ARSHILA — POV
"You look hot when you pretend to feel nothing."
My breath cuts off.
Not metaphorically. Literally. Like my lungs just quit their job out of spite.
That voice.
That exact tone.
The room tilts like someone nudged reality with their elbow.
For a split second I'm not here.
I'm a year ago.
Dark room.
Breath on my neck.
That same sentence poured into my ear like a fucking curse.
You look hot when you pretend to sleep.
Cold floods my spine. Not the fun kind. Not the oh-this-is-dangerous-hot kind. The wrong kind. The kind that makes your stomach drop and your hands go stupid.
I jerk back, fast.
Too fast.
My eyes snap to his face like I'm trying to catch him mid-crime.
My head is loud. Way too loud.
No.
No fucking way.
I stare at him like I've never seen him before. Like the room glitched and loaded the wrong version of him.
His expression shifts.
Not smug anymore.
Sharp. Focused. Alert.
Too alert.
My thoughts start tripping over each other.
That voice.
That timing.
That line.
My stomach drops straight into my ass.
Stalker?
The word slams into my skull.
"Say it again," I blurt.
It comes out rough. Scraped raw.
His brows pull together. "What?"
"Say it," I insist. My chest is tight. My pulse is trying to punch through my ribs. "Say that again."
He searches my face now. Really looks. Like something just went sideways and he doesn't know why.
"What happened?" he asks quietly.
I swallow. Hard. My throat feels like sandpaper and bad decisions.
"You…" My voice cracks. I hate that. I push through it. "You sound like my… my stalker."
The word hangs between us.
Heavy.
For one terrifying second—
He freezes.
Just a flicker. Barely there. But I see it.
My heart fucking detonates.
Then he laughs.
Soft. Disbelieving. Almost fond.
He drops his head forward and it lands against my shoulder like he belongs there.
I go rigid.
Like a damn statue.
Every nerve lights up. My body forgets how to body. I swallow again because apparently that's all I'm capable of right now.
He exhales against my collarbone. Warm. Casual. Infuriating.
Then he tilts his head, cheek still near my shoulder, and looks up at me from under his lashes.
Too close.
Way too close.
"Well," he says mildly, "then I'm your stalker."
My stomach flips.
Again.
Because of course he says that.
Because of course my brain chooses now to short-circuit.
I swallow. Again. My mouth is dry as hell. "If you were that fucker," I say, voice low and shaking in a way I absolutely hate, "I'd have already killed you."
He chuckles.
Of course he does.
"Violent," he murmurs. "You always jump straight to murder."
"I don't play," I snap.
"I know," he says, amused. "That's why it's hot."
I close my eyes for half a second.
God fucking— no. No God. Just hell. Pure hell.
Okay. Breathe. Think. Don't spiral. You're spiraling.
And then it clicks.
My stalker wouldn't joke.
Wouldn't lean on me like this.
Wouldn't tease.
Wouldn't feel… familiar.
My shoulders drop a fraction.
Fuck.
I hate my brain.
He straightens, finally giving me space, and studies my face like he's filing something away.
"What will you do," he asks, calm as ever, "when you see your stalker again?"
The question lands different.
Serious. Real.
I don't hesitate. "Kill him."
His mouth curves. Slow. Proud. Dangerous.
"That's my good girl."
I freeze.
Every muscle locks.
Excuse me?
I shove him hard. Palms to chest. Real this time. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
He laughs, stumbling back a step, hands up like I'm the unhinged one here. "Relax."
"I am not relaxing."
He steps forward again anyway. Of course he does. Because he has a death wish.
He's almost back in my space when—
His phone rings.
The sound slices through the air like a blade.
He stills.
The change in him is instant. Terrifyingly clean.
Teasing gone.
Smirk gone.
Heat gone.
His face goes blank. Cold. Controlled.
It sends a chill straight down my spine.
He mutters, "Shit," under his breath, pulls the phone from his pocket, and looks at the screen.
Whatever he sees there tightens his jaw.
He lifts the phone to his ear. "Talk."
And then he turns and walks out.
Just like that.
The door closes behind him and the silence rushes back in, loud as hell.
I suck in a breath I feel like I've been holding for years.
My legs feel weak. My thoughts are a mess. My skin is buzzing like something almost happened.
Something big.
Something stupid.
A kiss?
Or something way worse?
Fuck, Arshila. Control yourself.
He never says he likes me.
He never makes it clear.
Don't hope. Don't be dumb.
Still—
That voice.
It sounded too damn familiar.
But people can have the same voice.
Same tone.
Same everything.
Right?
I stand there, heart still racing, body still warm where he was close, and wonder what the hell would've happened if that phone hadn't rung.
And why part of me is pissed that it did.
___________________________
ZAYAN — POV
"You sound like my stalker."
The words hit clean.
Too clean.
For a fraction of a second everything in me locks. Not panic. Not guilt. Recognition. Like a wire just got touched and the current ran straight through.
Was it that obvious?
Yeah. Maybe.
My mouth moves before my brain finishes swearing at itself. I laugh. Light. Almost amused. Almost right.
"Well then," I say, easy, leaning into it like it's a joke I chose, "I'm your stalker."
Her face tightens. Her eyes sharpen. My head is a mess because it's the truth and I'm standing here dressing it up like a tease.
My own mind is fucking with me.
She says if I were that guy she'd have killed me already, and I chuckle because of course she would. Because she's lethal in all the ways that matter.
Fuck.
She's hot when she's dangerous. That's the problem. That's always been the problem. That's why I'm obsessed and pretending I'm not is a full-time job I keep failing at.
