic. He leans forward, close enough that their foreheads nearly collide. "I'll kill you, bastard. I'll gut you and make the Tavarians bury their fucking pet like the dog you are."
Izar tilts his head slightly, a flicker of a smile curling his bloody lip. "I'm sorry." His grip tightens on Ebrahim's wrist until the veins in his hand bulge. "But you can't."
The silence after that is deafening, like the whole estate is holding its breath.
Ebrahim barks out a laugh, sharp and ugly, rattling against the walls around us. "I can't? You think I can't?" His grin stretches too wide, eyes wild, chest heaving like he's two seconds away from snapping completely.
Izar's fingers peel his hand off his collar, deliberate, controlled, like he's dismantling a bomb. He stands straighter, only an inch separating them now, shadows slicing across his face.
"Yes," Izar says, voice cutting like a blade. "You can't."
The air fucking sizzles.
Ebrahim's arm shoots back, muscles tightening, about to swing another punch. But Izar shifts—fluid, precise—dodging like he saw it coming hours ago. The blow cuts empty air, leaving Ebrahim snarling, breath ragged.
Izar's voice doesn't rise. It doesn't need to. "Sir," he says, the word dipped in venom, in finality. "Don't make me call you something else. This is your last warning. I'm considering you Tavarian blood. Don't test the mercy that buys you."
For a split second, something flickers in Ebrahim's eyes—hesitation, maybe—but it's gone just as fast. "Fuck that," he spits, lunging forward again.
Izar's fist moves faster than my eyes can track. Crack. Ebrahim's head jerks sideways, a snarl tearing from his throat. Blood spills at the corner of his mouth. He growls like a caged beast, but Izar doesn't even flinch.
"I'm reminding you," Izar says, voice low, steady, terrifying. "If you want to live—stay away from her. Or you won't see tomorrow's sunrise."
My whole body goes rigid. Those words. They don't sound like a threat. They sound like fact.
Ebrahim laughs again, a raspier, bloodier sound now. He wipes his lip, eyes burning, but before I can even breathe relief, I hear it.
Footsteps.
Heavy, synchronized.
My stomach drops into ice.
From the shadows of the corridor, five men emerge. Black suits, eyes sharp, movements precise. Not random muscle. Soldiers. The kind of men who eat violence for breakfast.
Fucking hell.
It's fucked. It's completely, irreversibly fucked.
Ebrahim spreads his arms wide, blood dripping from his grin. "Now," he snarls, chest vibrating with glee. "Now I want to see how you walk away with her."
The ground tilts beneath me. My throat dries. My legs don't feel like mine.
But Izar doesn't hesitate. Not even for half a second. He shoves Ebrahim back, the move sharp, dismissive, like he's clearing garbage from his path. His hand clamps around my wrist, firm, steady, dragging me behind him in one swift motion.
His voice drops like a knife against Ebrahim's laughter. "I will," Izar says. Every syllable is a storm. "Even if it takes your fucking life with me."
Ebrahim laughs harder, manic and feral, but Izar doesn't give him the satisfaction of another glance. He pulls me closer, shielding me with his entire body. His broad back blocks out the men, blocks out the fucking world.
And then—he looks at me. Just a flicker, over his shoulder, dark eyes meeting mine. His mouth doesn't move, but his gaze speaks loud enough to crush the panic in my chest.
Don't worry. I've got you.
And fuck—my hands are shaking, my knees are weak, but for the first time since this nightmare started, I actually believe him.
Izar's grip on my wrist loosens. He steps forward, deliberate, like a wall of calm steel moving into place. His body angles between me and them, his hand slipping away but leaving behind the ghost of his touch—solid, grounding, terrifying in its promise.
The men advance. Five shadows in black, closing the distance with military precision, their eyes locked on Izar like they've already marked his grave.
But Izar doesn't move back. Doesn't even twitch. He just tilts his head, studying them the way a predator studies prey too stupid to know it's already dead.
The first one lunges.
Izar sidesteps so fast it blurs, his elbow driving into the man's ribs with a crunch that echoes like a gunshot. The guy collapses, gasping, clutching his side. Before he even hits the ground, Izar grabs his arm, twists, and sends him crashing into the second man barreling in.
