ARSHILA POV
Okay, so—
Apparently my husband is in the kitchen. Cooking.
Shirtless.
And I swear to God, my brain can't compute this shit.
Because there he is. Adam Zayan Tavarian. The most stoic, most emotionally unavailable, most I'll-silence-a-room-with-one-word kind of man… standing under warm kitchen light, slicing a fucking onion.
Not a throat.
Not someone's ego.
A damn onion.
My brain just sits there buffering.
The sound of the knife hitting the board is the only thing moving the air. His hand steady, the flex in his arm smooth, precise. He moves like he's in control of everything—even the goddamn onion is probably intimidated.
And I'm just standing there, watching his back like it's a full-time job.
His back looks unfairly good—broad, carved, the kind of muscles that don't need the gym because they were probably born out of arrogance and genetics. Every time his arm shifts, his shoulder blades roll, and fuck, that tiny waist.
How the fuck does a man like him have a waist that small?
It's practically criminal.
And then there's that flash of white—the waistband of his Calvin Kleins peeking over the low hang of his black sweatpants. The kind of sight that should come with a health warning.
My eyes drop, just for a second—mistake. Because now I can't look away.
He looks like sin and discipline had a baby and named it Tavarian.
I drag my eyes up fast, only to realize—yeah, I'm not the only one staring.
Rafaen's got that quiet, unreadable look again, but his eyes are definitely not on the onion. Eshan? He's grinning like he's watching a live episode of his favorite drama. And Razmir—smug bastard—is actually leaning forward like he's trying to figure out how this Tavarian went from heir to chef.
And none of them are even trying to hide it.
I look back at Zayan.
He knows.
He definitely knows.
The slight tilt of his head, the way the corner of his mouth lifts—he's aware of every stare, every breath, every ounce of attention. And he's eating it up, pretending he's not.
He moves slower now, knife steady, wrist turning with maddening precision. Like he's saying yeah, I know what I'm doing. I know what you're all thinking. Keep watching.
And oh, I am.
"Does he—like—always cook?" I ask, my voice slipping out before I can stop it. It sounds weird. Too small. Too stunned.
Eshan grins, eyes still on Zayan. "Pretty much, yeah."
I frown, still not processing. "But… I've been married to this man for four months and I've never seen this shit happen. Not once."
Eshan looks at me like I just told him the sky's green. "You're blind."
I blink. "Excuse me?"
He snorts. "You're so blind. Man does this every time he's alone or in a mood. You just never catch him."
Razmir chuckles low. "Yeah, she's too busy arguing with him to notice the man's probably whisking his anger into a soufflé somewhere."
I narrow my eyes. "You guys are making that up."
Rafaen hums, voice calm, smooth as always. "Nope. He's been cooking since before you moved in. He just doesn't do it when he knows people are watching."
I blink again, staring at them like they're speaking another language. "So you're saying… this brooding, billionaire, control-freak husband of mine just casually decides to cook shirtless like it's some sort of emotional therapy session?"
Eshan grins. "Exactly that."
Razmir lifts a brow. "You married the full Tavarian experience, sweetheart. You didn't read the manual."
I shoot him a glare, but it's halfhearted because my attention keeps drifting back to Zayan.
He's now tossing chopped onions into the pan like he's casting a spell. The sound of sizzling hits the air, and I swear I can smell something annoyingly good. He moves around the kitchen like he owns not just the place but the act itself—every motion confident, quiet, controlled.
It's infuriatingly sexy.
Like, offensive-level sexy.
My brain's trying to remember why I was mad at him earlier, but it's not cooperating.
It's just stuck on shirtless husband slicing onions.
Zayan turns slightly, grabbing something from the counter, and the muscles in his torso shift—defined lines, smooth skin, that goddamn chain glinting at his collarbone.
And that's when it hits me.
He knows exactly what he's doing.
This isn't accidental. This is a power move.
A very, very distracting one.
I cross my arms, trying to sound casual. "You all look like you're watching porn."
Eshan laughs. "Sweetheart, this is Tavarian porn. Just without the OnlyFans subscription."
I stare at him. "You need help."
He grins wider. "You're the one married to it."
Razmir adds, smirking, "And she didn't even notice for four months."
I point at him. "Shut up."
But inside, I'm still caught between awe and confusion. Because how do you even process that your stone-cold, emotionally constipated billionaire husband turns into Gordon Ramsay with abs the second he touches a frying pan?
I keep watching him move—how his hand steadies the knife, how calm he looks, how deliberate every motion is.
It's hypnotic. Maddening.
I whisper under my breath, mostly to myself, "What the fuck…"
They drag me to the couch like I'm some damn spectator at a Tavarian circus, and apparently this is the VVIP seat because it's got the perfect view of the open kitchen.
