Zayan POV
The report glares at me from the screen. DC Group. Their holdings. Their acquisitions. Their warehouses.
Fucking pathetic.
An empire built on nothing but paper scaffolding, hollow deals, and men too scared to bleed for what they claim to own. And yet—yet—Damien Cross stood in a courtroom, smug, shoulders squared, and walked out untouchable. He dared to stain a girl's life and then brushed it off like ash from his sleeve.
I lean back in the leather chair, the shadows of my private office swallowing me whole. This isn't the office she knows. This isn't the polished marble, Tavarian seal hanging on the wall, gold trim, kingdom-bright veneer.
This is steel and black. File cabinets full of sins. Maps with pins stuck deep like knives. Screens that flicker with faces most men would pay to never see again.
This is the part of me no one touches.
I tap my finger against the desk. Once. Twice. A war drum that grows louder in my own head.
"Izar." My voice cuts the silence.
The door opens like it's been waiting. Izar steps in, tall, sharp, his presence heavy without trying. He doesn't ask why I called. He never does. He just closes the door behind him and waits.
I don't make him wait long.
"DC Group," I say, sliding the tablet across the desk.
"Look at this. Warehouses scattered across three continents. All empty. No real assets. Nothing but staged inventory reports. Smoke and mirrors. And yet this man—Damien Cross—has the audacity to drag a girl's body through hell and then walk free like he's untouchable."
Izar studies the screen. His jaw ticks once, but he stays silent. Always lets me burn first.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees, voice dropping lower.
"They have nothing, Izar. Not one thing of value. And yet he thinks he's a wolf. Do you know what that makes him?"
Izar's eyes flick to mine. "A hyena."
A sharp, humorless smirk cuts across my face.
"Exactly. A scavenger that mistakes scraps for a feast. And hyenas… I like breaking their teeth."
The silence hums, thick, alive.
"Find me a way in." My tone leaves no space for doubt.
"I don't want to stand outside his empire. I want to sit inside it. I want to be with him, shake his hand, let him believe he's safe. I want to build a false identity so convincing he'll beg me to stand beside him."
Izar's brows lift, just slightly.
"You want to play shadow."
I nod once.
"More than that. I want to be his shadow. Close enough to see the cracks in his mask. Close enough to know who protects him. Because men like Damien don't survive on their own. Someone is feeding him. Someone is covering him. Find me that someone. Find me a path to his table."
Izar leans back, arms folded, gaze steady on me.
"You could crush him in a week. Shut down what little DC has left, bleed his funds, smear his name, put him in a grave without lifting a finger."
My laugh is low, dark, a scrape of glass.
"That's not enough. He doesn't get the dignity of a quick death. Damien needs to trust me first. He needs to hand me the knife himself, not see it coming from the dark. Only then—only when his guard is down, when he thinks he's won—do I carve him open."
Izar exhales slowly, nodding.
"You want him ruined before he's dead."
"I want him stripped bare, Izar. I want him to feel what it's like to lose control, to have every piece of his life rotting in his hands while I watch. He took a girl's choice. He took her voice. I'll take everything else from him."
The words hang, hot and heavy, tasting of steel.
Izar's lips twitch into that sharp almost-smirk again.
"Then we'll build you a ghost. A new man. Someone Damien Cross won't see through. I'll dig until I find his circles—his parties, his vices, his weak spots. He'll open the door himself."
I sit back in my chair, shadows curling around me like a cloak. My hand brushes the edge of the desk, fingers curling into a fist.
"Good. Do it fast. Because the longer he breathes, the more this city forgets what he did. And I don't forget, Izar."
My eyes lock with his, steel to steel.
"Bring me Damien Cross. Blind, open, smiling. I'll do the rest."
Izar nods once, sharp, final, and slips out the door like a blade sheathed.
The office hums again, silent, waiting.
I pick up the phone, the article still fresh in my mind. That smug face, that headline. The word "released."
