ZAYAN 'S POV
The west wing is silent when I cut through it, only the hum of my breath breaking the air. Predawn hours are mine—the only time this house feels like it belongs to me and not to the ghosts that built it. sweatpants low on my hips, steps steady as I head for the gym.
And then I see him.
Shadin.
He's hanging from the pull-up bar, body stretched, sweat already dripping like he owns the place. The second he notices me in the mirror, he drops down easy, landing with that cocky precision that makes my jaw tighten. He turns slow, deliberate, smirk cutting his face like a knife.
"Good morning," he says, voice lazy, smooth, like he's got all the time in the world to poke at me.
I say nothing. Just keep moving, towel slung over my shoulder, gaze cutting past him like he's furniture.
"Always rude," he mutters, shaking his head with that shit-eating grin.
Still nothing. My silence is a blade.
He smirks wider, stepping closer. "I know you always come here this time. That's why I'm here too."
That makes me stop. My head turns, slow. My eyes lock on him, sharp, cold. "What do you want?"
He shrugs, casual, closing the distance until he's standing dead in front of me, blocking my path like a challenge carved in flesh. "You know what I want," he says, tone low, dangerous. "More than anyone."
A laugh—quiet, humorless—slips out of me. My jaw ticks as I step closer, closing the last inch. "And you know," I murmur, voice low enough to cut, "that you can't have it. More than anyone."
His smirk falters, just a fraction, then sharpens again like he's enjoying the game too much. "You're playing a dangerous game, Zayan." His eyes gleam, cold, needling, full of challenge. "She doesn't want you."
My lips twitch into something that isn't a smile. I tilt my head, slow blink deliberate, dangerous. "So?"
That single word lands heavy between us.
His jaw tightens. "So you think you can chain something that doesn't want to be chained? You think control is enough?"
I step into his space, chest brushing his. My voice drops into a growl. "I don't think. I know. And you—" My eyes drag over his face, sharp, final. "You'll never touch what isn't yours."
For a moment, the silence is suffocating. Just the sound of our breaths, the hum of early morning, the weight of everything unsaid hanging like smoke in the air.
He tilts his head, smirk returning, dangerous and mocking. "You're bleeding for something that will never bleed for you, cousin. You sure you can handle that?"
I hold his stare, unblinking. "Try me."
Shadin doesn't back off. His smirk sharpens, voice dropping low enough to cut.
"Everyone knows why you married her. Just to cover the accident. That's all it is. And don't forget, Zayan—she has a life too. Don't fucking play with it."
My head tips, slow, dangerous, like I'm studying a bug that doesn't know it's about to be crushed. A laugh slips out, rough, humorless, curling into the air like smoke. I lick my teeth, then smirk wide, feral.
"That what you've been telling yourself all this time, cousin?" My tone is lazy, mocking, but my chest is iron. I lean closer, voice dropping to a blade. "That's the story you hug yourself with at night when you can't sleep?"
His brows twitch, eyes narrowing. He studies me like I've grown a second head. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
I chuckle—low, broken at the edges, just enough to scrape his nerves. It sounds unhinged, even to me. "Nothing. Nothing at all." I drag my tongue across the inside of my cheek, still smirking. "Maybe you should dig deeper before you start playing hero. Understand better before you make your move. Otherwise, you'll bleed out before the game even begins."
That gets him. His jaw tightens, fists flexing at his sides. He takes a half-step closer, voice hard. "Don't fuck with me, Zayan. I'm not one of your shadows. I'm not scared of you."
I tilt my head, slow blink deliberate, mocking. "Scared? No. Stupid? Absolutely."
His nostrils flare. "You don't deserve her."
My veins burn at that. I don't let it show. I just lean in until my breath brushes his face. "And you do? You think you could handle even a fraction of what comes with her? You think she'd survive a week with you holding the leash instead of me?"
His eyes flash, chest heaving. "At least I wouldn't fucking break her."
I laugh again, sharper this time, fangs bared. "You'd shatter before she even bent."
The silence that follows is nuclear. The kind of silence that buzzes in your teeth, that promises blood.
