ARSHILA'S POV
I push open the glass door that leads out to the yard, the smell of roses hitting me like some sick joke. Morning sun slants across the grass, golden, soft, almost romantic—except my stomach knots like it knows I'm about to witness something I shouldn't.
"Arshila," Rania's voice clips through the air before I even take two steps. She's perched on the side, flawless as ever, talking like we're in some picture-perfect brunch commercial. She waves me over, casual, like my brain isn't currently chewing itself apart.
I walk toward her, every step slow, my eyes dragging across the yard—and that's when I see him.
Zayan.
He's standing there like a goddamn statue, arms loose at his sides, posture deceptively calm but everything about him screaming coiled violence. And then his eyes—those bottomless fucking eyes—snap to mine.
And just like that, it's back.
4 a.m. This morning.
The mess of shadows, the heat of his body too close, the fucking accidental brush of his hand against my chest. My breast. My entire nervous system exploded like live wires under my skin and I swore I'd kill him for it.
And now? Now the bastard looks at me like I'm the disgrace. Like I'm the problem. Like I'm not worth even the dirt under his shoe.
Fuck you, Zayan. Fuck. You.
I tear my gaze away, jaw tight, and drop into a chair near Rania, trying to play normal while the tension coils thick around us. Servants buzz like bees, setting food, clinking dishes, filling the silence with their little panicked motions. But there's a weird shift, like the air knows something I don't.
Because Zayan doesn't sit.
And neither does Shadin.
They're just standing there, side by side in front of the head chair like soldiers waiting for a firing squad.
Then the double hit.
Grandfather Kamal steps out. Silent. Heavy. Like the entire yard bends around his shadow. Grandmother follows, precise, collected, her gaze slicing through everyone with calm calculation. They settle at the head like a king and queen dropping onto thrones.
And Zayan and Shadin don't move.
Kamal's voice cuts, sharp and merciless:
"Today, my grandsons will serve us."
I freeze, fork halfway to my mouth. What the fuck did he just say?
Serve. Us.
As in… waiters?
As in… the two most terrifying men I've ever laid eyes on are suddenly downgraded to butlers?
My brain short circuits. Is this real life?
I glance around. The family doesn't even blink. Like this is Tuesday. Like it's totally normal to watch Zayan Tavarian, walking menace, serve orange juice.
Meanwhile Zayan looks like he wants to incinerate the entire estate with his glare. Fire—actual fire—burns in his eyes. Shadin? Shadin looks like a wreck, red-eyed, twitchy, seconds away from stabbing himself just to get it over with.
"Start," Kamal orders, voice flat as death.
And the boys move.
I almost choke on my laugh. This is… no, this is comedy gold. Are you kidding me? They're actually doing it. Big bad heirs, pouring tea and placing plates like domesticated house help.
But then my amusement crashes, sharp, when I catch it.
Zayan's lip—split. Flesh torn, red cutting through pink. His knuckles flex, angry bruises carved across them. Shadin's no better—eyes bloodshot, like sleep is a foreign concept.
What the fuck happened to them before this?
My chest does a weird twist, but I bury it fast, sinking back as Zayan finally approaches my side of the table. He doesn't look at me. Doesn't even dare. Just sets down a plate, precise, careful, like I don't exist.
Which makes it so much fucking funnier.
I watch him out of the corner of my eye, smirk pulling at my mouth. He thinks he can ignore me? Fuck no. I wait. Wait until his body stiffens like he knows. And then he does—he looks.
Dark eyes meeting mine.
Heavy.
Silent.
I mouth it. Slow, deliberate.
Pervert.
The corner of his mouth twitches. A smirk. Dangerous, crooked, unholy. But it dies quick, smothered under that stone mask he wears like a second skin.
And I nearly lose it. Laughter bubbles up, hot and wild, burning the back of my throat. I bite it back, nails digging into my palm, chest shaking like I'll explode.
Because holy fuck.
Zayan Tavarian—my perverted, stone-faced, untouchable husband—serving me breakfast with a split lip.
And I don't think I've ever wanted to laugh and kiss him at the same time more in my life.
