"Damien wants to see me."
The words slip out before I can temper them, jagged and sharp against the quiet of the hall.
Izar doesn't flinch. Doesn't move a muscle that says surprise or concern. He just tilts his head slightly, like he already knows the weight behind the sentence. And he follows when I start down the stairs, silent and steady, boots on marble echoing softer than mine.
"When?" His voice is low, even, precise. The kind that doesn't carry worry because there isn't any. There can't be.
"Tomorrow night." I say it flat. Every word measured, deliberate.
His brow quirks, almost imperceptibly. "Why tomorrow?"
I don't answer immediately. I let the air stretch thin between us. My pulse thunders, slow and controlled under the skin. My hands tighten along the railing, knuckles white, because even knowing Damien's game doesn't dull the itch in my chest. I can taste the blood in my mouth just thinking about stepping into that fucking lion's den.
"Because he's in the city," I say finally, my voice low, almost a growl. "And he wants to meet properly. Not some half-assed 'hello, how do you do' in some shadowed alley. His game? He thinks I'll be another pawn, another body to push around. But I'm not fucking playing his game. Not tomorrow. Not ever."
Izar's jaw tightens, but he doesn't speak. His silence is approval. It's acknowledgment. He's always known where the line is—he's never crossed it, and he never will.
I lean against the railing, eyes scanning the empty hall, imagining her in her room. My chest aches because she's mine, and yet this bastard Damien is sitting somewhere thinking he can just look at me, maybe charm me, maybe size me up. Fuck him.
"I'll need details," Izar says finally, voice as smooth as oil.
"I don't need him to tell me anything," I snap back, just enough sharpness to draw his attention. "I need him to show me. I need to see the fear beneath the arrogance. I want him thinking he's untouchable… and then I'll remind him exactly who owns this city, exactly who decides when he breathes."
Izar nods slowly, body moving with mine as we descend. His steps are ghostlike, precise. I can hear the faint hum of the city outside, distant and indifferent, but it only sharpens the edge inside me.
"You think he suspects," Izar says, almost rhetorically, "that you're coming for more than a conversation?"
I smirk, a twist of something lethal at the corners of my mouth. "Of course he suspects. That's his pride talking. Every minute Damien thinks I'm just here to negotiate, I'll be testing him. Watching his patterns. Learning his weak spots. He's an apex predator… but even the top of the food chain has an end."
Izar's eyes flick up at mine. No doubt, no hesitation. He knows me too well. He's the only man who can watch me spiral into this, who can see me soft for a second and know it won't stay.
"I'll need you in position," I continue, lowering my voice, letting the words drag. "I won't be reckless. But if he underestimates me… if he thinks he's untouchable… Izar, I won't hesitate. And neither will you. That's understood?"
"Understood." His reply is a bullet. Simple. Deadly.
I pause halfway down the stairs, letting the words settle, letting the weight of the promise hang between us. My thoughts run wild. I imagine Damien in some high-rise suite, thinking he's untouchable, thinking the walls he's built around himself are enough to keep a ghost like me out.
Fucking arrogant prick.
"I'm going to make him wish he'd never walked into this city," I murmur under my breath, almost to myself. "He's going to think he's untouchable… and then he'll realize he's standing on my floor, breathing my air, playing my game. And every move he's made, every empire he's built, every man who follows him—gone. Just like that. All of it."
Izar doesn't flinch at the words. He shouldn't. He's seen me like this before. But I don't stop. I need to taste it, let it pour out.
"I want to watch him fall apart piece by piece," I continue, voice dropping lower, rougher, the kind of voice that doesn't just speak—it cuts. "Not clean. Not fast. Every scream he's ever silenced, every woman, every child… I'll make him remember it all. And there's no mercy for him. None. He'll know what it means to bleed from the inside out."
Izar's hand brushes mine briefly as we reach the bottom step. A small, almost imperceptible reminder—he's mine, I'm his, we're the same predator, aligned. My chest tightens, heat pooling in my gut.
"Tomorrow," I repeat, low, rough. "I step into his world. And he's going to realize—too late—that this isn't a meeting. It's a reckoning."
Izar nods. Just a fraction. Enough. That's all I need.
I inhale sharply, tasting the air like fire. The hallway seems colder now, sharper, as if the walls themselves know what's coming. My mind races, replaying every possible move, every calculated strike, every knife in the dark. I want Damien's fear to be slow, to fester. I want him to beg without realizing he's the one trapped.
"Izar." My voice slices through the quiet. "Keep her safe. I don't want distractions tomorrow. No surprises. Not a single one."
"You know I will," he replies, the weight in his tone heavier than any promise I could make myself.