I whisper to the shadows, low and certain, the kind of vow that doesn't need witnesses.
"He'll never be released again. Not when I'm finished."
The article's headline burns behind my eyelids long after I've shut the screen. Released. That word tastes wrong. It doesn't taste like justice. It tastes like rust, like iron pulled off a blade that hasn't seen enough blood.
And his face—Damien fucking Cross—flashed across every feed, smug, grinning, laughing as though the chains were just jewelry that he shook off at will. The audacity of it. To smile while the world whispered about a girl who'll never sleep without waking up choking on her own breath.
My fingers flex on the desk, knuckles cracking one by one. I can still hear the faint echo of his laugh from the video clip, replaying in my skull like a bullet ricocheting around bone.
No. Damien won't die clean. He won't get the quiet bullet behind the ear, the sweet mercy I've given men who at least knew they were finished. He's not entitled to that. He laughed. He thought he was untouchable. That arrogance bought him something worse.
I lean forward, elbows on the desk, voice scraping low in my own head.
You're going to beg, Damien. And not the kind of begging men do when they think they can barter their life for money, power, or secrets. No. I'll make you beg for something smaller. For a breath. For a second. For silence in your own skull.
I close my eyes, let the thought unravel. There's no shortage of ways to kill a man, but this one needs to be art. He'll scream for it. He'll choke on it. He'll regret that laugh so fucking much, he'll chew through his own tongue if it means he can take it back.
And here's the trick: he can never see me coming. Not as Adam Zayan Tavarian. If I walk in with that name, he'll fold too fast. He'll play the obedient dog, bow his head, maybe even try to worship me. I don't want his respect. I want his fucking trust.
So I'll burn the name. I'll build someone else. Someone leaner, quieter, a shadow stitched from smoke and lies. A false identity so seamless that Damien Cross himself will invite me in. He'll call me brother. He'll drink with me. He'll trust me with his vices, his sins, his dirt.
And when his guard is so low he thinks he's safe, I'll peel his world apart piece by piece. He won't even realize it's me until the teeth close around his throat.
I let out a slow laugh, dark, humorless. I'm waiting for you, babe. You hear me? I'm fucking waiting. Do you have any idea what I'm going to do to you when I get you?
I can almost see it—his eyes wide, his breath stuttering as the realization sets in. His hands trembling when he finally understands who I am. What I am. That there's no deal, no court, no system that can buy him another breath.
I'll make you beg. For air. For mercy. For the pain to stop.
But mercy won't come. Pain won't stop. And air will be a luxury I'll ration out on my terms, not his.
Because Damien Cross isn't just going to die. He's going to learn. He's going to learn what happens when a man mistakes silence for weakness, when he thinks justice can be buried under money and fear.
By the time I'm finished, his name will be erased, his empire will be ash, and his corpse won't be something mourned—it'll be a fucking warning.
I lean back, shadows spilling across me like a cloak, grin pulling slow across my mouth.
You laughed when they released you, Damien. Laugh again. Go on. Laugh while you can. Because the next time your throat opens, it won't be laughter coming out. It'll be screams.
__________________
Arshila's POV
I'm sprawled across the couch like a sinner on a church pew, one leg dangling off the edge, the other curled under me. The book is heavy in my hands, smutty as hell, dripping with stolen kisses and rough hands and the kind of words that make your chest tight and your stomach knot.
I should put it down. I should read something… safer. But no. Every page pulls me deeper.
And of course, my traitor brain can't just read it. No—I keep replacing the faceless, dark-haired, jawline-sharp protagonist with him. With Zayan.
The thought alone makes me bite down on a grin, shaking my head at myself. Sick. Completely unholy. What kind of woman imagines her husband in these filthy scenes like some guilty daydream on repeat? Me, apparently. Always me. I do it every time, every damn book, and the worst part? I like it.