"Alyan. Rayhan."
Grandfather's voice cuts like a blade, quiet but sharp enough to skin the air raw. Every head tilts toward the two men at once—Zayan's father and Shadin's.
"Your sons are being… educated," Kamal says, the pause between words heavier than any threat. "Do you approve?"
Oh, fuck.
My fork clinks against my plate because my hands twitch, and for a split second I want to laugh—actually laugh. The whole setup looks like a parody. These two terrifying men—my husband, his devil cousin—standing like schoolboys caught red-handed, and now Daddy's about to scold them in front of the entire family.
Except it's not funny.
It's punishment.
And it's thick in the air—this tense, sharp electricity that says don't breathe wrong or you'll bleed for it.
Alyan lifts his gaze slowly, and holy shit—, same fucking aura, but colder. He doesn't speak right away. Just looks at his son, and in that moment Zayan—Adam fucking Zayan Tavarian, the walking nightmare, the man who looks like he'd eat fire for breakfast—shrinks. Not visibly. Not to anyone else. But to me? Yeah. His shoulders tighten like a kid bracing for a belt.
And then Rayhan, Shadin's father, turns. His stare is sharper, crueler, almost bored, like he already knew his son would be standing there disgraced. His voice comes out low, casual, slicing.
"We trust your judgment, Father."
Fuck. Translation: yeah, punish them, we're not lifting a finger.
I flick my eyes at the two of them. Zayan—burning alive inside but trying to stay stone. Shadin—wrecked, twitching, like if you handed him a knife he'd gut himself just to get out of this humiliation.
And me? I want to laugh. I shouldn't—God, I really shouldn't—but the image is too much. Two kings-in-waiting reduced to house help while their dads sit like stone pillars and let it happen. Fuck this family. Fuck this whole show.
But the air is too thick to cut with humor. Everyone's faces are tight, alert, waiting for blood to drip.
Then it happens. Maireen—Zayan's mother—leans forward. Elegant, calm, that kind of beauty that feels untouchable. Her eyes—soft but cutting—land on her son. And fuck me. He looks away. My big, terrifying menace of a husband—he looks away. Like a guilty teenager avoiding his mom's disappointment.
And it's so fucking wild because I've never seen him flinch at anyone. Not Shadin. Not Kamal. Not even me. But his mother? Yeah, she cracks him wide open without a word.
Next to her, Soraya Nadeen Miraz—Shadin's mother—does the same. Her stare is less soft, more sharp—disgust, exhaustion, that "you're a brat I should've beaten harder" kind of energy. Shadin shifts, jaw flexing, looking like he'd rather slit his own throat than stand here under her gaze.
And I sit there, biting down on my lip so hard I'm shocked I'm not bleeding, because the urge to laugh is clawing up my throat. It's not funny. It's really not. This is punishment. This is humiliation carved into bone. This is legacy and control and fear playing out in broad daylight.
But fuck—watching Zayan Tavarian, get reduced to a little boy under his mom's eyes? Watching Shadin, chaos incarnate, twitch like a grounded brat?
I want to scream, cry, and laugh all at once.
By the time breakfast finally bleeds to an end, I feel like I've been sitting on a live wire for an hour. Kamal stands first, deliberate, slow, like a general leaving the battlefield after proving he doesn't even need to lift his sword to win. Nana follows, calm, untouched. The rest of the family rises too, like this was all normal—like humiliation is just another seasoning on their eggs.
Zayan and Shadin don't move. Not until Kamal's gone. Then they turn—eyes locking on each other across the table.
And holy fuck.
It's not playful, it's not cousin bullshit, it's not even hate. It's something sharper. Their stares slice like twin blades, full of an unspoken I'll fucking end you. Cruel, merciless, lethal.
Yeah. Not funny anymore.
They break away at the same time, walking opposite directions out of the yard, their movements stiff with barely-contained violence. And I'm just sitting there, choking on the air, realizing if this is how they behave in front of everyone, what the fuck happens when no one's watching?
By the time I make it back to my assigned room, my nerves are shot. I collapse onto the window seat, curling into the corner where roses brush against my hair through the open glass. Their scent is almost mocking—soft, sweet, while my stomach churns with sharp edges.
