ARSHILA'S POV
For one perfect second, it's quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you think you're safe. I'm sitting there, bare-skinned from the waist up, hospital gown hanging loose around my elbows like a surrender flag, finally about to ditch the disgusting, sweat-stained fabric for something clean.
And then it hits.
BEEP.
Not just a little chirp. No, this thing explodes like a fucking alarm siren, rapid and sharp, slicing through the silence so violently it feels like it grabs me by the throat.
"Holy fuck—!"
I jerk so hard my ribs scream, heart plummeting to my stomach. My hands shoot out like reflex, snatching the clean shirt from the table with a grip so tight it might tear. My pulse is a jackhammer in my ears, breath hitching as panic slams into me like a car crash.
Every nerve in my body screams caught.
Like someone just ripped open the walls and found me half-naked in front of the goddamn Tavarian heir.
The monitor keeps going, relentless, as I scramble to shove my arms into sleeves. I'm trembling so bad my fingers can't find the buttons, fumbling like a drunk trying to thread a needle.
One, two—skip one, doesn't matter. My brain's screaming just cover yourself before you combust in humiliation.
I whip my head toward his bed, hair flying across my face, breath sharp and uneven.
He's not even looking.
Zayan's lying perfectly still on his side, broad shoulders rising and falling in maddeningly calm rhythm. Facing away from me, not a single twitch or flinch.
But that monitor—holy shit—it's screaming like he's sprinting a marathon in his sleep.
"What the fuck is happening?" I whisper to myself, chest heaving, still clutching the half-buttoned shirt closed like it's my last shield.
I wet my dry lips, voice unsteady as I whisper, "Zayan?"
No response.
The monitor's pulse doesn't even stutter.
I try again, louder this time, heart kicking against my ribs like it's trying to break free. "Zayan?"
Nothing.
Not a sound, not a twitch of his fingers gripping the blanket.
He's out. Completely out. Dreaming or dead or whatever the hell billionaires do in their sleep while their machines scream bloody murder.
I just sit there for a second, frozen, adrenaline buzzing so hard my teeth might rattle. My hands are shaking as I clutch the shirt closed, every breath shallow and fast.
Finally, I slam my palm against my chest. My own heart's losing its shit too, racing like it's trying to compete with his.
"What the actual fuck," I mumble, dragging my palm up to cover my face for a second.
I glance back at him, narrow my eyes. He hasn't moved. Not one damn inch.
So, what? He's dreaming? Dreaming so hard it sounds like a medical emergency? Knowing Tavarian heirs, it's probably some power fantasy—buying entire continents, crushing empires, making presidents beg for deals. Maybe he's securing a trillion-dollar project right now in his sleep. Who the hell knows?
I let out a shaky breath that's more like a laugh and slowly lower myself back onto the bed, every muscle trembling from the panic and exhaustion.
I yank the blanket over me, cocooning myself, letting the plush weight smother some of the nerves rattling in my bones. God, even this blanket smells expensive—like luxury bottled and poured into cotton. Clean, rich, warm. The kind of scent that makes you hate yourself for liking it because you know it's Tavarian-owned.
I turn my head to him, watching his still figure.
Not a sound. Not a shift. Like the world could collapse and he wouldn't wake up.
"Yeah," I whisper, lips barely moving, "definitely dreaming."
But my heart doesn't slow. Not even close.
---
ZAYAN'S POV
Fuck.
No.
No, no, no—what the actual fuck is wrong with me?
It's just a back. A bare back. It's Nothing —except it is. It's not the same. It's her. And my stupid, traitorous, reckless heartbeat is losing its fucking mind like I just saw heaven itself stripped naked.
The monitor behind me goes insane, and I swear, if I had the strength, I'd rip the wires out and throw the machine out the damn window just to shut it up. My chest feels like it's going to explode—not from pain, not from my injury—no, this is different.
This is the first time I've seen her skin.
Not her hands. Not her face. Not that perfect stubborn jaw I want to trace with my thumb. Actual, unshielded, soft skin, inches away from me, glowing under the city lights bleeding through the glass wall.
Goddamn it, Zayan, you promised yourself. You swore—no looking, no touching, not a single fucking slip unless she let you. You're not a creep. You don't take what's not given.
And yet—
When she moved her hair to one shoulder, that long, dark wave tumbling like a fucking waterfall… when her spine arched just slightly as she peeled that shirt off… when I saw that mole—huge, dark, impossible to miss, like it's stamped there just to fuck with me—
My whole body froze.
