Zayn Maverick was pacing like a lion on caffeine.
Back. Forth. Back again.
The marble floors of the Davenant penthouse had never suffered such abuse.
"Sir," Leon began cautiously, "you've been walking for—"
"I know how long I've been walking!" Zayn barked, turning so sharply that his coat flared like an offended cape. His hair was a wreck, his tie half undone, and his expression somewhere between panic and homicide.
He had just gotten off the phone with the police.
A so-called officer of the law had assured him that the kidnappers who took Julian were already arrested.
"Arrested?" Zayn muttered darkly. "Wonderful. Champagne for everyone. Except—WHERE THE HELL ARE THEY?"
Before Leon could stop him, Zayn stormed toward the door and kicked it open so hard the hinges groaned. The echo rang down the hall like an alarm bell.
"You!" he roared down at the poor police officer standing near the cars. "You said they're fine, isn't it? Then where the hell are they?"
The officer barely blinked. He adjusted his cap with exaggerated calm and said, "They're safe, Mr. Maverick. No need to worry."
Zayn's nostrils flared. "You think that sentence helps me?! I said answer the damn question?!"
But the man only smirked — actually smirked — then stepped into his car and drove off without another word.
Leon caught Zayn by the arm before he could hurl a flower vase at the retreating car.
"Sir, please—"
"I'll kill him!" Zayn snapped, twisting free. "He smirked! He smirked like he was in some damn soap opera!"
Leon sighed. "Sir, please refrain from murdering government officials."
Zayn glared. "Fine. I'll just ruin his career instead."
Still seething, he fished his phone from his pocket. His thumb hovered for a heartbeat — then pressed a number he hadn't dared to call since this whole mess began.
Tristan Ashford.
The line rang once. Twice.
Then that smooth, velvet-coated voice came through.
"Maverick," Tristan said pleasantly. "Did he already tell you about Isidore?"
Zayn froze. "Wait—that bastard but he Zayn stopped, where is davenant and Julian?"
Tristan hummed. "Of course. I told him to inform you. No need to worry, Maverick. Isidore is with me."
A pause. "And… Julian too."
Relief hit Zayn like cold water. "Thank God," he breathed. "Can I see them? Please, I—"
"No," Tristan interrupted, his tone sharp as glass but smooth enough to slice without pain.
Zayn blinked. "What?"
"No need to rush," Tristan said, and Zayn could hear the smirk in his voice. "They're both resting. I'll take care of them."
"But—"
Click. The line went dead.
For three full seconds, Zayn stood perfectly still.
Then his hand twitched.
Then the phone went flying.
It hit the marble floor with a dramatic crack, shattering into pieces that skittered across the tiles like startled insects.
Leon didn't even flinch this time. "Shall I order another one, sir?"
Zayn pointed furiously at the broken phone. "Order ten. I'm going to destroy all of it."
He paced again, muttering under his breath. "That smug bastard—he thinks he can just say that so easily? Mock me? I'll show him mockery! I'll—"
Leon gently handed him a glass of water. "Sir, hydration helps anger management."
"I don't need water, Leon!" Zayn barked, he snatched the glass from Leon hand's and, downed it in one gulp anyway. "I need answers!"
---
Nearly two minutes later.
The sound of tires against asphalt drew Zayn to the balcony. A black car pulled into the drive below. His pulse jumped — finally! Davenant!
He sprinted down the stairs, nearly colliding with Leon on the way. "are they here!"
But as the car door opened, stepped out he was not Isidore — but a tall man in uniform.
Black hair. Brown eyes.
Charming smile that screamed trouble.
"Afternoon," the man said smoothly, tugging off his gloves. "You must be Zayn Maverick?"
"Yes—yes, that's me!" Zayn replied, craning his neck to peer into the car. "Where are they? Davenant? Julian?"
The officer tilted his head, grin lazy. "uh, the kidnappers are under arrest."
"I know that!" Zayn snapped. "where are they?"
The man leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "That's a secret."
Zayn blinked. "What?"
The officer winked. Winked.
"Well, you see—my brother tends to make things… complicated."