Bodies hit stone. A groan splits the air.
My chest seizes. Holy shit.
The third doesn't hesitate—he's bigger, stronger-looking, fists raised like bricks. He swings for Izar's face. Izar ducks, slides under the arm, and plants his fist into the man's gut. The sound that rips out of him is animalistic, broken, and Izar finishes it with a sharp kick to the knee that buckles him instantly.
Two down. One crippled.
It's not even a fight. It's a slaughter.
The fourth and fifth come together, one from each side. My heart spikes—fuck, two at once—but Izar turns on them like he's been waiting for this. He grabs the wrist of the one to his left, yanks him forward, and slams his forehead against the man's nose. Blood sprays. At the same time, his boot lashes out, catching the other one in the chest and sending him stumbling back.
The one with the broken nose staggers, choking on red, and Izar shoves him face-first into the wall with a sickening crack. The last man roars, desperate, and charges again. Izar doesn't even break a sweat—he catches the guy mid-stride, twists his arm behind his back, and slams him into the ground so hard the earth seems to shake.
Silence.
Four groaning bodies. One unconscious. All sprawled across the pristine estate floor like discarded trash.
Izar straightens, blood dripping from his split lip, chest rising steady and slow as if this was nothing. Just another day. Just another fight.
I can't breathe. I can't even blink. He didn't just fight them. He dismantled them. Like it was art. Like violence was second nature.
His eyes flick back to me. Calm. Controlled. Not a single ripple of doubt.
"I'll take you to your room," he says, voice steady, like he didn't just fucking annihilate five trained men.
I nod. I can't even make words. My throat feels locked, my heart's still in my mouth.
But Izar doesn't lead me away just yet. He turns. Faces Ebrahim.
Ebrahim hasn't moved the entire time. He's just standing there, leaning against the wall, watching with that sick grin plastered across his face like this was entertainment.
Izar steps close, only inches between them now. His voice drops, deadly soft. "Don't do anything stupid anymore."
Ebrahim chuckles, low and taunting. His hand drags over his split lip, smearing the blood Izar gave him earlier. "Well…" His grin widens. "Looks like the Tavarians breed their dogs mean."
Izar doesn't even blink. His jaw tightens. His voice sharpens. "You won't be able to walk if you test me again."
Ebrahim's laugh is sharper this time, barked out with madness. "You can't kill me, dog. But I can. You touched a Qadri. Remember that." His tone drips with venom, with something darker—promise or warning, I can't tell.
Izar's lip curves—not a smile, not really. More like a razor showing its edge. "I'd like to see you try."
Then, as if Ebrahim is no longer worth the air in his lungs, Izar glances at me. His voice softens in a way that doesn't match the blood, the violence, the chaos around us.
"Please."
Please—follow me. Please—don't fight this. Please—trust me.
He doesn't wait for Ebrahim's reply. He turns, gestures me forward, and I move, legs trembling, rage and fear twisting inside me.
But as I pass, I make the mistake of looking back.
Ebrahim's eyes are locked on me, wild, hungry. And then—he winks.
Something in me snaps. Rage burns hot in my chest, searing through the fear, leaving behind nothing but the urge to claw his eyes out.
I keep walking, Izar's presence right behind me, a shadow of steel and violence, his every step a shield between me and the monster still smirking in the dark.
My steps echo down the marble hallway, too loud, too sharp. I can still taste the iron tang of blood in the air even though I know it's just in my head. Every nerve in my body is screaming, buzzing, like my skin can't decide if it wants to crawl off my bones or just collapse.
Izar doesn't say a word behind me. His footsteps are silent, heavy but controlled, like the weight of someone who's done this before—dragged a half-broken girl away from the edge of something monstrous and left bodies cooling in his shadow.
I swallow hard, my throat raw. "...thank you," I whisper, the words sliding out so soft I'm not even sure they reach him.
"What?" His voice rumbles low, sharp enough to slice through my haze. He steps closer, too close, bending down so his face is near mine. The hallway's half-dark, but his eyes catch the light like fucking steel. "I didn't hear you."
I snap my gaze to the floor. My heart bangs against my ribs so loud it hurts. "I said—thank you."