My brain screamed, Close your eyes, Tavarian. Turn away. Stop looking at her like you're starving.
But my body? My body laughed in my face and stayed locked on her, every nerve screaming to memorize it—the slope of her shoulder blades, the delicate hook of her bra strap, the way the light kissed her skin like it knew how goddamn forbidden it was.
Fuck, I wanted to look away. I wanted to dig my nails into my own palms, rip my gaze off her like tearing out a piece of my soul. But nothing—nothing—moved.
And then she called my name.
"Zayan?"
Holy shit.
My heart stops for a full second before punching so hard against my ribs it feels like the monitor might just blow out of existence.
Did she see me? Did she fucking catch me staring at her like some sick bastard?
I keep my body still, every muscle locked tight like I've been carved from stone. I don't even dare breathe. If I twitch, she'll know.
And then—
"Zayan?"
Again. Softer this time. Curious.
I swear I can feel her eyes on my back, peeling me open, trying to see if I'm awake.
I bite down hard, jaw locking, trying to will my pulse to calm down, trying to shut up the sound of my own heart screaming through the monitor. But the truth is, I'm losing it. Inside, I'm pacing, punching walls, cursing myself for every stolen second I didn't look away.
You're pathetic, Tavarian. Completely fucking pathetic.
I've faced down armed men ready to blow my head off, I've sat across from billionaires who'd sell their souls to destroy me—and never once flinched. But her?
One glimpse of her skin and I'm wrecked.
I hear her move after a while, the faint sound of fabric against sheets. She's lying down again, slow, careful, like nothing happened. The rustle of the blanket sliding over her makes my chest ache.
Minutes—or hours, who even knows—crawl by, and finally, when my lungs stop feeling like they're about to combust, I risk turning my head just enough to see her.
She's sleeping.
Peaceful.
Like nothing just tore me apart inside.
And it fucking hurts.
Because while she's lying there, soft breaths fanning across the pillow, I'm stuck here in my own personal war—every muscle tense, every thought screaming, every instinct wanting to crawl into that bed, drag her close, and make the world see that she's mine.
But I can't.
Not now. Not like this.
So I just lie here, staring at her silhouette in the dark, and swear to myself again that I'll never cross that line. That I'll never take what she doesn't give.
Even if it kills me.
Even if moments like this tear me apart piece by fucking piece.
_____
The sun isn't even up yet, but I am. Wide awake. Because my brain won't shut the fuck up and my body's still in shock from last night.
She's sleeping on her side, lips parted, hair a dark mess over her pillow, breathing soft like she doesn't have a clue what she's doing to me. Every now and then her face twitches like she's fighting someone in her dream—eyebrows scrunching, nose wrinkling—and it's the cutest, most ridiculous thing I've ever seen.
God, I want to laugh. Hell, I want to reach over and smooth those lines out with my thumb.
But instead, I just stare like some creep because I can't look away.
And then her eyelids flutter.
Shit. No.
I slam my eyes shut, lay perfectly still, pretending like I've been asleep this whole time. Because how the hell am I supposed to face her knowing what I saw last night? Knowing that one glimpse of her back nearly stopped my fucking heart?
And if that's how I reacted to just her back…
If she ever lets me touch her—if her shirt ever comes off for me on purpose—I swear to God I won't make it. I'll fucking die, flatline on the spot with a smile on my face.
Time crawls. Nurses come in, whispering like they're sneaking through a church. They give her breakfast, and I hear her soft thank you, hear the clinking of cutlery while I keep my breathing even, pretending I'm still out.
I'm not. I'm painfully awake, replaying her bare shoulders and that goddamn mole over and over again like some kind of torture loop. My chest feels tight, my body coiled, but I stay still.
Finally, when it's safe, I let my eyes crack open, faking a slow, lazy stretch like I just woke up. She's staring at me. Wide awake.
"Good morning," she says.
"Morning," I mutter back, voice heavy with fake sleep.
"Morning? Not good?"
I don't answer. I can't. I can barely breathe without picturing last night. So I reach for my coffee, hoping the heat burns the memory out of me. It doesn't.
And then she says it.
"What were you dreaming last night? Your heartbeat was a mess."
I choke.
The coffee goes down wrong, my chest jerks, and I cough so hard my ribs scream. I snatch a tissue, dabbing my mouth, looking at her like I can stare the question right out of her brain.
"What?"