My lips curl into a mischievous smirk as I flip another page. The scene is dirtier now—heated whispers, a hand pressed against a wall, threats that sound more like promises—and my brain instantly paints his voice over the lines. Deep. Sharp. That quiet menace he carries without trying.
And then—footsteps.
I don't need to turn around. I don't need to look. I know who it is before the air even shifts.
The atmosphere thickens the second he enters. Hotter. Heavier. Like oxygen itself bends around him.
Zayan.
Always Zayan.
He moves across the room with that silent gravity only he carries, then sinks into the couch next to mine. Doesn't say a word. Just grabs the remote, flicks on the TV, the blue light washing over his face.
I don't look up. I don't dare. Because my head is still full of him—just not this him. Not the one sitting a few feet away with his jaw tense and his attention fixed on the screen.
No, my head is tangled with the other version. The one I keep building in my imagination—the book protagonist with his hands where they shouldn't be, his voice low in my ear. My Zayan, rewritten and sharpened into fantasy.
God, if he knew. If he even guessed the kind of thoughts I had about him while pretending to be absorbed in "literature," he'd—
The TV cuts through my spiraling thoughts. A reporter's voice, sharp, clipped.
"Former DC Group director Damien Cross has been released today after eighteen months in custody…"
My head jerks up. On the screen—a man in a suit, walking free, flashing his thirty-two fucking teeth like the world is his stage. Smiling. Laughing. The kind of laugh that sticks under your skin like slime.
Released. After raping a girl. After shattering her life. Because "lack of evidence." Because money. Because men like him never stay behind bars.
My stomach twists. My hands grip the book so hard the pages bend.
"Fucking hell," I mutter, eyes locked on the TV. Then louder, almost to myself but not really:
"I hope the vigilante gets him."
There's silence for a second. Then his voice, deep, low, deliberate:
"Who?"
I glance at him, blinking. "You don't know? That guy. The one who kills every motherfucker who deserves it. The one who makes men like Damien vanish overnight—assets gone, not a single clue left behind." I look back at the screen, teeth grinding. "I hope he finds him."
Zayan's gaze burns at the side of my face. I don't have to look to feel it.
"That's not a hero," he says flatly.
I laugh under my breath, sharp, humorless. "I like him. He doesn't need to be a hero. He's a villain—and I love that. If I ever met him…" I pause, my lips tugging into a dangerous smile. "Maybe I'd kiss him. That's how much I respect what he does."
The silence sharpens. His voice cuts through it, a little rougher this time.
"You have weird taste."
I shrug, not backing down. My eyes are glued to Damien's smug face still flashing across the TV. "So what? Would you let a man like that walk free? Would you let a girl carry that kind of trauma while he's out there laughing like it never happened?" I tilt my head at him.
"If I had the power, I wouldn't. Maybe you guys would. You with your money, your power, your… untouchable games. You think money makes you gods. Maybe it does. But if I had that? I'd burn men like him out of existence."
His silence drags. Heavy. Measured. Like he's turning every word over in his head instead of tossing them away.
Then, low, dangerous, almost too casual:
"So… you'd kiss him if you met him?"
My chest stutters. The way he asks it—like it's a contract, like it matters more than it should—makes my pulse jump.
I force a smirk. "Yeah. It's a promise. I know I'll never meet him, so why not?"
He doesn't laugh. Doesn't argue. Just leans back against the couch, eyes flicking back to the screen, a shadow of a smirk curling on his mouth.
And suddenly I'm too aware of the air again. Too aware of the heat rolling between us. Too aware that the book still lies open in my lap, its words echoing in my head, and all of them—every single one—sound like him.
I force my eyes back down to the damn book like it's going to save me from the heat simmering in the room. The words blur for a second because my brain is still stuck on what just happened, the whole "kiss the vigilante" nonsense I actually said out loud like a complete idiot. Who the hell says that in front of their husband? Me, apparently.