I keep thinking about it. Him standing there. Zayan Tavarian. My menace. My walking inferno. The same man who would order someone's death without blinking.
And this morning? He looked like a fucking kid.
Kamal snapped his fingers and suddenly the terror of my nights, the predator who makes my pulse sprint, was reduced to… a servant. Shoulders tight. Jaw locked. Silent obedience.
It's not even that he obeyed—it's why.
Because they all fucking fear him. Kamal isn't just respected, he's something worse. Revered. Untouchable. They'd rather eat glass than disobey him. And that realization? It makes my spine ache. Because if Zayan—Zayan—stands still under that man's shadow, then who the fuck is Kamal?
I don't realize I'm holding my breath until the door knob clicks.
My head jerks up.
And there he is.
Zayan steps in, and holy fucking hell—wrecked, yes. Bruised, exhausted, humiliation still clinging to him like smoke. But sexy? Devastating.
His hair is a mess, his shirt clinging in all the right places, his jaw shadowed, lip still split. He looks like war personified. And then his eyes—dark, sharp, locking onto mine like he's been starved of oxygen and I'm the only thing that keeps him alive.
The room shrinks. The roses stop swaying. My throat dries.
So of course, I open my stupid mouth.
"Welcome, Mr. Butler."
The words slip out smooth, sarcastic, my lips curling like I've been waiting hours just to twist the knife.
His expression doesn't move for a beat. Just stillness. A silence that makes the air choke in my lungs. Then—his head tilts. That dangerous little tilt, predator analyzing prey. His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek, slow, deliberate.
"Careful," he says, voice low, rough silk laced with warning. "You don't know how close you are to choking on that smart mouth."
My pulse stutters. My skin burns.
Because this isn't the boy I saw under Kamal's stare. This is the other one—the man. The menace. The one who looks at me like I'm both the punishment and the prize.
And fuck me—I think I want both.
"Bring me a glass of water, Mr. Butler."
The words drop like a blade, casual and sharp at the same time, and I savor the way his jaw tightens the second they leave my mouth.
"Stop it, Arshila." His voice is low, gravel wrapped in silk, warning pulsing under every syllable. He doesn't even blink. Just stands there, broad, wrecked, impossibly controlled.
I rise slowly from the window seat, roses brushing against my hair like some stupid poetic background while my pulse hammers like it wants to break free. My feet drag me toward him, one step, another, deliberately unhurried. I keep my eyes locked on his, refusing to break. Not even once.
I can feel the shift when I'm close enough to breathe him in—soap, sweat, faint copper of blood still lingering on his skin. My lips curl.
"Then would you prefer…" I pause, let the silence drag, eyes glinting, "…pervert?"
It's worth it. That one word.
Because his mouth curves, slow and lethal, into the kind of smirk that could end civilizations. He tilts his head—predator mode, analyzing, already pulling the air out of the room. His tongue presses against the inside of his cheek before he steps closer, the gap between us collapsing like it was never real.
"Which one do you prefer, wife?" His voice is a growl now, intimate and lethal. His breath ghosts over my mouth. "Touch… or serve?"
Fuck.
My brain flatlines. The words aren't a question—they're a fucking blade pressed against my throat, demanding an answer I don't have. Heat prickles across my skin, my arms tensing, but I don't step back. I won't.
"Excuse me?" My voice comes out sharper than intended, brittle with disbelief, like if I say it hard enough, it'll stop the fire crawling up my neck.
His smirk deepens, eyes scanning my face, lingering too long on my lips. "I'll say it slower." He leans in, the timber of his voice sinking so low it makes my bones ache. "Do you want me to touch you… or serve you?"
Every nerve in my body short-circuits. I hate him. I hate the way he says it, like he already knows I'll choke on whichever answer I give.
I scoff, step back half an inch, trying to find oxygen. "Neither. I'd rather drown."
He follows, eliminating the sliver of space I created. His chest brushes mine, heat radiating like punishment. "Drowning can be arranged," he says smoothly, his smirk twisting darker. "But it won't be alone, wife. You'll take me with you."
