Arshila's pov
Midnight.
The goddamn palace is quiet, and it's the kind of quiet that isn't peaceful—it's suffocating. Marble halls, chandeliers that probably cost more than entire countries, shadows stretching too far. And me? Sitting in this oversized room like I'm a fucking doll misplaced in a giant's house.
Dinner was hell. Or worse—lonely hell. I didn't even bother going to the family table. I could already imagine the looks, the fake politeness, the hidden knives. So when Izar found me—calm as ever, saying I should eat—I only asked one question:
"Where's Zayan?"
"Out for some business," he said.
Out. Like that was supposed to mean anything. Out doing what? Out with who? Out leaving me to choke down food in silence while the entire Tavarian family feasts like they own the world? (Well, they do. But still. Fuck them.)
So I sat. Ate. Izar stood there like a wall, quiet but present, talking when I wanted to talk, letting me hide behind his company so I wouldn't have to deal with Ebrahim's snake eyes again. The creep. The monster. The man who makes my skin crawl just by existing. At least Izar gets it—keeps close enough that I don't feel completely stripped bare.
And now, I'm in bed. The couch across from me—empty. His spot. His ridiculous, frustrating, smug, controlling, infuriating spot. Zayan's.
And of course, because my brain is a masochist, I think about this morning.
That fucking disaster.
His palm.
On my chest.
On my breast.
Holy shit.
I bury my face in the pillow and laugh. Loud, muffled, stupid laughter because what the fuck was that even? His face—oh God—red as hell, ears pink like some schoolboy caught peeking at porn for the first time. And then the way he snapped back into control, like he could erase the embarrassment just by growling orders at me.
"Don't make sound."
"Not a word, Arshila."
Yeah right. Like he wasn't two seconds from combusting.
I roll over, staring at the couch again. Damn menace. I swear, if anyone else had done that—touched me like that—they'd be dead. Straight up dead. Buried six feet under without a name. But with him… it's different. Infuriatingly different. He's a pervert, yes. A control freak, yes. An asshole, absolutely. But he's also—fuck, he's my strength here.
I hate that. I hate that I miss him when he's gone. I hate that this room feels colder without him pacing, glaring, throwing those stupid dangerous smirks at me like he owns me. I hate that when he's not here, I feel… small.
And this palace doesn't help. Kamal Rashid Tavarian's palace is a goddamn monster of a place. It's so big, so polished, so ancient, it makes me feel like an ant crawling over marble. Everyone here is sharp, dangerous, cold. They all look at me like I'm either prey or trespasser. And it's only been two days. Two fucking days.
Five more to go.
Five more days of this suffocating grandeur, of Tavarian politics and eyes on me everywhere I walk. Then the annual day celebration will be over, and I can finally go home.
But right now? Right now, all I can think about is him.
The way he touched me by accident. The way his face burned red. The way his voice dropped low, like a threat, like a promise. The way he made my whole body freeze, burn, spark—whatever the hell that was.
And now he's not here. And I hate it.
I pull the blanket over my head, groaning into the dark. "Goddamn it, Adam Zayan Tavarian, where the fuck are you?"
Because even though he's a menace, even though he drives me insane, even though I'd rather set him on fire half the time—without him, this place feels like it's swallowing me alive.
And I'm not about to admit that out loud. Ever.
But fuck—I miss him.
______________
ZAYANS POV
The garage hums low when I pull in. Tires crunch against stone, engine ticking as it cools. I kill the lights, step out, slam the door harder than I mean to. Too much in my head, too much in my chest. Damien, Marcus, their games—it doesn't fucking matter the second I'm here. The only thing that matters is upstairs.
The elevator ride is long, quiet, too quiet. Mirrors on three sides show me everything I don't want to see—jaw locked, tie loose, shirt half undone. I look like I've been fighting ghosts. Maybe I have. Doesn't matter. East wing, her room. My room. Ours.
The door creaks open and—fuck.
She's there. On the bed. Curled under the blankets, hair spilling over the pillow in those messy waves she tries to hide. The only goddamn person in this palace who doesn't look like a blade waiting to cut. She looks like… peace. Something I've never fucking had.
And it hits me right in the chest. Hard.
I stand there too long, just watching. Dark room, faint light from outside painting her skin in soft shadows. Her mouth slightly open, breath steady. She's fucking beautiful. So beautiful it hurts.
Shower. I need one before I lose my mind. Hot water. Steam. But it doesn't wash her out of my head. I come out still restless, hair damp, shirt sticking to my back. And she's still there. Peaceful. Untouchable. Mine, but not mine.
I end up on the floor, back against the bed, head resting on the edge. My eyes drag to her face, her lips, her chest rising and falling.