Eshan drops down beside me like he's settling in for a show, Razmir lounges like he owns the place, and Rafaen—quiet menace that he is—leans back, watching everything with that unreadable Nazrani calm that makes me think he's secretly keeping score.
And me?
I'm just trying to remember how to breathe because my husband—the human version of an NDA—is still standing there shirtless, cooking like sin got domestic.
Razmir suddenly speaks, tone lazy but amused.
"You know what, Zayan? You're my type. I really want a wife like you."
My head snaps toward him. "Like him? With abs? Or the part where he cooks shirtless and emotionally terrorizes onions for therapy?"
Eshan chokes on air. Rafaen actually laughs, low and quiet, like it slipped out by accident.
Razmir grins, completely unfazed. "All of it, babe. The full Tavarian starter pack."
I throw him a look. "You're unwell."
Zayan doesn't even glance up. Just smirks, slow and lethal, as he wipes his hands on a towel—like he's debating whether to join the conversation or murder it.
The smirk deepens. That vein on his forearm pops a little.
Here we go.
He finally turns, towel dangling from his hand, eyes cutting toward Razmir with that bored, dangerous calm that makes the air thin out. "Then why don't you marry me?"
The room stops.
Knife down.
Pan sizzling.
My brain short-circuits.
"What the fuck," I mumble under my breath, because obviously that's the appropriate reaction to your husband casually proposing to his friend.
Razmir doesn't even blink. The idiot actually smirks back. "I will."
Zayan's head tilts—slow, amused, the kind of move that says you really want to test me, huh?
"Get on your knees," he says, voice low, rough, casual in the way only a man with complete control can manage. "Propose properly. Maybe then we'll consider."
The air shifts.
Eshan loses it. Rafaen covers his mouth, but his shoulders are shaking.
I just sit there, trying to figure out what dimension I've fallen into.
Razmir grins wider, like he's been waiting for this level of chaos his entire life. "I like a dare."
Zayan's smirk twitches into something darker. He picks up the knife from the counter—casually, like it's part of the conversation—and in one fluid motion, he's got the blade tilted just enough that the metal glints under the light.
Then he steps forward.
I swear, for a second, even the air freezes.
Zayan presses the flat side of the knife against Razmir's throat—not deep, not dangerous, just close enough to feel the threat humming off him. His voice drops, smooth and lethal.
"Then do it properly."
Razmir swallows but doesn't back down. Crazy bastard's actually enjoying this. He gets on one knee, grinning like a maniac.
"Marry me, Zayan! Cook for me every damn day!"
The laughter that erupts from Eshan is unholy.
Rafaen's shaking his head, muttering something that sounds a lot like we need therapy.
Zayan looks down at Razmir, amusement carved sharp across his mouth. "Only cook?"
Razmir's eyes gleam. "Maybe handcuffs too."
I shoot up straight. "What the actual fuck is going on in this house?!"
Eshan's wheezing beside me, clutching his stomach. "This is—holy shit—better than Netflix."
Zayan's still standing there, knife at Razmir's throat, towel in hand, expression unreadable but eyes glinting with that mix of danger and humor that should be illegal.
He lowers the knife slowly, wipes the blade clean like he's just finished a task instead of pretending to commit a felony.
Then, without even looking at anyone, he mutters, "Get off my floor, Idrakhan."
Razmir stands, brushing off imaginary dust. "You didn't say no."
Zayan doesn't even blink. "I didn't say yes."
Eshan cackles. Rafaen sighs like he's questioning every life decision that led him here.
And me? I'm stuck between is this foreplay or attempted murder and why do I find both equally hot.
Because that's the thing about Zayan Tavarian—he doesn't just own a room.
He owns the damn air in it.
And right now, standing there shirtless with that blade glinting under warm light, towel hanging loose from his hand, smirk sharp enough to cut glass—
yeah, he looks less like a husband and more like a fucking warning label.
And I hate how much I want to touch the danger.
The chaos dies down when the food's finally ready, though "dies down" is generous—more like it's sitting in the corner catching its breath. Zayan plates everything like it's a damn photoshoot, every move too smooth for someone who supposedly doesn't care what people think.
Then he just says, quiet but firm, "Sit."
And they do.
No hesitation.
Eshan, Razmir, Rafaen—three grown men, literal heirs of empires—drop into their seats like obedient kindergarteners. Even I move without thinking, because there's something about that tone that doesn't ask, it commands.
He starts serving. No maid, no staff, no nonsense. Just him—bare chest, towel still slung over his shoulder, sliding a plate in front of each of us like it's second nature. The smell hits first—rich, spicy, warm in a way that makes the whole kitchen feel smaller.
I take a bite just to be polite, but the second it hits my tongue, I stop breathing for a second.
Holy.
Fucking.
Shit.
It's good.