And then he snaps.
His fist cracks against my jaw before I even blink. The sound echoes in the gym, skin splitting against bone. My head jerks sideways, jaw flaring with pain that tastes like iron.
I don't flinch. I just smirk. Slow. Dangerous. I drag my thumb across my lip, smear the blood, look him dead in the eye.
"Cute," I murmur, voice edged with fire. Then I swing.
My knuckles connect with his mouth, hard enough to split it open. His lip bursts, blood slick and red against his teeth. He stumbles back a step, but the bastard is grinning, feral, like he's been waiting for this all along.
"Finally," he spits, blood flecking the floor. "Now we're speaking the same language."
I roll my shoulders, jaw tight, pulse hammering with fury and something hotter, darker. My smirk doesn't fade. "Careful, cousin," I say, voice low and lethal. "You're trespassing on ground you'll never own. And me?" I step forward, every muscle wired with violence. "I don't forgive trespassers."
Shadin spits blood onto the mat, swiping his lip with the back of his hand. He grins through it, feral, eyes gleaming with that mix of hatred and thrill. Then he bends down, grabs two sets of gloves from the rack, and tosses one at my chest.
It slaps against me, heavy, smelling of leather and sweat.
"Put them on," he growls. "Let's do this right."
I glance down at the gloves, then back at him, smirk curling like smoke. "You sure about that?"
He slips his own gloves on, flexing his hands like he's been waiting for this moment his whole fucking life. His grin sharpens. "Hit me."
I laugh—low, dark, unhinged. "Elders first."
His fist slams into my ribs before the words even finish leaving my mouth. Sharp pain explodes, hot and jagged. I grunt, stepping back, but my smirk doesn't falter. My blood sings.
"Cute," I hiss, rolling my shoulders. "But you're slow."
I drive my fist into his jaw, snapping his head sideways. He staggers, spits blood again, then chuckles like a lunatic. "That all you got?"
We circle each other, breathing harsh, sweat already starting to coat skin.
"Admit it," he pants, fists up, eyes blazing. "You only have her because of the accident. Fate threw her at you, and you're too much of a selfish bastard to let her go."
My laugh is razor-sharp, cutting through the air. I duck his swing, slam a hook into his gut. He folds slightly, groans, but still stands. "Keep telling yourself that bedtime story, cousin. Might help you sleep while I keep what's mine."
His roar fills the gym as he swings again, fists connecting with my shoulder, then my jaw. My head snaps back, stars flaring in my vision. I stumble, catch myself, then grin wide, wolfish.
"You hit like a bitch," I taunt, spitting iron-tasting blood onto the floor.
He charges me, and we collide—fists, elbows, sweat, breath. The sound of leather cracking against flesh echoes in the empty gym, a brutal symphony. My knuckles split open against his cheekbone. His glove splits my brow. Blood drips into my eye, but I don't care. The fire only grows.
"Say it!" he snarls, fist smashing into my ribs again. "Say you don't deserve her!"
I bark out a laugh, feral, breathless. My fist catches his chin, snapping his head back. "I don't need to say shit."
We're both bleeding now, both heaving, bodies slick, crashing together like we've been waiting years for this fight. Every punch carries history, unspoken jealousy, fury that's older than either of us admits.
And then I get him down.
One misstep, one slip, and I slam him onto the mat. I'm straddling his chest, glove cocked back, ready to drive it through his face until he forgets his own fucking name. He's laughing beneath me, bloody, delirious.
"Do it," he spits, blood flecking his teeth. "Prove me right."
I bare my teeth, fury blinding, fist trembling in the air.
And then—
"Adam."
That voice. That growl. That thunder in a single syllable that freezes marrow.
I stop. The glove hovers inches from Shadin's face. My chest heaves, sweat dripping onto him, but I don't move. My blood goes cold.
Slowly, my head turns.
Grandfather is standing in the doorway. Kamal Rashid Tavarian. Built like a shadow carved from steel, eyes black with the kind of power that makes grown men tremble. He's in his training clothes, gloves slung over his shoulder. And he's watching us—me pinning Shadin, Shadin bloody and grinning on the mat—with a look that could carve stone.