I ask her what she'll do when she sees him again. I already know the answer. I still need to hear it.
"Kill him."
Something detonates in my chest. Heat. Want. The kind that has nothing to do with romance and everything to do with possession. My body reacts before I tell it not to. It's ugly and sharp and absolutely not allowed.
Violence, I think, half-smiling. Of course she goes there first.
I want to grab her again. Want to claim that mouth just to shut it up and keep it forever. Want to forget the line between us exists.
The line is real.
The line is the only thing keeping this from turning into something I can't undo.
Then the phone rings.
The sound is brutal. Sudden. Like glass shattering the moment.
Fuck.
I was enjoying this. I hate that I was enjoying this.
I pull the phone out and the name on the screen wipes everything else away. Izar. Of course.
"Talk," I say, already turning away from her because I can't look at her face and do this at the same time.
"All assets secured," Izar says. Calm. Precise. "its all cleanly boxed. Offshore accounts, shells, funding routes. All ours."
A slow smile pulls at my mouth. Not for her. For the work. For the justice that doesn't flinch.
"Good," I say.
"Shall we start?"
"Yes."
The call ends. Clean. Efficient. Final.
I walk toward the garage and every step feels wrong. Heavy. Like I'm leaving something unfinished behind me.
My skin still remembers how close she was. My head is still full of her voice. Of the fact that she saw something real and didn't even know how close she was to the truth.
She caught me.
Not all the way.
Not yet.
One day she will.
I hate that day more than anything.
The engine roars to life and I let it drown everything else out, because if I don't go now, I won't go at all.
-----------------
The room smells like metal and bleach and old fear that never really leaves the walls.
Concrete floor. Steel table. One hanging bulb that doesn't flicker because I paid someone to make sure it wouldn't. I hate flickering lights. Feels dramatic. I'm not here for drama.
I sit.
Chair scrapes once. Loud. Intentional.
Damien is tied to the opposite side of the table. Wrists gone purple. Shirt ripped and glued to him with blood that's dried in ugly maps. His head hangs forward like his neck forgot its job.
He's breathing.
Barely.
Good.
My men did their work and then stopped. I told them where the line was. They always listen. Not because they're loyal. Because they've seen what happens when someone doesn't.
Damien groans.
Low. Almost pleased. Like pain is a language he understands better than silence.
That tracks.
I watch him for a while. Let the quiet sit. Let his body realize it's not alone anymore. There's a difference between pain and being watched. One hurts. The other crawls.
I pour a glass of water.
Slow. Careful. The sound is stupidly loud in the room. Liquid hitting glass. My wrist steady. No rush. Time behaves better when you don't chase it.
I step closer.
I tip the glass.
Water crashes into his face.
He jerks like he's been shot. Chokes. Sucks in air that scrapes his throat raw. Screams when his nerves remember they're attached to a brain.
I don't flinch.
"Hi," I say.
He blinks hard. Blood and water dripping off his lashes. His eyes struggle to focus and then they land on me.
And there it is.
Recognition.
Pure. Animal. Unmistakable.
His mouth opens. Nothing comes out at first. Then a sound. Broken. Wrong.
I tilt my head, just a little.
"You missed me?" I ask. My voice is calm. Almost polite. "It's been three days, right?"
His laugh turns into a cough. Blood spills out of the corner of his mouth. He spits on the floor like it's a statement.
"Fuck… you," he rasps.
I smile.
There's something comforting about predictability. Damien never learned a second move.
I lean back in my chair, cross my arms. Let him see me settled. Comfortable. Like I could do this all night and still wake up early tomorrow.
"I've got good news for you," I say.
His eyes narrow. Still sharp under all that damage. Still stupid enough to hope it matters.
I lean forward.
"All your assets," I say, slow, clear. "Every shell. Every offshore account. Every cute little trail you thought no one could follow."
I tap the table once.
"Under my palm."
He freezes.
Then he loses it.
"No," he shouts, voice cracking sideways. "No, no, no—"
The sound echoes ugly around the room. Desperate. Childish. Like a man realizing too late that money was the only thing holding him together.
I laugh.
Not loud. Not kind.
"Hey," I say, holding up a hand. "Relax. You're acting like you're gonna take it with you when you die."
He stares at me.
There's something wrong in his eyes now. Not fear. Not anger. Something sharper. Admiration twisted into hate. The kind psychopaths save for people who beat them at their own game.
"The angel of death won't like carrying your empire, bro," I add. "Too heavy. Bad for the wings"
He breathes hard through his nose. Blood bubbles when he scoffs.
"So that's it?" he says. "The Tavarian empire. Built on dirty money."
I laugh again.
This time it's real.
"This has nothing to do with Tavarian, okay?" I say, leaning in. "And for your information—Tavarian never needs your money. We have the world already."
I let that land.
"You really think I steal your shit to build mine?" I shake my head. "That's cute."
His jaw tightens.
"You know what I do," I say, right near his ear, "after I catch bastards like you?"
I keep going. No mercy. No rush.
"I hack everything. Strip it clean. Make it look like it never existed."
I watch his pupils shake.
"I move the money. Quiet. No sender. No headlines. Orphanages. Shelters. Places that don't ask questions."
Silence swells between us.
His breathing slows. Suspicion creeps back in. He knows a setup when he hears one.
"And do you know what I'm doing in your case?" I ask.
He looks at me. Really looks this time.
I smile.
"I'm transferring all of it," I say softly, "in your name."
_____________________
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