Her face is all fake innocence, spoon dangling like she's about to enjoy the show. "I said, what were you dreaming last night?"
"I don't know," I bite out, voice sharp, too sharp. "It's none of your damn business what I dream."
She scoffs, loud, smug, leaning back like she's just poked the Tavarian heir and lived to tell the tale.
Meanwhile, I'm sitting here, holding onto this coffee like it's a weapon, every muscle tight as I fight the truth.
Because there wasn't a dream.
It was her.
Her skin. Her hair falling over one shoulder. That single, devastating moment when she pulled her shirt off and I fucking looked.
And God, it was beautiful. It was wrong, it was reckless, it was everything I promised myself I'd never do to her—and it's all I can think about now.
So I stay still. Silent. Pretending I'm calm while inside my head, I'm losing my goddamn mind and wishing like hell I knew how to stop wanting her.
She's still staring at me, eyes glinting with that little spark of trouble that makes me want to pin her to this hospital bed and remind her who the hell she's playing with.
"So…" she drawls, spoon swirling lazily in her bowl. "Let me guess… you were having some steamy dream, huh? That's why your heart was going insane."
I freeze mid-sip.
Steamy dream?
My jaw flexes. My grip on the mug tightens so hard my knuckles pale. She has no fucking clue. None. She's sitting there teasing me, thinking it was some fantasy in my head, when it was actually her—bare, soft, glowing in the dark like some forbidden goddamn painting.
I swallow hard, trying to act unfazed, but my body betrays me—the pulse in my neck ticks faster, my chest tightens, and heat licks down my spine.
"Eat your breakfast," I growl, low and sharp, like that'll shut her up.
"Ohhh," she says, grinning like she just won a war. "So it was steamy."
God.
Inside, I'm screaming. My brain's losing it. Don't fucking react. Don't give her anything. She doesn't know. She can't know.
But then she does that thing—head tilts, lips curl, eyes narrowing just slightly—and fuck me, it's hot. Too hot. My mind flashes to last night again, her hair sliding over her shoulder, revealing that mole, her back bare and smooth and—
Stop.
Breathe.
I drag my tongue over my teeth, stare into my coffee like it holds salvation. "You talk too much in the morning," I mutter, voice low, almost dangerous.
She blinks, but instead of backing off, she laughs. A small, soft laugh that cuts right through me. "Wow… someone's touchy today. What's wrong, Tavarian heir? Did your dream girl leave you hanging?"
Dream girl.
If only she knew.
If only she knew that every time I close my eyes now, it's her. It's always her. And last night? Last night burned into me like a scar I'll never get rid of.
I glance up, slow, deliberate. Our eyes lock. Her smile falters just a little.
Good.
"Careful," I say, voice dropping to a dark rumble, "you don't want to know what I dream about."
She swallows, shifts in her bed, suddenly not so smug. My words hang heavy in the space between us, thick, charged, dangerous.
And while on the outside I look calm, controlled, Tavarian cold…
Inside, I'm on fire.
My mind's a mess of her bare skin, the sound of her soft breathing last night, the wild thought that maybe—just maybe—if I turned over, if I reached out, I could've touched her.
But I didn't.
Because if I start, I won't stop.
And that's why I sit here now, sipping coffee, pretending, while my entire body screams for something I can't have.
Not yet.
---
ARSHILA'S POV
He says it in that flat, cold voice—"you don't want to know what I dream about."—and just goes back to his coffee like I'm invisible. Like he didn't choke two seconds ago.
And God help me, instead of being pissed, my brain short-circuits because why the fuck is that hot?
He's sitting there, jaw sharp enough to slice glass, lashes too long for a man that ruthless, not even looking at me, and somehow my lungs forget how to work. I feel flustered as hell, like he just dragged his hand down my spine without touching me.
I look at him again—stupid mistake—and that's when I see it.
His tongue.
A slow flick over his bottom lip where the coffee just touched.
Holy. Fucking. Hell.
My head whips to the other side so fast, my neck nearly snaps. My hands grip the blanket like it's the only thing keeping me from launching myself out the damn window.
Because that mouth. Those lips.
They're obscene. Hot in a way that should be illegal. The kind of lips that ruin you for every other man alive, and my dirty little brain? Oh, it's doing unholy, filthy acrobatics I can't even say out loud without needing to crawl into a confessional.
"Girl," I hiss in my head, pulse thundering, "you are literally calling your future killer hot. Bitch, pull it together."