Filthy thoughts crawl in. Ugly, hungry, relentless. My body reacts before my brain does. I want to touch her, taste her, drag her awake and make her look at me like I'm the only man in the universe. I want her legs open, my name a broken sound in her throat. I want to ruin her and fix her in the same breath.
Fuck.
I clench my jaw, fist tight against my knee. Stop staring at her like a creep, Tavarian. You look like a starving dog. Hungry, desperate, pathetic. She's asleep. Peaceful. Leave her the fuck alone.
But I can't.
I push myself up, slow, careful, and sit on the edge of the bed. She stirs, body shifting, and my pulse goes insane. She almost caught me. Almost. But she doesn't wake. Just exhales and slips deeper into sleep.
My hand moves before I can stop it. Fingers brushing one loose wave from her face, tucking it behind her ear. Dark brown, thick, soft. My favorite. The one thing that drives me insane, because she always ties it back in a bun like she's trying to hide. I hate it. I want it wild, messy, fanned across my pillow, across my chest.
And the ache—God, it's fucking unbearable. I love her. I love her so much it feels like someone's got their hand wrapped around my throat and they're squeezing.
I can't stop. I shift, slowly, carefully, lying down behind her. Not touching. Not yet. Just close. Just for a few minutes, I tell myself. That's all. Just breathing the same air. Just pretending.
Then she rolls, turning on her side. Now her face is right there. Inches away. Her lashes resting against her cheeks, her lips parted slightly.
My breath stalls. My chest feels like it's about to explode.
She's too close. Too fucking close. And all I want to do is wake her up. Press my mouth to hers, feel that sharp tongue of hers curse me even while she's shaking under me. I want to see her fall apart. I want to see her asleep like this forever. Both. Everything. Nothing.
I stay frozen, staring, burning, drowning.
She sleeps.
And I'm the one who can't.
Her breath evens out, soft, steady. Like she doesn't even know I'm here losing my fucking mind two inches away.
And it kills me. Because this—this stupid, ordinary moment—is all I want. Not the empires, not the blood, not the deals I burn the world for. Just her. Just this bed, her messy hair, her warm skin pressed against mine.
I've never wanted anyone like this. Never. Not in twenty-five years. I didn't even think I was capable of it. I thought I was built different—wired to conquer, to own, to protect, but never to need. And then she shows up, and now I need her in ways I don't even fucking understand.
I want her mine in this life and whatever the fuck comes after. If there's an afterlife, I'll burn down heaven or hell or whatever doors they throw in my face until I find her again. I want her tied to me, branded into my fucking bones. Not just a wife on paper. My person. My fight. My everything.
And I don't just want her sweetness, her rare smiles. I want all of it. Her fury. Her claws. Her fucking rage when she's screaming at me like she hates me. I want her to fight me every day until I'm old and gray, until my body gives out and she's still calling me a bastard under her breath. I want her to beat the shit out of me when I piss her off, and I'll take it every single time because it'll still mean she's mine.
I can see it—God, I can see it. Her in my house, years from now, throwing something at me because I didn't put my files away. Her yelling at me for being impossible, then falling asleep on my chest two seconds later like she didn't just set me on fire. Kids with her eyes, her stubborn jaw, her sharp mouth telling me I'm wrong. A family that's actually mine. Not Tavarian heirs. Not pawns. Mine and hers.
The thought makes my throat close up. Fuck. I'm not supposed to want this. Not like this. Not this bad.
But I do.
I want to grow old with her. I want her to be the last thing I see when I go down. I want to carry her fury like it's the air I breathe, like it's the only thing keeping me alive. And if she breaks me every goddamn day, then fine. Let her. I'll take every hit, every word, every scar, because it means she's still here.
And the worst part—the absolute worst fucking part—is she doesn't know. She has no idea she's the only thing keeping me human. No idea that every time she looks at me with that fire in her eyes, I'd burn the whole planet just to keep it lit.
She shifts in her sleep, just a little, like she's dreaming. My chest caves in. I want to pull her in. I want to lock her there forever. But I don't move. Because if I touch her now, I'll never stop.
So I just lie here, staring at her like some lovesick idiot, my heart in my fucking throat, promising myself what I can't say out loud.
Mine. In this life. In the next. For-fucking-ever.
_________________
ARSHILA'S POV
The first thing that hits me isn't light. It's smell.
Roses. Not roses. Fuck. Not roses. Something sharper, darker, something that crawls up my lungs and refuses to leave. Expensive cologne, but not just that. Him. Zayan. That stupid, addictive scent that shouldn't exist but does, like it was cooked up in a lab just to fuck with me.
My nose twitches, my eyes crack open—slow, cautious, like maybe I'll regret this. And then—
Holy shit.
Adam. Fucking. Zayan. Tavarian. Right there.
On the bed.
Beside me.
Facing me.
My whole body goes still. My eyes blink twice, three times. No, nope, not real. Has to be a dream. A hallucination. Something.