Like, really good.
Like, five-star-restaurant-chef-would-cry good. The kind of good that makes you forget your name for half a second.
I look down at my plate, then back up at him, who's pretending to focus on his own food like he doesn't know what kind of witchcraft he just pulled.
Eshan takes one bite and moans. Actually moans.
"Bro—fuck, this is why I prefer you over expensive restaurants. Jesus—this is unreal."
Zayan doesn't even look up. Just that tiny smirk again. He knows. Of course, he knows.
And me? I'm trying to chew normally, but inside, my brain's doing gymnastics because what the hell is happening? How does a man who looks like a crime scene cook like this?
Razmir leans back, mouth full, eyes half closed like he's seeing heaven. "This is why Zayan's my first priority. But fate, man. Fate slapped me. He went and married her instead."
I stick my tongue out at him without thinking, childish and mocking, because screw him. He laughs, loud and stupid.
Zayan looks at me then—really looks. Not just a glance. That quiet, slow study that feels like he's peeling thoughts out of your skull. "How is it?" he asks, voice low.
I swallow, lift my chin a little, keep the tone flat but my heartbeat's already betraying me. "Just like you."
His brow lifts. That left one, the sharper one. "That good?"
It's not a question—it's a challenge.
Of course it is. He can't just take a compliment; he has to turn it into a damn duel.
Before I can come up with a comeback, Razmir groans. "Cocky bastard."
Eshan nearly chokes on his food laughing. "That's the Tavarian charm, bro. Man's ego's plated with gold."
Zayan just wipes the corner of his mouth with the towel, calm as ever, but there's a flicker in his eyes. A twitch that says he's this close to saying something that would ruin everyone's appetite.
Rafaen finally speaks, soft, like he's tired of babysitting idiots. "Maybe you should open a restaurant."
Zayan's mouth twitches, a ghost of a smile. "And let idiots like you in? No thanks."
The table erupts again—Eshan laughing so hard he's smacking the table, Razmir pretending to be offended, Rafaen shaking his head like he expected that response.
I just sit there, silent, fork in hand, trying not to stare at the way Zayan leans back in his chair—relaxed, confident, that stupid chain catching the light against his skin.
He's not even trying to be intimidating right now, but he still is. Always.
He looks over at me again, eyes lazy, voice lower. "You haven't answered properly."
I blink. "I just did."
"No," he says, that faint curl to his mouth. "You compared me to the food. That doesn't tell me how you feel."
And god, he says it in a way that sounds nothing like cooking anymore.
It's slow, taunting, like he's asking something else entirely.
Eshan whistles. "Here we go."
Razmir grins. "Y'all gonna flirt or fight? I need to know whether to grab popcorn or duck for cover."
Zayan doesn't take his eyes off me. "Maybe both."
And my stupid heart decides that's the exact moment to speed up.
Because the worst part isn't that he's looking at me like that.
It's that he knows exactly what it does to me.
And I hate how much I let him win without even saying a word.
Rafaen's the quietest one in the group, but somehow he's the one who notices first.
I must've zoned out or maybe blinked wrong, because suddenly there's a folded tissue in front of me, his hand holding it out like it's nothing.
"Here," he says, voice low, smooth in that Nazrani way — calm but heavy.
I blink, take it. "Thanks."
He nods once, that small smile tugging at his mouth — the kind that shows that stupid dimple on his left cheek.
It's unfair how clean he looks doing the bare minimum. Like, if perfection had a setting, Rafaen just leaves it on default.
I try to ignore the way my brain short circuits for a half-second and say, "You know, my friend Shaiza is so obsessed with you, bro."
That gets his attention.
He turns his head toward me, that quiet, steady gaze like he's waiting for the rest of the sentence.
I grin, stabbing at my food like I'm not starting something. "I'm serious. She literally dumped her boyfriend because she swore you were 'Nazrani-level gorgeous' or whatever the hell that means."
Eshan nearly spits his drink. "Wait—what?"
Razmir groans. "Oh no, not again. Another one joining the cult of Rafaen."
Rafaen doesn't say anything at first. He just keeps that faint dimpled smile, eyes flicking to me and back, unreadable as always. Then, quietly, he asks,
"She dumped him for me?"
I nod, grinning. "Yeah. Poor guy didn't even know what hit him. She saw one picture of you and said, 'He's the standard now.'"
Eshan whistles. "That's brutal."
Razmir leans back, smirking. "Yeah, but can you blame her? Look at him."
Rafaen finally looks at me again, but this time there's no teasing in his face.
Just that calm stillness that somehow feels heavier than silence.
Then he says it—quiet, steady.
"Would you?"
The words don't register at first. "What?"
He doesn't look away, doesn't blink.
"Would you dump Zayan for me?"
__________see you next week 🤍 🌒