But I can't. I can't unsee it. The image burns behind my eyelids—him licking his lips, that slight glisten left behind, the careless way he does it like he's not committing a damn crime.
I shove my face toward the window, silently praying for God to strike me with lightning and reset my corrupted brain.
God really does have favorites, and Adam Zayan Tavarian is sitting right there at the top of the list, sipping coffee like he didn't just ruin my entire morning.
I drag in a sharp breath, clench my teeth, whisper in my mind, Therapy, Arshila. You've got therapy soon. Focus on that. Not his lips. Definitely not his lips.
And yet, even as I say it, my body doesn't believe me. My pulse is still high, my palms sweaty, and all I can think is…
What the hell do they even do in therapy that's strong enough to fix this level of fucked up?
The door clicks open, and my head jerks toward it so fast my neck nearly snaps.
Mom.
She steps in like she owns the damn place, not a single hair out of place, her tailored blouse and soft sweater making her look like she's heading to brunch at some country club instead of visiting her half-broken daughter.
"Where's Dad?" I ask immediately, because if he's not here, something's wrong.
Mom sighs, setting her bag down on the side table. "He's buried in work. Couldn't make it out. How's therapy?"
I throw my hands up—or at least try to, because even my arms ache. "It's fucking torture, Mom. Feels like they're breaking me apart piece by piece."
She doesn't even flinch. Just smooths my hair back and gives me that calm, motherly smile that says I've heard worse out of your mouth. "It's okay, baby. The pain will ease. That's how you'll heal."
I huff but nod anyway.
And then her attention shifts.
To him.
To Adam Zayan Tavarian, the guy who could kill everyone in this building with a snap of his fingers and not even wrinkle his perfect shirt.
"How you doing?" she asks him.
Mom, no. Mom, what the hell? Do you not see who you're talking to? My brain is screaming, alarms blaring. This is the Tavarian heir. The Tavarian. As in the family who could shut down entire countries for fun. Don't talk to him like he's just some boy with a sprained ankle.
And then—oh, it gets worse—
Zayan's mouth curves, smooth and controlled, and he says,
"I'm doing good, Mom."
I swear my soul leaves my body.
Mom?? MOM??
Why the actual fuck is this man calling my mother Mom?
I blink, staring between them like I've fallen into some bizarre alternate universe where Tavarians casually adopt my mother.
Mom beams at him like he's been her son his whole damn life. "Good. Both of you just focus on getting better, okay? Then you can finally go home."
I can't even process her words because my brain is still screaming: Why is the Tavarian heir calling my mom "Mom"?
Does he not have a mother? Maybe his is cold and detached, one of those ice queens who throws charity galas but never hugs her own kid, so now he's just… borrowing mine? Yeah. That's gotta be it. Cold mom. Rich moms are always like that.
Mom grabs her bag, adjusting the strap. "I'm heading out now."
"What about Grandma?" I blurt, desperate to keep her here because I'm not ready to be alone with him.
"She's out of town," Mom says with a small shrug. "Can't make it here."
"Oh," I mutter, sinking back into the bed.
She gives us both a final soft smile, waves, and walks out like nothing about this entire interaction was weird.
The door clicks shut.
Silence.
And I'm just sitting there, wide-eyed, staring at that door like it might magically explain what the hell just happened.
Zayan called my mother Mom.
What. The. Actual. Fuck.
___
ZAYAN'S POV
Door clicks open. I drag my eyes up and—holy shit.
Her mom.
Her actual mom walks in, daylight spilling behind her like a halo, and for a second, my brain just flatlines. I've only ever seen her from a distance, under streetlights or through glass when I was following Arshila home at night. Seeing her like this? Sharp eyes, same stubborn jawline as her daughter? Fucking surreal.
She heads straight to Arshila's bed, voice soft but firm, asking how she's doing. I'm half-listening, half-fighting my own stupid heartbeat. Then her eyes flick to me.
"How you doing?"
And my dumbass mouth—without a single ounce of self-control—blurts, "I'm doing good, Mom."
…
WHAT. THE. FUCK.
Did I just—? Yeah. Yeah, I fucking did. Loud and clear too. No mumbling, no slipping under the radar. Just a big, fat, MOM.
Great job, Zayan. Real smooth. Why not drop on one knee while you're at it? Maybe throw in a "thanks for raising the love of my life" speech? Fucking genius.