For a second, nothing. Then he smirks, slow, dangerous, like I've just told him the funniest shit in the world. "Why are you saying thanks? It's my duty to protect you."
His words are simple, but the way he says them—it feels like chains, like he's reminding me exactly who the fuck he belongs to.
I glance up at him, heat crawling in my neck. "Then tell me something, Izar. How the hell did you even know where I was? I didn't see you following me."
That smirk doesn't move, but his silence answers louder than words. His jaw locks tight. He doesn't break eye contact.
My pulse kicks harder. "So you were there? Watching me? The whole time?"
Nothing. Just that look, heavy as a blade against my throat.
I clench my teeth. "Fine. Don't answer. Just… don't tell Zayan, okay?"
His brows lift, finally a reaction. "Why?"
I blink, caught. My tongue trips, brain scattering in a thousand pieces. "Nothing. It's my order. Don't tell him."
He tilts his head, studying me, like he's peeling back my skin with his stare alone. For a second, I'm scared he'll argue. But then he just says, flat, "Okay."
Relief shoots through me so fast I almost stumble. But it curdles instantly because—why the fuck am I hiding this from Zayan?
Zayan and Izar don't keep secrets. Not from each other. I know that much. Izar's silence belongs to him. His loyalty belongs to him. And here I am, demanding something that cuts through the one line those two men never cross.
Why? Why am I doing this?
It's not like Zayan would even care. He's not going to storm at Ebrahim, grab him by the throat, and demand an apology on my behalf. That's not who he is. Ebrahim's his cousin. Blood. And me? I'm just the wife he was forced to marry. He won't make a fucking scene between them just because I got cornered in some hallway.
That thought burns more than anything.
And the fucking fact that a fight like that even happened, and no one's going to know about it? No one's going to say a word? Even if someone ended up dead in this house, it'd vanish in silence. No sirens. No consequences. Just shadows swallowing it whole.
Fucking hell.
I keep walking, my legs stiff, my chest too tight. The silence between us is a prison, but at least it hides the storm ripping me apart inside.
The east wing feels colder.
The marble under my feet is polished enough to catch the pale gleam of chandeliers, but the air bites sharper here, like even the walls know how many secrets they've swallowed. My pulse is still thundering, every step dragging me closer to my room but further into this storm building in my chest.
Izar doesn't say a word, his shadow glued to me, heavy and silent. It should make me feel safer—knowing he's there, knowing what I just watched him do to five men like they were cardboard cutouts—but instead it just makes everything more real. More dangerous.
When we reach the carved oak door, I finally turn to him. My throat is dry, my voice scraped raw.
He looks at me the same way he looked at those men. Like he's already read the end of the story. Like he knows the ending before I've even figured out the beginning.
"Don't think too much," he says, voice low, steady, cutting through me like steel on silk. "I won't tell him."
The way he says it—no hesitation, no question—pins me in place.
I nod quickly, like it's enough, like it fixes something. "Okay." My voice barely comes out, more breath than sound.
I slip inside the room, shutting the door between us, and lock it. My back hits the wood, and I just stand there for a second, palms flat, lungs refusing to work. My whole body trembles like it's only now catching up to the shitstorm my brain's been sprinting through.
The bed is too big, too soft, too cold, but I collapse onto it anyway, staring up at the carved ceiling until it blurs.
It's the first day. The first fucking day in this Tavarian house. And this is what I get. A cousin who looks at me like prey. A fight in the corridor that could've ended with blood painting the walls. Secrets I've already shoved into Izar's silence, like they won't rot me from the inside out.
And Ebrahim…
Fuck.
He's not going to let this go. I know it in my bones, the same way you know when a storm is coming before you see the clouds. Men like him don't take humiliation quietly. Not when they've been dragged across the floor and bled in front of someone they wanted to scare. He'll want that power back, and when he comes for it, it'll be aimed at me.
I roll onto my side, gripping the sheets like they can anchor me, but my mind won't stop. Won't fucking stop.
I can't tell Zayan.
Even thinking it feels like a death sentence, but it's true. I can't. Because he won't care. He's not the kind of man who'd march into his cousin's face for me. He's not the kind of man who'd break family over… me. He'll choose blood over me every single time, and maybe that's fair. Maybe that's just who he is. But knowing it doesn't make the fear any smaller.