I smirk faintly, the darkness pooling behind my eyes like a storm. "Good. Because tomorrow… Damien Cross meets Adam Zayan Tavarian. And he's going to find out just how fucking real the ghost is."
I stop at the last step, turn, and catch Izar's eyes. My gaze drops, deliberate, to that split lip. The faint sheen of dried blood. The proof of a story he thinks he can bury.
"And this," I say, voice low, pointing at his mouth. "I'll find out what it is. And who the fuck it is."
It's not a question. It's a promise wrapped in steel.
Izar doesn't answer. Doesn't move. His silence is heavier than words, but I let it hang. I don't press—not now. Because I'll peel the truth out of him later. Or out of someone else's screaming throat. Either way, I'll have it.
I turn, my body moving on instinct down the hall, each step sharper, faster, carrying me to where I need to be. The double doors loom at the end, tall, heavy, carved like they've been standing longer than any of us.
I stop there. Hand against the brass handle. My pulse is brutal in my throat, violent in my chest. I push slowly, so slowly, the doors creaking open as if they know the weight of what waits inside.
The room is dim. Curtains drawn against the fading light. And there she is.
On the bed.
Sleeping.
The sight almost fucking knocks me out.
It's evening, the sky bleeding into night, and she's curled against the sheets, lashes brushing her skin, her lips parted just slightly like she's still whispering something in her dreams.
Sleeping. When the house itself wants to eat her alive. When I've left her alone too long.
My jaw tightens. My fists clench. Because she looks like a goddamn angel dropped into a pit of wolves—and I know, I fucking know, something touched her. Something happened. The curve of her brow, the faint tension around her mouth, it's not rest. It's aftermath.
I cross the room, but not to the bed. I drop into the couch instead, a silent predator watching her breathe. My elbows on my knees, my hands steepled, eyes locked on her face like I could burn it into me.
She's beautiful. Too fucking beautiful. Every line of her soft, every exhale breaking me apart and rebuilding me in the same breath. And it infuriates me because it's mine—she's mine—and yet I can see it: she faced something alone. Saw something she shouldn't have. And Izar's silence, his goddamn split lip, it all traces back to her.
He lied. To protect her. To protect her from whatever this was. And I hate it. Because lies mean danger. Lies mean someone tried to touch what belongs to me.
My chest is on fire, my thoughts spiraling. I want to crawl into that bed, pull her against me, lock her under my skin where nothing could ever reach her. I want to breathe her in until every dark part of me goes quiet. Ask her what the fuck happened, demand her truth, make her spit it out no matter how much it hurts.
But I don't.
Because if I wake her, she'll mask it. She always does. She'll look at me with those eyes and feed me silence, feed me lies. And if I press, if I break her walls tonight, I might not stop. I might take her pain and make it mine, and in the process, tear everything apart.
So I sit.
And I watch.
My hands itch. My body vibrates with the need to move, to act, to kill. But instead, I drink her in. The way her chest rises and falls. The way her hair spills across the pillow like it's mocking me with how untouchable she looks.
She doesn't know I'm here, but she's the only thing tethering me to the floor. Without her, I'd already be ripping Damien apart, shredding the city down to rubble until I found the root of every threat.
I drag a hand down my face, through my hair, breathing out slow, steady, dangerous. I'll wait. For her. For now.
But tomorrow?
Tomorrow, Damien bleeds.
And tonight, I'll sit right here and watch her, because it's the only thing that keeps the darkness from tearing me open completely.
The knock comes like a fucking interruption from hell.
I tear my eyes away from her—barely—and stalk to the door.
The staff girl stands there, head bowed.
"Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes, sir. Everyone will be gathered in the dining hall."
Her voice is timid, rehearsed.
I give her nothing but a single nod, then shut the door.
The lock clicks loud, final. No one walks in here. Not when she's inside. Not when I'm inside.
I turn back.
She's still asleep, sprawled in white floral, the fabric soft against her skin like it was made to piss me off. She doesn't look like a girl on a bed. She looks like a painting carved out of every fantasy I'd never admit to. Her dress clings at her waist, her hair spread like ink against the pillow. She is goddamn ruin disguised as innocence.
And I know the truth—she isn't fragile. She isn't breakable like flowers. Flowers wilt under touch. She's a storm dressed in white, and storms don't wilt—they fucking devour. And I love it. I love it so much it feels like rot in my bones. Because every storm burns everything around it, and I want her to burn me alive.
I move to the window, hand wrapping around a rose stem, ignoring the thorns digging into my palm. I don't flinch. Pain is nothing. Pain is loyalty. I snap the bloom off, twist the thorns free, and roll them in my hand until the skin splits. Blood smears red across my palm.