Arshila's staring at me like I just confessed to murder. And honestly? I'd take murder over this any day. At least I know how to handle that shit. This? This is new levels of humiliation.
Her mom? Doesn't even blink. Smiles sweetly, says, "Good, both of you get better," and walks out like nothing happened. Door shuts.
And I'm sitting there, internally throwing hands with myself. Why the fuck would you say that out loud? You've imagined calling her that, sure, but now? In front of Arshila? You absolute fucking idiot.
Before I can recover, a nurse strolls in, wheels Arshila out for therapy. And now it's just me.
Alone. Again.
And god—it's fucking torture. The silence is louder than any chaos I've ever heard. Without her here, without her voice ripping through the air, I feel like I'm crawling out of my own skin. My fingers twitch on the blanket, my jaw's clenched so hard it aches. I should be relieved to have space to breathe. I'm not.
Door opens again. My head snaps up fast.
Her mom's back.
She's smiling, small shopping bag in her hand. "God, I forgot to give her this. Can you hand it to her for me?"
I nod, take the bag. "Yeah," I manage, low and calm, even though my brain is just, stop looking at her like she's already family, you psychopath.
She leaves again, soft footsteps fading down the hall. Door shuts with a click.
I exhale hard, leaning back against the bed, staring at this stupid little bag in my hand. Light as hell. Probably clothes or some snack or something harmless.
I set it on the table beside me, like that's the end of it.
But of course, nothing's that easy.
It slides. Edges scraping, weight shifting until—
fwump
It tumbles off the edge, landing on the floor like a damn mic drop.
I freeze, staring at it from where I'm half-sitting in bed, jaw tight.
"...shit."
______
ARSHILA'S POV
They wheel me back in like a fucking corpse that's barely hanging onto life. Therapy? Nah. Torture chamber with nice-smelling floors. My whole body feels like it got stomped on by a herd of rhinos, set on fire, then duct-taped back together by interns on their lunch break.
The nurse carefully helps me into the bed—bless her soul, because I swear if one more person touches my shoulder wrong, I'm biting them. She fluffs my pillow, tucks me in like a fragile doll, checks the IV, then dips out, leaving just me and him.
Zayan. The silent, brooding, too-hot-to-be-real heir of the Tavarians. Sitting there like marble—no movement, no sound, nothing. Just those ridiculously long lashes and that maddeningly calm profile like he's auditioning for the cover of Fortune's Deadliest Billionaires.
I try not to look at him, but my brain's already screaming. Say something, dude. I almost died in that therapy session. A grunt? A nod? Anything?
I throw my head back dramatically and groan. "Bro, it's fucking hell… didn't know this is what it feels like. God, I'm dying." My voice sounds like I've been dragged through the apocalypse.
Nothing. Not even a blink.
I squint at him. What is his problem? Did someone press mute on him? Is he broken?
Then, just when I'm about to start cussing him out, he speaks, low and smooth. "You have weird taste."
I freeze. "What??"
Finally, he moves—slowly turns his head, eyes locking on mine. His voice stays calm, like he's discussing weather patterns instead of insulting my entire personality. "You like light colors?"
I blink at him. Is this… an interrogation? A riddle? "…Yeah," I admit cautiously. "You guessed?"
He nods slightly, almost like he solved a murder case. "Still. You have weird taste."
I push myself up despite every muscle in my body screaming for mercy. "What the fuck are you even talking about?"
He doesn't answer immediately. He just… studies me, like I'm a puzzle only he can solve. His gaze dips, lingers—not in a way that makes me wanna smack him, but like he's trying to figure out why I'm built the way I am.
Then, without a word, he reaches over to the table, grabs a small shopping bag, and holds it out to me. His voice is soft but steady. "Your mom said to give you this."
Suspicious, I take the bag. It's light. Innocent. Probably snacks or a cute little note. My brain's already cooking up some wholesome scenario—until I peek inside.
My soul leaves my body.
"…fuck. My panties."
____________
Author's Note:
This chapter had me cackling and kicking my feet 😂—Zayan Tavarian, the walking definition of control and power, fully losing his mind over a simple hospital morning. Coffee choking, heartbeat screaming, accidentally calling her mom MOM (💀), and ending up with panties in the mix?! Yeah… this man's downfall is delicious.
I'm telling you, this story's just getting spicier and messier and I'm living for every second of it. 🖤
Don't forget to vote, comment, follow, and share this chaos with your book-addicted friends—let's watch Tavarian spiral together. 👑🔥