The worst part? This house makes everything vanish.
That fight? If someone had walked in and seen Ebrahim bleeding, seen Izar tearing through men like they were paper, nothing would've happened. No one would've asked. No one would've said a word. This place eats chaos alive and leaves no evidence.
Even if someone died here, it wouldn't matter. There'd be no cops. No headlines. Just silence. Just the Tavarian walls swallowing it all, like the river outside—flowing, endless, washing away proof until it's nothing but rumor.
And I'm supposed to sleep in that silence.
My fists clench the sheets tighter. My chest hurts with how badly I want to scream, to smash something, to claw my way out of this house—but I don't. Because screaming here doesn't matter. Screaming here doesn't even echo.
This is day one.
And it already feels like I'm drowning.
_________________
ZAYANS POV
The study reeks of paper and patience. Both of which I'm running out of.
I sit there, back straight, pretending to listen while some middle-aged parasite drones about logistics, mergers, numbers that don't matter because my head is nowhere near this table. It's with her.
Every second since lunch, since I left her in that room with a half-formed sentence on my tongue and a fucking call dragging me away—I've hated it. Hated being pulled here, away from her. Hated knowing she's alone in a house that eats people whole.
I can't even track what this bastard is saying. My jaw's tight. My hands are fisted under the desk where no one can see. I picture her pacing the halls, her face set in that mask she wears when she doesn't want anyone to know she's scared. I picture her eyes. Her mouth. And I fucking hate myself for not being there to see them for real.
"Adam."
My grandfather's voice cuts through my haze.
I flick my gaze up. Kamal Rashid Tavarian—sharp as glass, heavy as stone. He's watching me, all-knowing, his fingers tapping against the stack of documents.
"You're distracted," he says flatly. "What's with you?"
"Nothing," I answer, too fast, too sharp.
His eyes narrow just a fraction, but he doesn't push. He looks back down at the papers like he's already read my lie, already decided what it means. "You can leave if you want."
I don't hesitate. My chair scrapes back, legs snapping against the floor. I stand so fast the man beside me flinches, papers rattling in his hands. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the edge of my grandfather's mouth—almost a smirk, as if he enjoys how little control I pretend to have.
I don't give him the satisfaction of a look back. I step out of the room, my blood hot, my pulse running wild.
The hallway air feels like freedom. But it doesn't cool me. It doesn't ease anything. I pull my phone out, press the number I never have to think about.
"Izar. Come here."
By the time I hit the stairs, he's there. Always is. Moving through the space like he owns it, though he never pretends to. He stops in front of me, body coiled tight, shoulders squared. And the second my eyes land on him, I know.
His lip is split.
Not wide. Not sloppy. Clean. Like someone hit him and he didn't even bother to block it.
I stop mid-step, my gaze slicing across his face. He doesn't speak. Doesn't blink. Just waits.
"Where's she?" My voice is low, steady, but every word is already violence.
"In the room."
The relief is sharp, ugly. But it's tangled with something darker. Something that spikes when my eyes flick back to that split on his mouth.
"What happened?"
Silence. Then—"It's nothing. Just training."
A fucking lie.
I know it instantly. Izar doesn't get sloppy in training. He doesn't leave marks. He doesn't misstep. And he sure as hell doesn't look like this—tense, jaw locked, every muscle pulled like wire.
My gaze locks with his. I don't need to ask again. His silence screams louder than words.
I breathe out once, low. "Hmm." It's not agreement. It's a warning.
His eyes flicker, but he doesn't look away. He won't.
My hand drags across the railing, knuckles whitening with the effort it takes not to ask, not to break. She's in her room. She's safe. For now, that's enough.
But it isn't. Not really.
I turn my head slightly, my voice dropping even lower.
"Damien wants to meet me."
📍
Sneak peek to next chapter
"Look, Mrs. Adam Zayan," he says, voice dropping low again, that dangerous timber of his cutting into my brain, "if you shout one more time out here, I might actually throw you over this balcony… into the pond. Do you want to test that?"
I blink at him, incredulous, chest tight. "You—YOU WON'T."
"Try me," he says, smirk low and lethal. "I. Will. Throw. You." His voice is smooth but deadly, measured, predatory.
___
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