I try to focus. The book's protagonist is at it again—commanding, dark, leaning in with that "good girl" tone that scrapes right down your spine. My chest tightens. And before I know it, the faceless shadow in the book has his face again. Zayan's.
That sharp jaw, the weight of his stare, the way his voice curls low when he wants to end you. My imagination doesn't even ask permission—it just slides him into the scene like he belongs there.
"Bend for me," the page whispers.
My cheeks heat instantly. My lips twitch into a traitor's smirk. No. Absolutely not. I snap the smile down, clamp my lips tight, try to glue my eyes to the page like I'm studying algebra instead of reading straight-up filth.
Don't react. Don't. He's right next to you. Don't—
"What are you reading?"
His voice cuts in. Smooth. Low. He doesn't even glance at me—his gaze is still on the fucking TV—but the way those four words slide into the room? It's like he already knows.
I nearly choke on my own spit. My book wobbles in my hand. "N-Nothing. Just… educational purposes."
EDUCATIONAL PURPOSES? I want to bury myself six feet under. Out of all the things my brain could've produced, that's what came out?
He turns his head slowly, resting against the headrest, and locks those dangerous eyes on mine. The weight of it pins me in place.
"Educational purpose?"
I hum like a liar caught red-handed. "Hmm."
And then—fuck me—he smirks. That slow, dangerous curl of his mouth that always looks like he's thinking ten steps ahead while I'm still scrambling to remember my own name.
"Then give it to me." His voice drops lower, silk over steel. "I also want to get more educated."
My entire brain combusts. Give it to him? Hand over the filthy, highlighted-in-my-head smut book and let him—what—flip it open to the scene where the guy ties the girl's wrists and says she'll only be allowed to speak when spoken to? Absolutely not.
"This—uh—it's not for men." My words tumble out in a stutter, pathetic and weak, like some virgin nun trying to cover a scandal.
He doesn't push. Doesn't argue. Just leans back again and smirks like he's got me figured out, like he's amused watching me squirm in my own mess.
And that smirk is somehow worse than anything he could've said.
What the actual fuck. What does that mean? Why isn't he asking more? Why is he just sitting there with that face? Oh my god, does he KNOW? He knows. He definitely knows. Stop smirking, asshole. Stop—no, don't stop. Shit. I hate this. I like this. No. Wait. Fuck.
I'm gripping the book so hard my knuckles ache, but my stupid brain still won't shut up. It's spinning out of control, tossing me every unholy scenario possible. Him taking the book, reading it in that low voice, repeating the lines back to me. Him leaning in close and saying, "Good girl" like the damn protagonist.
My thighs clench. My face burns. I bury myself in the pages again, pretending the words are saving me when really they're just dragging me deeper.
And out of the corner of my eye, I can still see it—that lazy, smug curve on his mouth.
Like he already knows exactly what's going on inside my head.
---
---
Zayan's POV
Tsk.
Educational purpose, my ass.
She thinks she can sit there all innocent, eyelashes batting, lips fumbling for words like she's got nothing to hide. But I know. I know exactly what the hell is inside that book.
Because here's the part she doesn't get—I've read every single one of them. Every damn paperback she's devoured like it's food for her soul.
I used to steal them when I stalked her, slipping them off her desk or nightstand, disappearing them for hours, and then sliding them back in place like nothing happened. She never noticed. She thought her little world was untouched.
Meanwhile, I'd be sitting in the dark with one of those fucking books, tearing through it in a single night, my head spinning like I'd swallowed poison. God. Those books are unholy. Straight filth disguised as "romance." And I read them cover to cover—every moan, every sin, every whisper written in those pages.
And the worst part? She reads that shit with a straight face. Like it's normal. Like she isn't burning up inside every time some fictional bastard calls the girl "good girl" or shoves her against a wall.
Me? I had to shower—thrice. Three goddamn times in one night just to burn the residue off me. My palms would itch, my jaw locked, my brain replaying lines that had no business echoing in my head. And she? She sits with her legs tucked under her, calmly flipping pages, like she's not committing mental adultery with every character.