Shit.
He always comes at this hour. Always. And we're both too fucking stupid, too wrapped in our own poison, to remember.
For the first time in years, I feel something close to shame curdle low in my chest.
I push off Shadin, rise to my feet, glove still dripping blood. Shadin coughs, spits red on the floor, and smirks even through the pain. He looks at Grandfather, then at me, like we're both kids caught with our hands in fire.
And we are.
Because Kamal Tavarian doesn't tolerate weakness. Doesn't tolerate loss of control. And right now? We're fucked.
Kamal's eyes cut through both of us, black and merciless. He doesn't need to raise his voice; the air itself bends under it.
"After this," he growls, each syllable heavy as stone, "you both show up at my study."
My jaw ticks. Shadin straightens his spine. We both nod. "Yes," we mutter in unison, like schoolboys caught breaking windows.
"Get out."
One command. That's all it takes.
We don't linger. I strip the gloves off, toss them aside, and push past Shadin toward the door. He's behind me, dragging blood across his chin with the back of his glove.
The second the door shuts and Kamal's shadow is out of sight, he laughs under his breath, low and sharp. "Why didn't you hit me?"
I keep walking. "I did."
"No." He spits blood onto the marble floor, grinning through it. "That wasn't you hitting me. That was you holding back. Restraint. A fucking act—like you're weak."
I stop, turn just enough to catch his smug, bloody face. My eyes cut into him. "I don't want you dead."
His smirk deepens. "Don't be late to show up in the study."
"Fuck off."
We split paths—him west, me east. Always opposite wings, opposite ends, opposite lives. He gets the west wing with the guests, the noise, the chaos. Me? I've claimed the east wing's third floor, where no one else is allowed. Not family, not staff, not shadows. Just me. Just her. And I love it that way.
By the time I reach the east hall, my ribs ache, my jaw burns, and blood still drips from my brow. I stop at the small washroom near the stairwell, cup cold water into my hands, and scrub my face until the iron tang fades. Can't walk in like this. If she saw me bleeding, bruised, raw? No. That's not what she gets to see.
Not yet.
I step into my room quietly, the door barely creaking. She's in bed, back to me, hair spilled across the pillow. Breathing soft, even. Dead to the world. I don't wake her.
Instead, I stand there, bare chest still heaving, sweat drying cold on my skin, watching her in the faint glow.
An hour ago, we were at each other's throats—snarls, words sharp enough to cut. She glared at me like she wanted to slit mine. And I smiled. Because even in rage, even in defiance, she's fire.
That fire is mine.
The corner of my mouth lifts, slow, dangerous, before I turn toward the bathroom.
The shower hisses alive, hot water pounding down, steam curling in the glass. I step under it, let the burn crawl across bruised ribs, busted lip. My head tips back, water sliding down, but the thoughts don't wash away.
Shadin thinks he's the one who saw her first. Thinks college gave him some claim. Stupid fuck doesn't know.
He doesn't know I stalked her for four years. Quiet, careful, relentless. Watched her walk, laugh, curse at the world like it owed her more. Watched her fight and burn, watched her teeth bare when people underestimated her.
I knew her long before Shadin ever learned her name.
I've been in love with her longer than he's been alive in his own skin.
And she doesn't know. She can't. Because if she did—if she ever found out what I've done, how long I've watched, how deep it runs—she'd hate me more than she already does.
And she hates me enough to set the world on fire as it is.
My hand grips the slick tile, knuckles whitening under the spray.
So what. Let her hate me. Let her curse my name, spit in my face, call me a monster. She'll still breathe my air, sleep in my wing, burn under my shadow.
Because Shadin doesn't get to touch her. Not now. Not ever.
She's mine. In every way that matters.
Even if she never fucking knows it.
The door clicks behind me like I just shut the last safe part of the house. I move slow, silent, jeans pulled over damp skin, white shirt clinging to me in places from the fucking shower I rushed through. Barefoot, careful, like the floorboards themselves might sell me out if I'm not. She's still asleep in there—thank fuck—and if she wakes, if she sees me creeping out at six in the damn morning, bruised and cut, I don't even want to imagine the questions.