"Your__brother?— wait"
"Tristan Ashford," the officer said cheerfully. "Always a headache. Go ask him yourself. I'm just the handsome brother."
Zayn's jaw dropped. "You—! Handsome my foot, You're a police officer! You're supposed to help!"
The officer chuckled, already walking away. "Sorry, can't hear you. Paperwork calls."
Zayn took a step forward, fuming. "You bastard! You think you can—!"
Leon, anticipating disaster, hooked his arm around Zayn's shoulders and steered him firmly back toward the house.
"Calm down, sir," he said soothingly. "The neighbors are watching."
Zayn sputtered, "I don't care if Damned Prime Minister's watching!"
"Yes, sir," Leon said smoothly. "Let's shout about it inside instead."
The door slammed behind them. Zayn pressed both hands to his temples, teeth clenched. "First Tristan Ashford!, now that smirking officer, I swear, Leon, the next man who smirks at me—I'll—"
Leon poured another glass of water. "Yes, sir. I'll fetch more phones."
The car sped down the boulevard, its tires whispering over the asphalt. The golden light of late afternoon poured through the windshield, slicing across Joshua Ashford's sharp profile.
From behind him, faint but furious, came the echoes of Zayn's voice—each curse flying through the wind like a thrown dagger. Joshua didn't even flinch. He smirked instead, tapping the steering wheel with two fingers.
"He's still shouting," he murmured. "Persistent man, I'll give him that."
For a heartbeat, amusement flickered in his eyes before fading into thought. Persistent—and forgetful.
He chuckled to himself. "So he doesn't even remember, huh?"
Joshua tilted his head slightly, letting the memory unfold like a film reel behind his eyes.
It had been nearly a year ago, a rainy night soaked in neon. He'd been on patrol—uniform crisp, boots spotless—when a luxury car had swerved across the empty street like a drunken beast. Joshua leaned forward on his motorbike, siren blaring, until the car screeched to a halt.
Inside, slouched over the wheel, was Zayn Maverick.
The man's tie hung crooked, hair a mess, eyes glassy yet somehow bright with mischief. Joshua had leaned down at the open window, professional and calm.
"Sir," he'd said sternly, "you're drunk. You're forbidden to drive in this state."
Zayn had blinked at him—slowly, theatrically—as though the concept of rules was a personal insult. Then, instead of replying, he'd squinted at Joshua, his gaze dragging up and down before he smiled, lazy and bold.
"Truly…" Zayn had slurred, voice thick with liquor and arrogance, "you've got awesome eyes, officer."
Joshua had opened his mouth to reply—probably something sensible, like step out of the vehicle—but before he could, Zayn had leaned in across the car door and brushed his lips against his.
It wasn't even a proper kiss, more like a fleeting mistake wrapped in expensive cologne and chaos.
Joshua, stunned, had frozen on the spot. His hand halfway to his holster, his mind halfway to the moon.
An alpha kissing another alpha? That was new.
He remembered the faint heat that followed, the short, reckless heartbeat that made him forget the rulebook for three entire seconds.
And Zayn took the chance as he started his engine and drove of his car, leaving him standing in the drizzle, breathless, lips tingling, Joshua wondering if that had really just happened.
Now, as he drove under the warm daylight, Joshua couldn't help but laugh—low and quiet.
"So you don't remember, huh?" he said to no one in particular. "You called my eyes awesome, kissed me, and vanished like a storm. And now you're yelling at me like a three year old child."
He grinned, tapping his thumb against the steering wheel.
"Zayn Maverick," he mused. "You're lucky that you are cute."
The wind slipped through the half-open window, carrying the fading sound of his laughter into the afternoon air.
The engine's hum softened as Joshua tilted his phone, sunlight slipping across his uniform sleeve. He hesitated only a moment before pressing call.
It rang once—twice—then Tristan's low, controlled voice came through the line.
"Yes?" Tristan asked, faint amusement threading his tone. "What is it this time?"
Joshua's lips curved, lazy and wolfish. "Ahh, brother," he drawled. "Do you happen to have Zayn Maverick's number?"