But nope. He's there. Chest rising, breath warm, lashes too long for a man. Sleeping. Like the devil himself decided to take a nap two inches from my face.
What the fuck?
Why the hell is he here? Wasn't he supposed to crash on the couch? That was the unspoken rule. Couch = him. Bed = me. Separation = sanity. And yet here we are, his six-foot-whatever, broad-shouldered self stretched out like this is his territory.
My brain scrambles. Maybe he came back late. Maybe he was too tired to think and just collapsed here without realizing. Yeah. That's it. That has to be it. Because if it's not, then what the actual fuck is happening?
I should be pissed. Furious. But instead my dumbass eyes start cataloguing him like I'm prepping a police sketch.
His face. God. Those eyes—even closed, I can see the weight of them, the cut of his brows sharp enough to slice me open. His nose, straight, arrogant, the kind of nose only someone born with too much power is allowed to have. And his mouth—don't even start. Full lips, soft but cut with that permanent curve like he's always about to smirk, always about to ruin me.
And his hair. God. That messy, damp, I-just-showered-and-didn't-bother-to-fix-it hair. Dark, thick, falling against his forehead like it knows it owns me.
I hate myself. Because I can't stop staring. Can't stop memorizing every inch of him like I don't already know it by heart.
And then—he stirs.
My stomach drops. Panic mode: ON.
I slam my eyes shut so fast I probably look dead. Breathe slow. Pretend. Pretend. Pretend.
I can feel it—the shift of the bed, the weight moving. He's awake. He's getting up. My chest tightens, my heart goes wild, but I don't move. Not even a twitch.
Seconds stretch.
Then the sound of his feet against the floor, quiet, careful. He walks. Away.
I risk it—a tiny peek, lashes lifting just enough. And yeah. There he goes. To the couch. Like nothing happened. Like he wasn't just lying next to me breathing the same air, making my heart malfunction like a cheap battery.
He sinks down, throws an arm over his face, and that's it. Done. Back to the couch.
And me?
I should feel relieved. That was the deal anyway. Couch for him. Bed for me. Everything nice and separate.
But instead—hollow. Like someone scooped something out of my chest and forgot to put it back.
I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling like it has answers. Spoiler: it doesn't.
"Doesn't matter," I mutter to myself, throat tight. "Don't care. Not my problem. Not my circus."
I shove the blanket back, swing my legs over the edge, and head straight for the bathroom before my brain does something worse—like admit I wanted him to stay.
The east wing garden is colder than I thought it'd be at dawn, dew sticking to the back of my ankles as I sit on the low stone edge by the flowerbeds. It's not bright yet—sky still that bruised mix between night and morning, like the sun's debating if it even wants to show up. I kind of get it. If I could hide, I would too.
I drag in a breath, long, like maybe air alone can chill out the chaos in my chest. Spoiler: it can't.
Because every time I close my eyes, it's him. Zayan. Adam-fucking-Zayan-Tavarian. Walking contradiction, human glitch in the system, nightmare dressed like a goddamn dream. And the worst part? He was just there. Right next to me. In my bed. Like it was the most normal thing in the world.
And yeah, he moved. Took his ass back to the couch like he was supposed to. Everything "fixed." Order restored. But no. My brain's still stuck on the way he looked, stretched out against my sheets, hair damp, breathing easy, like he belonged there. Like the whole world belonged to him.
And the fact he doesn't belong to me? That thought alone makes me want to crawl into the mud and stay there, rot with the worms. Maybe they'd be kinder.
I hate it. I hate him. I hate myself for even thinking about him like this. But here I am, sitting in the one patch of the estate where I feel… safe? Free? Whatever. East wing's quiet. Nobody comes here. Just him and me. And he's not even here now, which is probably why I can breathe without choking on my own guilt.
The west wing garden though? Fuck no. Never again. That's where Ebrahim cornered me. Every time I even glance in that direction my skin crawls, like shadows are hiding teeth. I'll take east wing silence over that nightmare any day.
I lean forward, fingers brushing the petals of some ridiculous flower—perfect, soft, like it doesn't know how ugly the world is. I sigh, long, heavy, like maybe I can push all the thoughts out with it.
And then—
"Arshila."
One word. My name.
Deep. Husky. Heavy enough to drop me through the floor.
Every nerve in my body shuts down. My breath freezes halfway up my throat. I don't even need to turn around. Don't need confirmation. I know that voice. That weight. That authority.
Kamal Rashid Tavarian.
📍 SNEAK PEEK
He says quietly, almost to himself, "People love the idea of justice. They just don't want to know what it costs."
That line hits weirdly hard.
I blink at him. "Okay, philosopher. Calm down before I start thinking you are the vigilante."
He finally smirks. That same calm, crooked one that ruins my internal peace. " I am."
The rest? That secret stays behind the locked door.
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