My stomach flips violently. Rage and heat collide until I don't know which one will win. I jab a finger at his chest, sharp enough to make contact, to feel the solid muscle beneath his shirt. "You're out of your fucking mind if you think—"
He cuts me off by catching my wrist mid-air, grip firm but not painful. His thumb presses against my pulse, slow and deliberate, like he owns the goddamn rhythm.
"Careful," he murmurs, eyes narrowing. "Keep poking me, and you'll find out exactly how much of a pervert I can be."
My chest tightens. My body betrays me. The words burn, sear, stick to the inside of my head like poison I can't spit out.
I rip my wrist out of his grip, shoving against his chest with both palms. He doesn't move. Not an inch. He just stares, amused, like my fury is the highlight of his fucking morning.
"You're disgusting," I snap, voice trembling with a mix of rage and something I won't admit. "Absolutely disgusting."
His smirk softens into something sharper, crueler. "And yet…" He leans closer, lips brushing against the shell of my ear, voice dipping to a growl so low I almost choke on it. "…you can't stop looking at me, can you?"
My knees nearly give. My nails dig into my palms. The roses sway outside the window like they're mocking me, and all I can think is—fuck. He's right.
And he knows it.
Because his hand shoots up, not to touch, not to hold, but to hover—right near my jaw, not quite brushing, but close enough that my skin screams for or against it. His control is maddening, unfair, terrifying.
"Answer me, wife." His voice is silk wrapped around barbed wire. "Touch… or serve?"
I choke on air, fury curling into something hotter, meaner, unbearable. My lips part, my glare sharp enough to burn holes through him, but my voice refuses to obey.
He tilts his head again, smirk lethal. "That's what I thought."
And then he steps back, just enough to leave me burning, shaking, furious at myself for reacting, furious at him for making me, furious at the entire fucking world for being built like this.
But before I can spit a comeback, he mutters low, final, lethal:
"Next time you call me 'butler'… you'll get both."
He pulls open the drawer like he owns the whole fucking oxygen in the room, fingers curling around a small tube. The ointment glints under the light. His lip is split, red against the pale cut of his mouth, and he doesn't even flinch when he smears some on his finger.
I cross my arms, watching, because of course he's doing it wrong.
"That's not how it's done," I snap.
His eyes flick to me, dark and flat. "I know how to do it."
I bite down a laugh that wants to crawl out, sharp and mocking. "No, you don't. Don't be stubborn. Give it to me."
He tilts his head. That goddamn predator tilt. Then tosses the tube toward me without warning, fast enough that it almost slips right through my hands. My pulse kicks as I catch it at the last second.
Asshole.
I walk over, slow, deliberate. He doesn't move, doesn't shift, doesn't breathe loud enough for me to hear. Just watches. Waiting.
"Sit down." My voice comes out firmer than I expect.
And he does. On the edge of the bed, broad shoulders dropping slightly, knees spread like he's not just sitting—he's taking space, daring me to step into it.
I grab a swab, squeeze ointment onto the tip, and step between his legs. Too close. Way too close. My fingers tremble, traitors, as I bring the swab up to his mouth.
Don't look at him, Arshila. Don't look at him. He hates you. You hate him. That's all that matters.
But my eyes betray me. Just for a second. And he's already there. Watching. His gaze fixed on mine, unblinking, a storm locked behind his lashes.
The air feels heavy, too heavy. My hand hovers, the swab a hair's breadth from his split lip. My pulse stutters, loud in my ears.
"You okay?" His voice is low, almost gentle. Almost. "Your hand's shaking."
"Shut up," I mutter, pressing the swab harder than necessary against the cut.
He hisses through his teeth, jaw flexing. "Fuck—"
"Don't be a baby."
His mouth curves, not quite a smile, not quite not. "You press harder, wife, and I'll start thinking you want to make me moan."
My entire body goes still. Heat rips through me like fire licking bone, and my grip tightens on the swab. I refuse to react. I refuse to let him see it.
"You're disgusting," I bite out, forcing the words through clenched teeth.