There was a brief pause on the other end. Somewhere, faintly, Joshua could hear a child's laugh—Julian's. Then the shuffle of Tristan shifting the boy in his arms.
Tristan blinked, then smirked. "And what," he said slowly, "do you want that for?"
"Business," Joshua replied simply, though his grin betrayed him. "Strictly business."
"Mm," Tristan hummed, unconvinced. "Your version of business usually involves trouble, not paperwork."
"Then maybe I'm planning to file trouble," Joshua quipped.
Tristan exhaled through a soft chuckle. "Fine. I'll send it. But don't drag my name into whatever this is."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Joshua replied, already picturing Zayn's face when his name appeared on the caller ID.
A click—the call ended. Silence filled the car for a moment before Joshua's phone buzzed again. He glanced down.
Message from Tristan: Zayn Maverick. Don't make me regret this.
Joshua grinned, tapping the screen. "Too late, brother."
He leaned back in his seat, the city's skyline glinting in his rearview mirror like shards of steel.
"You started this, Zayn," he murmured, his voice smooth, dangerous, almost playful. "Now I'll be the one to end it."
His thumb hovered over the number for a beat longer. Then, with that familiar smirk curling his mouth, he saved it to his contacts under one name—
"drunken bastard."
He laughed to himself, the sound warm and low, as the car rolled forward through the golden light—his next game already beginning.
Zayn tapped the call icon again and pressed the phone to his ear, pacing restlessly across the penthouse.
No response.
He tried once more. Still nothing.
"Come on, Davenant," he muttered, raking his fingers through his hair. "Pick up."
The silence mocked him back—only the faint hum of the city beyond the window replied.
Then ping!
A message blinked across his screen.
Unknown Number: I still have the taste of your kiss on my lips.
Zayn froze mid-step. His brow furrowed.
"What the—" He stared at the text, blinking as though his screen might confess an explanation.
Another second passed. Then, in pure disbelief, he muttered, "Is this… a woman?"
He squinted at the profile picture—an absurdly muscular man flexing in front of gym mirrors.
Zayn groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Oh, fantastic. Not even five minutes after buying a new phone and already some cursed nonsense finds me."
He set the phone on the table beside three unopened phone boxes—souvenirs from his constant cycle of frustration—and sighed.
"New phone. New trouble," he muttered. "Perfect."
Ping!
Unknown Number: Have you forgotten? You were drunk that night… and you almost did that to me.
Zayn's jaw went slack. Then his eyes widened with indignation. "What—WHAT?!"
His temper snapped like dry wood. He typed furiously.
Zayn: WHO THE HELL ARE YOU? STOP MESSING, I DON'T EVEN KNOW YOU!
Another message slid in almost instantly, this one sharp and threatening.
Unknown Number: If you don't pay me, I'll go to the police and tell them everything.
Zayn's pulse flared. He snatched up the phone and dialed the number, practically growling.
"What the hell is your problem?! Do you even know who you're messing with?" he shouted the moment the line connected.
For a second, silence. Then—softly, tremblingly—a woman's voice answered.
"I can't believe it," she sniffed. "Ever since that night, I've been locked away because of you!"
Zayn blinked. "Wait—what? You're a woman?!"
Across town, inside the police station, Joshua Ashford leaned against his desk, biting back laughter as he winked at his junior officer—the petite brunette holding the phone. She put on a flawless performance, voice breaking in mock tears.
"I'm calling the authorities," she whimpered dramatically. "You'll pay for this!"
"Wait—what?!" Zayn's panic spiked. "Listen, I didn't do anything! You've got the wrong—"
Click. The line went dead.
Zayn stared at his phone, speechless, jaw hanging open in disbelief. Then he groaned and dropped the device onto the table beside its boxed siblings.
"Unbelievable," he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair again. "Should I just throw this one out too?"
He glared at the phone as though it had personally insulted him.
"Maybe I should," he sighed. "It's cursed anyway."
And somewhere miles away, Joshua chuckled under his breath, murmuring to his grinning junior—
"Round one goes to us."