Perfect.
I flick the rose. It arcs through the air and lands on her face.
Her lashes flutter. She stirs.
Then—fuck.
Her eyes open.
And those eyes land on me.
Straight into me. Heavy, dark, burning with something I can't fucking name. Not fear. Not softness. Something else. A weight. A storm. A truth she'll never speak but it sits there, goddamn raw, smoldering in the blue fire of her gaze.
I freeze. Because I know.
She'll never tell me. Whatever happened, whatever touched her today—it'll rot in her chest before she lets me see it.
"It's almost night," I say, voice sharper than I mean. "Get up."
She pushes herself up, the sheet sliding from her shoulder, hair tumbling over her collarbone. She sits on the bed, staring right at me. Like she's daring me to blink first.
My jaw flexes. My chest is too tight.
I step closer, slow, steady. My shadow spills across her bed.
"You okay?" The words come rough, like gravel in my throat. "Is everything alright?"
She doesn't break eye contact. Doesn't flinch. "Yes. Why you ask me that?"
The way she says it—steady, like a blade tucked in her voice—makes me want to tear the whole house down.
Because she's lying.
I know it. Every muscle in me knows it.
She's lying because she thinks she can carry it. Because she doesn't trust me enough to spill it. Because she doesn't know that I'd gut this entire fucking estate if it meant pulling her out of the dark.
And yet—I say nothing.
"Nothing," I mutter instead, leaning back just slightly, like I'm conceding. But inside I'm boiling.
Because if I push, if I make her crack, I'll take everything. I'll take her fear, her secrets, her body, her soul. I'll take until she has nothing left but me. And I'm not sure if she can survive that. I'm not sure if I can.
So I swallow it. The rage. The need. The poison of wanting to cage her in my chest.
But inside?
Inside I'm already making a list. A death list. Whoever laid a finger, whoever made her shift her gaze, whoever made Izar bleed for her silence—they'll beg for mercy before I'm done.
And she'll never know.
She'll sit there in her storm-white dress, lips pressed, eyes defiant. And I'll play along.
For now.
________________________________
Arshila's pov
I jolt awake.
Fuck.
My chest is heaving, and for a second I don't even know where I am. Just flashes—Ebrahim's face, his eyes like knives sliding into my skin, that disgusting smirk burned into my dream like poison. My heart is sprinting in my ribs, sweat slick on my back, and it takes me a full goddamn minute to realize I'm not in his nightmare. I'm here. Safe. Or whatever the fuck safe means in this house.
The clock on the nightstand blinks back at me: 4:00 a.m.
Are you fucking kidding me? Not even morning.
I drag a hand down my face, sucking in air like I can scrub the dream out of me, and then I glance sideways.
And freeze.
The couch.
Him.
Zayan is there, sprawled like some fallen angel, head tilted back, one arm thrown across his chest, the other dangling low. He's sleeping—actually sleeping—and holy shit, he's beautiful. Not fair beautiful, not movie-star beautiful. No. He's the kind of beautiful that's violent, dangerous, the kind that makes you want to kneel and bite at the same time.
I hate it. I hate how the sight of him makes my stomach twist like I swallowed lightning.
Yesterday, I avoided Ebrahim at dinner like my life depended on it. Because it did. I took a vow right there, under those chandeliers and fake smiles—I'm not giving that monster a single crack to crawl through. No matter what games he plays. No matter how close he stands. I won't break.
But Zayan… fuck, Zayan almost caught me. His eyes yesterday? Too sharp. Too close. He doesn't push much. Never does. Like he doesn't care. Like whatever happens to me is mine to bleed through alone. And I tell myself I like it that way. I want it that way.
I don't need him caring.
I don't want him caring.
Because if he ever actually did—God help me, I wouldn't survive it.
I roll on my side, staring at the window. Roses spill outside, their shadows crawling across the room like veins. My eyes snag on the nightstand.
The rose.
The one he threw at me last night.
It sits there, smug as hell, petals soft and alive, stem bare because he tore every thorn out with his bare hand. I squeeze my fist just thinking about it. He bled. He bled, and then he threw the damn thing at me like some twisted offering.
And now it's here. A reminder. A warning. A brand.
I glance back at him. My chest stutters. God, he's too much. Too handsome. Too dangerous. Too everything.
Then—his phone rings.
The sound shatters the air, low and vibrating, and his body stirs. He shifts slow, like a predator uncurling from a dream. My breath locks.
I slam back down on the bed, yank the blanket over me, pretend like I'm asleep, but my lips are betraying me—I'm smiling like an idiot under the sheets.