He leans forward just enough that his breath brushes my cheek, eyes locked onto mine like a fucking trap. "And yet you're still standing here… touching me."
My chest twists. My throat locks. Rage and something uglier crawl under my skin. I want to shove him back, slap him, anything—but my hand keeps moving, careful, precise, brushing ointment across the curve of his lip.
He watches me the entire time. Not the swab. Not my hand. Me.
It's unbearable. The way his pupils dilate when my fingers accidentally graze his skin. The way his tongue flicks against his teeth, quick, sharp, like he's holding himself back.
"Done," I mutter finally, pulling back too fast. The swab drops into the trash like it weighs a thousand fucking pounds.
__________________
ZAYANS POV
Her hand is small against me, swab trembling as she drags ointment across my split lip.
And fuck, I'm enjoying this.
The sting is nothing compared to the high of her fingers this close to my mouth. The scent of her skin—soap and something sharper—slams into me, makes my head tilt back slightly like a goddamn addict sniffing poison.
I should hate this. I should shove her away, tell her to fuck off and stay there. But no. I want it. I want her this close, knees brushing mine, eyes pretending to avoid me while her lashes betray her every fucking second.
She says done like she didn't just ruin me with the tiniest touch. Like she didn't just make me think about how it would feel if instead of a swab, it was her mouth on mine. Tongue tracing the wound. Lips swallowing me whole. Maybe that'd be enough to heal it. Maybe it'd be enough to kill me.
"Done?" My voice comes out rougher than I want. I lean back an inch, then catch her before she can escape. "What about my knuckles?"
She stares at me like I just asked her to bathe me. "Seriously? Bro?"
I almost laugh. Bro. If she knew the things I think when she's this close, she'd never fucking sleep again.
"You can do it yourself," she mutters.
I lift my right hand, flexing my busted knuckles. They're raw, swollen, screaming, and yet all I can think about is how she'll look bent over them. "How? With my left hand?" I flex my fingers again, smirk curling despite myself. "Be my guest."
Her sigh is heavy, annoyed, but she still takes my hand.
Fuck.
Her palm closes around mine, warm, steady. My pulse spikes. I pretend like I don't care, like this is all a fucking chore, but inside? Inside I'm wrecked. She doesn't even know she's holding the part of me I've never let anyone touch.
The swab touches skin, cold and sharp. I hiss. Not because of the pain. Because she looks up. Her eyes flick to mine, wide for a second, soft in a way I've never seen.
"Does it hurt?" she asks, and I can't breathe.
I nod, jaw tight, because if I open my mouth, I'll ruin everything.
And then—she blows on it.
Slow. Gentle. Cool breath skating over split skin like she has any fucking idea what that does to me.
My body freezes. Heat crashes through me, vicious, unstoppable. Every filthy thought I've buried claws out at once—her mouth on me, lips wrapped around places I shouldn't even think about. Her body under mine, squirming, gasping, begging. Fuck, I want her. I want her so bad my knuckles aren't the only thing throbbing.
It's too much.
I jerk my hand out of hers, fast, almost violent. "Stay away." The words rip out of me, jagged, harsher than I mean, but it's either that or lose my goddamn mind right here.
Her head snaps up. "What the hell?"
I can't look at her. I can't. One more second of those eyes, that mouth, that breath, and I'll drag her onto this bed and show her exactly how filthy I can be.
"It's fine," I mutter, voice sharp, final. "I don't need it."
She opens her mouth—probably to argue, to bite back—but I don't give her the chance. I push up, storming for the door before I do something irreversible. The handle rattles, my pulse hammering, and then—slam. The door shuts hard enough to shake the frame.
Her scent still lingers on my skin. Her touch still burns my knuckles. And all I can think is—
Fuck. I almost lost it.
And next time? I might not stop.
The door shakes behind me when it slams, and I press my back against it like I need the wood to hold me up.
My heart is a fucking drumline. Loud. Rabid. Out of control. I can feel it in my throat, my fingertips, my cock. Everywhere.
I drag my gaze down to my hands. The same hand she just held, swab and ointment smearing over my skin like some innocent nurse routine. The same hand that this morning—fuck. That this morning brushed against her breast.