Her taste is fucked. It's not just smut—it's filthy smut, the kind of thing you can't even say outside without people choking on air. And yet, she consumes it like holy scripture. No hesitation. No shame. Like it feeds something in her she can't admit out loud.
And now—she wants to call it educational purpose?
Yeah, baby. Keep learning. Keep taking your notes. Because one day, you're going to practice every single one of those filthy lessons—and you're going to practice them on me.
That's the difference between you and me. You read it, you blush, you pretend it's fiction. Me? I know it's not fiction. I see the way you shift in your seat, the way your thighs press tighter, the way your lips twitch like you're fighting not to smile at a command written in ink. I know exactly what's going on inside your head when you pretend to be "studying."
But still. Those books are a goddamn curse. Every time I close one, I swear I'll never pick another up again. And every time, I pick it up anyway. Because it's hers. Because I want to know exactly what filth she's filling her head with, what stories she's letting rot her innocence.
I smirk, leaning back, letting her squirm. She thinks she's safe behind those pages. She thinks I don't know.
But I know. I always know.
And the day she runs out of pages, I'll be there, ready to give her a whole new book—written in bruises and breathless gasps—one she won't ever be able to close.
-----------
Dinner is supposed to be civilized. Knife, fork, plate. Conversation optional.
But not with her.
She's across the table from me, plate balanced carelessly, knees bent on the chair like she's at some campfire instead of at my dining table. A curl of hair falls loose near her cheek as she shovels food into her mouth, flipping pages of that damn book with the other hand.
How the hell does someone eat and read at the same time? How the hell does someone make that look like the most natural thing in the world?
Damn this woman.
She isn't trying to be ladylike, isn't sitting with her ankles crossed and her posture perfect like I've seen her force herself to do in front of others. No. Here, in my house, she's raw. Untamed. Too comfortable. Like she's forgotten she's supposed to keep walls up between us.
And fuck me, I love it.
But I can't show that. Not now. Not when she's already driving me insane.
"Put the book down."
Her fork stills halfway to her mouth, eyes lifting but only slightly. She blinks at me, innocent and stubborn all at once. No shame. No apology.
I narrow my eyes, leaning back in my chair, voice dropping lower, harsher.
"I don't care if it's educational purpose or religious scripture. You're eating. Put. It. Away."
Finally, she looks straight at me. Those eyes—sharp, unbothered, like knives dipped in honey. Her lips twitch into the faintest smile before she throws the dagger.
"You read your documents every morning at breakfast." Her tone drips with defiance. "Should I snatch those out of your hands too?"
My jaw tightens. I set my fork down with a deliberate clang, the metal ringing against porcelain. I lean forward across the table, elbows pressing down, voice slow and lethal.
"Difference is, I don't look like a stray animal curled up on my chair while I do it. At least I maintain some dignity."
Her eyes flash, and then—God, that laugh. Sharp. Mocking. Meant to cut.
"Dignity? You bury yourself in contracts and files so deep, Zayan, you wouldn't notice if your food turned to ash in your mouth. You're so desperate to control everything, you can't even let someone read in peace."
A muscle ticks in my jaw. And yet, against my will, a smile creeps onto my face.
"Control keeps people alive. Your nonsense doesn't." My gaze flicks pointedly at the book in her hands, my voice hardening. "That—whatever the hell it is—rots your brain."
Her spoon drops into her plate with a loud clatter. Her head tilts, her voice a low hiss.
"And what you do? That's noble? All your numbers and schemes? You think they make you any less hollow?"
She's standing now, tension vibrating through her shoulders. And yet—she doesn't back down. Not an inch.
I smirk, leaning lazily back in my chair as if none of this fazes me, though my blood is already roaring hot.