"Hmm."
Fuck.
That voice.
It slips out of him, that low, rough morning growl, deeper than sin, darker than anything should be at 4 a.m., and I'm gone. Absolutely gone.
Holy hell. Someone bury me.
His morning voice is illegal. Like he could say tax return in that tone and I'd still drop dead.
"Kill me, Zayan," I whisper into the pillow, "fucking kill me with that voice."
His call ends. The silence is thick again. Too thick.
I peek out.
Empty couch.
"What the fuck—" I sit up, looking around like an idiot searching for her lost cat. No Zayan. Not even a trace.
Then I hear it. Water running. The bathroom.
Oh.
Oh, no.
I pad to the balcony, pressing my hands to the railing, trying not to think about him in there. Wet. Naked. Fuck. Stop. Stop thinking about it.
The door creaks. Shuts.
And there he is.
Shirtless.
Dripping, hair damp, muscles flexing like he's some carved statue come alive just to ruin me.
He sees me. Freezes mid-step.
And—holy shit—his ears go red.
I choke on a laugh and let it rip.
"Oh my God. You're blushing? Bro!"
His jaw snaps tight.
"Why are you up so early?"?" His voice is still deep, scratchy with sleep, like he doesn't know it's a weapon.
"I heard someone's voice and lost sleep." I shrug, like my heart isn't currently trying to crawl out of my throat.
His eyes narrow, mouth twitching like he's fighting a smirk. "Oh. Must be the devil."
My laugh is too loud, bouncing off the walls, and I don't even care because the image of Adam Zayan Tavarian, heir to the goddamn world, standing shirtless with red ears calling himself the devil is too much.
I roll my eyes, snatch a towel from the dresser, and head for the bathroom.
"Move, devil. I need to brush."
I come back from the bathroom, teeth brushed, face wet, hair a mess.
And there he is.
On the balcony couch. Shirtless. Sitting like some dark statue carved out of sin and silence, eyes fixed on the fucking night sky like he owns it.
What the actual fuck.
Four a.m. romance?
Nah, bitch. Not happening.
It's more like serial killer aesthetic.
I drag myself out there anyway, because apparently I have zero survival instinct. The air is sharp, cool, roses curling along the railing still asleep, their petals folded tight. I lean against the stone, fingers brushing the vines like I can coax them awake.
And then—
Of course.
He's looking at me.
Not casually. Not lazily.
No, Zayan stares like he's got nothing else worth watching in the whole damn world.
I snap my gaze away, cheeks burning.
"What?" he says.
My head whips back. "What?"
His mouth curves slow, dangerous. A smirk that could ruin countries.
"Do you have anything to ask me?"
My throat goes dry. I cross my arms, tilt my head, play it cool. "No."
He nods like he expected that, smirk deepening, like he just won a game I didn't even know we were playing.
I roll my eyes and jab back, "Why are you even sitting here? You always disappear at this hour for your workout."
"I will," he says smoothly, voice low, steady. "After prayer."
My mouth goes dry again, but I just nod, trying to keep my face blank. My fingers trace the roses again, and then my eyes drop to his hand.
Fresh cuts. Thin red lines. A reminder of last night.
"Why did you take the thorn with your hands?" The words spill before I can stop them.
His eyes flick down to his palm, faint blood still etched like a map, then back up at me.
Silence stretches.
Finally, he leans forward, elbows on his knees.
"Because pain isn't the enemy." His voice is rough, unshakable. "It's proof."
My brows knit. "Proof of what? That you're insane?"
He exhales through his nose, almost a laugh but not really. "Proof of control." His gaze drags over me, slow, deliberate, heavy as sin. "Some things you take with your hands. And you don't let them cut you unless you allow it."
Holy fuck.
Why does he talk like that? Why does every word sound like it belongs in the middle of sex and murder at the same time?
I force a laugh, too high-pitched. "That's the most pretentious shit I've ever heard. Congratulations."
His smirk sharpens. "You asked. Don't choke on the answer now."
My skin is buzzing, my chest too tight. The air feels different—hot, suffocating—even though the night is cool.
I shift, turning to lean against the railing properly, both hands braced on the cold stone. My shoulder brushes the roses. His eyes flick down to the movement like he wants to memorize the way my body bends in the moonlight.
And then—fucking hell—
The world tilts.
I stumble just slightly, my foot sliding on the slick stone, and he's up instantly. One second on the couch, the next right in front of me, his hand snapping out to steady me.
Except—
His palm lands not on my arm, not on my shoulder.
But square.
On. My. Chest.
Right over my breast.
Holy fucking hell.
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