Accident. I swear it was an accident. But the weight of it, the heat of it, it's been carved into my palm all day like a brand. And now? She blows on my knuckles, soft, gentle, like she has no fucking clue she just set me on fire.
My knuckles are throbbing. My mouth is dry. My head's a mess of filth I can't claw out of.
If I'd stayed one more second in that room, I would've snapped. I would've dragged her onto that bed, torn the space between us to shreds, and she wouldn't have walked out the same. Neither would I. She'd never look at me again without remembering what I did to her.
And the sickest part? I want that.
I want her remembering me every time she breathes. Every time she touches her mouth, I want her to taste me. Every time she lies down, I want her body to ache because I wasn't there to fill it.
I push off the door, fists clenching, jaw tight enough to crack. I can still feel the ghost of her breath on my hand. Cold. Soft. Perfect. And it kills me. It fucking kills me because I've put bullets in men's heads without flinching, but one second of her lips a breath away from me and I'm unraveling like some weak little boy.
"Fuck." The word rips out of me, raw, torn. I drag a hand through my hair, tug hard enough at the roots to feel pain, to anchor myself, but it's useless.
I glance back at the door once, teeth grinding. If I go back in there, she won't come out the same. I'll make sure of it. I'll make her mine in ways she doesn't even want. She thinks she hates me now? She has no idea.
So I turn. Fast. Violent. Walking, not even caring where the fuck I'm going. The hallway stretches like a maze, empty and echoing, and my steps are loud enough to feel like gunshots. I need space. Air. Anything that isn't her scent on my clothes and her touch in my skin.
Because staying there?
Staying there would've made me a monster.
And I'm not sure she's ready to meet that version of me.
_____________
ARSHILA'S POV
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
He's the one who asked me to help him.
Me.
And then—snap. Like my touch is poison. Like I'm something filthy crawling up his arm.
I just stand there for a second, staring at the empty space where his hand used to be, trying to figure out if I hallucinated that shit. My chest is tight, my head hot.
Disgust. That's what it looked like. Pure, sharp disgust.
Fuck you, Zayan. Honestly. Choke on whatever expensive Drinks you drink behind closed doors. Better—let the glass crack and shred your perfect throat while you gulp it down.
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth ache. My fingers curl into fists, nails biting skin. He wants to play that game? Fine. I hope he trips on his own stupid, smug face the next time he walks through one of his shiny marble hallways.
I storm out onto the balcony before I explode inside that room. The air outside bites cooler, sharp against my cheeks, but it doesn't calm me. Not even close.
I drop into the chair like I'm about to declare war. Arms crossed, foot tapping, brain a mess of violent fantasies. Drowning him in the pool. Setting his overpriced suits on fire. Smacking that vein on his neck just to see if it finally bursts. God, I could kill him a thousand creative ways in my head and still not scratch the itch.
And yet—
And yet.
The burn in my chest won't go. Because underneath the fury, there's this twist. This stupid, humiliating twist that says maybe it wasn't disgust. Maybe it was something else. Maybe—
No. Fuck that. He doesn't get to look at me like I'm nothing and then walk away like a goddamn storm in a suit.
I lean back, breathing hard, trying to glue my insides together, when movement catches my eye.
Down in the yard.
Standing dead still, head tilted the tiniest bit, eyes locked on me like a wolf watching a rabbit forget the door's still open.
And holy shit—he's not blinking.
Like a Predator.
Ebrahim
📍
SNEAK PEEK TO THE SECOND 🌶️ CHAPTER
I smirk, c*ck twitching under Selene's hand, pulse racing. That's probably him… the Zayan fucker. Fallen angel from hell. If he knew two girls are imagining him while I'm fucking them—or even imagining him naked with us… he'd kill me.
I let the thought sink but don't say a word.
"You're talking about another man… while stroking my c*ck?" I growl, shifting my hips slightly, letting Selene moan against my hand.
Selene bites her lip, eyes dark, hand teasing faster. "I can't help it, babe… he's unreal. Like… heaven and hell in one person."
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