"Noble? No. Necessary." My voice drops, deep and deliberate. "One day you'll figure out the difference. Until then, try not to choke on your dinner while pretending that trash is feeding you."
Her chest rises, falls. For a moment, we just stare—heat crackling like a fuse about to blow.
And then she scoffs. Loud. Sharp. A blade meant to cut.
Without another word, she grabs her book, clutches it to her chest like a shield, and pushes her chair back. The scrape of wood against tile grates in my ears. She doesn't look at me, doesn't give me the satisfaction of another retort. She just turns, spine rigid, head high, and storms toward the stairs.
Her perfume lingers in the air, mocking me, taunting me.
I sit there, staring at the empty chair she left behind, fighting the urge to follow. To drag her back down, to tear the damn book from her hand, to pin her to the table and remind her who the hell she belongs to.
But I don't.
I just sit there, smirking into the silence, pulse pounding hot and vicious.
Because the truth is—every time she storms away, it only makes me want her more.
--------------------++-
The west wing balcony opens like a promise I can never quite touch.
The city lies beneath me, sprawled in lights, restless as a beast that never sleeps. The kind of view men kill to own. The kind of view I once imagined sharing with her, her head tilted against my shoulder, her laugh soft against my chest.
Instead, there's only the echo of her footsteps upstairs, sharp with defiance, cold with distance. It's been a week—seven days of watching her circle me like I'm the enemy, seven nights of her sleeping with walls around her higher than any fortress.
And maybe she's right to hate me. Maybe I've made it impossible. But fuck, it doesn't stop me from wanting her here.
The phone buzzes in my pocket. I drag it out, thumb sliding across the screen without looking at the name.
"Talk."
Static cracks, then his voice—low, steady, iron.
"He's not alone."
I rest my hand against the cold stone railing, eyes narrowing on the glittering skyline. "predictable"
". Men around him aren't his. He borrows power. Doesn't earn it."
My mouth curves into a humorless smirk. "Figures."
"Judges sign off his papers. Police clear his shipments. Every lock opens for him. No weight of his own."
"Then whose weight?" My voice drops like a blade.
"Old money. Offshore accounts. A shipping line out of Lisbon, a finance house in Zurich. Ghost sponsors. No face."
I drag in a breath through my teeth, pulse thick in my throat. "He's small. They make him look big."
Izar doesn't answer. He doesn't need to.
I tilt my head back, eyes tracing the dark stretch of stars above. "What about the warehouses?"
"Half-empty. Ledgers forged. He keeps nothing real where he lives. His people don't even know what they're guarding."
"Good," I mutter, a slow burn in my chest. "Ghosts guarding dust."
There's a pause, a shift in the silence, before Izar says quietly, "He believes it. He believes he's untouchable."
I laugh, low, dangerous, the sound tearing at my throat. "Let him. Pride makes men blind. Arrogance makes them slow."
"Then?" Izar asks.
My hand tightens on the railing until the stone bites back. My reflection stares back at me in the glass doors behind, eyes hard as the night.
"Then I get close enough to breathe his air," I whisper. "Close enough to see the fear crack his face when he realizes the ground under him never belonged to him at all."
Silence hums again, then Izar's voice—calm, certain. "You want the doors mapped?"
"Every one of them. Whoever feeds him, whoever covers him, I want their names bleeding on my desk."
"Done."
The line goes dead.
I slide the phone into my pocket, shoulders rolling back, gaze fixed on the restless city below. Every light is a witness. Every street a stage.
Damien Cross thinks he's untouchable.
But his life?
Countable now.
And I'll be the one to take every last second from him.
___________________________
Author Note:
What will happen next?? Zayan's shadow side is showing—he's close, calculating, and Damien Cross doesn't even know what's coming.
Will he strike, or will he wait for the perfect moment?
And Arshila… how long before her thoughts and desires push them both over the edge? Stick around for tomorrow, don't forget to add this chapter to your collection, comment, share, and support!