By the time I step into the hallway, the air feels colder. Like it knows where I'm headed.
Study. Grandfather. Judgment.
And of course, the devil himself is already leaning against the wall outside the door.
Shadin.
He's got his arms crossed, lip split wide, grin dripping blood and arrogance. The bastard smirks like he's been waiting all night just to catch me here.
"I'm waiting for you," he drawls, eyes glinting, that grin widening when he sees the way my jaw locks.
I tilt my head, slow, deliberate. "I will fucking kill you."
His chuckle is low, hoarse from the fight, but cocky as hell. "Maybe after this. If we're alive."
My fist itches. My ribs ache where he got me. Every bone in my body is telling me to drive him straight into the floor and end this game he keeps fucking playing. But I don't. Not here. Not in this corridor with Kamal's shadow already crawling under the door.
So I smile instead. Cold. Thin. The kind of smile that promises I'll collect later.
We stand there, just breathing, until finally I raise my hand and knock.
Silence.
Then his voice. Deep, steady, the kind of sound that splits bone without lifting a finger.
"Inside."
We push the door open.
And fuck—there he is.
Kamal Rashid Tavarian. Sitting behind the desk like it was carved out of the earth just for him. Shoulders squared, face stone, gaze sharp enough to cut arteries. He doesn't move, doesn't blink, doesn't need to. His presence is enough to smother the whole damn room.
And here's the thing—me and Shadin? We're grown men. Twenty-five and twenty-six. Fists still bleeding from trying to tear each other apart. But standing in front of him, we're nothing. Just two fucked-up grandsons who still haven't learned when to keep the rage out of our fists.
The door shuts behind us. Heavy. Final.
Shadin clears his throat, cocky grin flickering for half a second. I don't say shit. I don't even breathe too loud.
Because this? This is worse than the fight.
Kamal doesn't move at first. Just stares. Long enough that the silence feels like a fucking blade pressed against my throat. Then his voice cuts through it.
"What was in the gym?"
Shadin's the first idiot to open his mouth. "We were training, Grandfather."
The shift in Kamal's expression is microscopic. But it's there—the tightening at his jaw, the flare of his nostrils.
He leans forward, slow, deliberate. "I will fucking rip that tongue out of your mouth if you ever lie to my face again."
The words land like gunfire. My chest tightens. Shadin's smirk falters, his throat working as he mutters a quiet, "Fuck," under his breath.
Kamal's gaze slides to me, sharp, burning, unblinking. "What was that, Adam?"
I stand straighter. My body's screaming, ribs aching from Shadin's hits, knuckles split, but I don't let it show. "We were in a little fight. That's all."
His eyes narrow. "What was the issue? To get in a fight at five in the morning?"
My jaw ticks. Shadin stays silent too. Because what are we supposed to say? That we were spilling blood over her? That every punch carried her name? No fucking way.
"Nothing," I say flatly.
Shadin nods once, keeps his mouth shut this time.
The silence stretches again, heavy, suffocating. Then Kamal exhales through his nose, the sound sharp, like disappointment carved into air.
"So you won't say, huh?" His voice drops lower, lethal. "Then you'd better be ready for the punishment."
Shadin finally cracks, his voice sharp. "Why?"
Kamal's eyes flick to him, dark and final. "If you speak again, you'll get harder ones."
That shuts him up quick.
Kamal leans back in his chair, gaze cold, unreadable. "Get out."
We don't hesitate. Both of us step back, shoulders tight, every instinct telling me not to turn my back too fast. My hand brushes the door handle when his voice slices through the air again.
"If you fight after you step out," he growls, low and deadly, "I will kill both of you. I don't care who the fuck you are to me."
The weight of it hangs there, pressing down like stone.
I glance at Shadin. He looks at me. Both of us frozen for half a second like we just got hit with the same bullet. Then we nod—silent, sharp—and push the door closed behind us.
The hallway feels colder when we're out. Quieter, but not safer.
I turn, stare at him like the dumb fuck he is. He stares back, like I'm the dumbest one.
We don't speak. Don't have to. The look's enough. A whole conversation built in the silence—fuck you, fuck you harder.
Then, without a word, we split. Him heading west, me east. Different wings, same storm brewing.
And the worst part? I already know this isn't over. Not by a long shot.
I move down the hallway, east wing, ribs still screaming from Shadin's hits, knuckles tight inside the gloves I stuffed into my bag. The air smells faintly of linen and early sun creeping through the glass. But my chest feels heavier than the world itself because I know exactly what's coming.
Punishment.
Not blood. Not sweat. Not a drill, not some brutal repetition. Kamal doesn't deal like that. He doesn't hand down punishment the way a corporal hands out push-ups.
No—he's smarter. Fucker's creative. Humiliation. Sharp, surgical, unavoidable humiliation. And he doesn't plan. Not in the way we think. You can't prepare. He decides on the spot. One second it's silence, the next it's fire ripping through your dignity. And he doesn't need words; just his look, his presence, his fucking aura.
I curse under my breath, moving faster. Every step toward the yard is a countdown to my personal execution. Shadin's a couple steps ahead, probably thinking the same. I can't help the flash of rage at him, stupid bastard walking into this knowing he's gonna get burned just like me.
Then I hear her voice.
Soft, casual, deadly. My chest twists. She's talking to Rania, laughing lightly, unaware of the storm about to engulf us. I glance up, catch her eyes for half a second, and everything freezes in my skull. The memory of her flare from the morning—the stupid, blazing fight over a touch that shouldn't have happened—hits me. I snap my eyes away, heart hammering like a drum of war.
I'm already damned. And she doesn't even know it yet.
Grandfather steps out, silent, deliberate, like the world itself bends around him. Nana follows, calm, meticulous, surveying the scene. Kamal's eyes lock on me first, then Shadin, and the weight of that stare drives a chill straight down my spine.
"Come," his voice is cold steel.
We move forward. I keep my head down, shoulders squared but tense, like soldiers walking into a war with no exit. Shadin beside me mutters something under his breath—probably a curse that doesn't even phase me.
Everyone else is at the table already. Breakfast spread out like a painting, but the warmth is gone. All eyes flick to us as we step into position beside Kamal's chair. He sits, rigid, unyielding, the kind of presence that makes grown men shrink and swallow their arrogance.
Servants flinch, hands twitching with fear. Kamal's gaze slices through the room, silent command, and the flinch is all he needs to confirm control.
"Stop."
The word lands like a hammer. Silence drops over the room. Even the birds outside seem to hush.
"Today, my grandsons," he says, voice flat and unrelenting, "will serve us."
Fuck
📍
SNEAK PEEK TO MY FIRST SPICY CHAPTER🌶️👄
"You two know each other?"
Alessia swallows hard, nodding. Her voice drops, guilty, soft. "She's… my best friend."
My laugh turns into a full sound, filling the penthouse. Mocking. Dangerous.
"Best friends," I repeat, dragging the word like a blade. I lean forward, elbows on my knees, staring up at them both with a grin that shows too much teeth. "Pretty best friends, huh?"
Selene's jaw tightens, fire flashing in her eyes. Alessia's chest heaves, towel slipping lower. Both of them frozen between me like prey caught in the wrong fucking trap.
I shake my head, chuckling, voice dropping low and sharp.
"Fuck me. I thought tonight was boring."
--------
That's just the taste. The rest?
It doesn't come clean, it doesn't come soft. It's raw, uncut, and it never makes it to the public side.
Behind the locked doors, there's more—
Ten chapters already waiting ahead of the free release.
Spicy scenes, uncensored and dangerous.
Side characters' secrets, their POVs and backstories, never shown in the main line.
Extra world-building, hidden Tavarian moments, and scenes between Zayan & Arshila that won't ever surface outside.
Daily drops. No waiting. No mercy.
My mark? 50 members before December. If you want in, step through. If not—stay where it's safe.
Because once you're inside, you don't come back out clean.