I sprawl across the long couch tucked in the plant corner of the room, staring at the ceiling like it might suddenly develop a personality. God, I'm bored. The silence is so thick I could stab it with a fork.
I kick my foot against the armrest, thinking, thinking, then it hits me. An idea so dumb it might actually save me from dying of boredom.
I whistle for the housekeeper. "Call Izar."
His brow arches like I just summoned the devil, but he doesn't question me. Minutes later, footsteps echo and there he is—Izar. Tall, composed, eyes scanning the room like I've hidden a threat behind the ferns.
"Sit," I say, pointing to the couch opposite mine.
He blinks. Doesn't move. "I can't sit with you."
I tilt my head. "Why not? You're allergic to couches or what?"
His mouth twitches, like he wants to smile but strangles it at birth. "Because I'm your protector, not your friend."
Ouch. That stings more than I thought it would. Protector. Cold. Distant. A wall. My chest feels annoyingly tight.
I push myself up on my elbows, narrow my eyes at him. "If I ask you something, you'll fulfill it, right?"
"Yes," he says without hesitation.
"Then…" I pause, holding his gaze, making sure he can't wiggle out of this. "Be my friend."
His eyes lock onto mine, and for the first time, the sharpness in them eases. Just a flicker, a softening. Like maybe there's a man under all that soldier-stiffness. He opens his mouth to say something—
"You promised," I cut him off, smirking. "So you have to keep it."
"But—"
"No buts. Sit. Now."
He finally moves, lowering himself onto the couch across from me like he's breaking some ancient vow. His shoulders are still straight, his jaw still set, but he's here. And he's looking at me.
I grin. "How old are you?"
"Twenty-six."
I gasp dramatically. "So you're one year older than Zayan!"
"Yes." His answer is crisp, factual, boring.
I squint. "You do realize that makes you, like, ancient in my book."
"Ancient?" His brow arches in disbelief.
"Yes. Very old. Practically prehistoric."
The corner of his mouth twitches again. He's fighting it, I can tell.
I lean forward. "Do you have a girlfriend?"
"No."
My eyes widen. "None? Not even… half?"
He looks confused. "Half?"
"Like, I don't know. Situationship. Girl who texts you only when she's drunk. Someone you once kissed at a wedding?"
He shakes his head. "No. None. I don't have one or any."
"Why?" I drag the word out, studying his face.
He doesn't flinch. "I haven't met anyone who makes my heart race."
Oh. Damn. Okay. That was… unexpectedly hot. I laugh anyway, covering it up. "That's the cheesiest thing I've ever heard. Do girls fall for that line?"
He shrugs. "I've never tried it on anyone."
I clutch my chest dramatically. "You mean to tell me, Mister Protector, you've been walking around with that face and no one's managed to climb into your heart? Tragic. Criminal."
Silence stretches between us, and for a second, I swear his eyes dip—like he's actually amused.
"So," I say, leaning back, "do you have abs?"
He stiffens. "What?"
"You heard me. Abs. Yes or no?"
He clears his throat. "That's not an appropriate question."
I laugh so hard I almost roll off the couch. "Which means yes."
"I didn't say that."
"You didn't have to." I grin. "The way you just squared your shoulders gave you away. Classic guilty move."
His jaw tightens, but there's a ghost of a smile at the edge of his lips now, and oh my god, I'm winning.
"Fine," I say, waggling my brows. "Next time Zayan pisses me off, I'm calling you to flex your ancient abs until I feel better."
His head drops for a second, and I swear he's hiding a laugh. When he looks back up, his eyes are softer again, like the armor slipped just a little.
And for once, I don't feel so bored.
I stretch my legs across the couch, fiddling with the edge of a cushion, trying to think of what to ask next. And then it slips out.
"What about your family?"
The air changes instantly. Subtle, sharp. Izar's jaw flexes once before he says, calm, almost too calm, "I have none."
My lips snap shut so fast it's embarrassing. The back of my throat tightens, like I swallowed glass. Suddenly, every smart little question I had lined up feels stupid.
His eyes find mine—steady, dark, unflinching. "You don't have to feel anything," he says, voice low, carrying something heavier than words. "I don't know who my parents are. Don't know if I have siblings. If I do, they're strangers. Always have been."
My chest squeezes painfully. "I'm sorry," I blurt, softer than I mean to.
That makes him chuckle, deep and quiet, like I've just told a bad joke. His smile is sharp, but not cruel. "Sorry? For what? For asking… or for the fact I'm an orphan?"
Heat rushes to my face. I shake my head quickly. "How can you even say that? You're not alone. You have us. You have Zayan." A wicked grin spreads across my lips before I can stop it. "And I genuinely doubt you two aren't secretly dating."
That does it. His lips twitch—then curve into something I wasn't prepared for. A real smile. Soft, almost shy. And oh God, it makes him unfairly handsome.
I sit up straight, pointing at him. "Hey! That smile—what's that? Is that right? Am I right?"
His laugh explodes in the room, rich and deep, vibrating all the way into my bones. He shakes his head. "No. Not even close. Like I told you before—he's not my type. If I were gay, it wouldn't be him."
I stare at him, dumbfounded, heart hammering. "What do you mean not your type? Are you blind? Look at him! He's got everything—looks, money, power, and—" I freeze, biting my lip too late. "—and fucking fangs."
Izar tilts his head, that slow, lethal smile playing on his mouth. "You're… quite observant of him."
The words hit me like a gunshot. My whole body jerks, heat flooding my cheeks. "Me?? No. No way. I don't—" My voice stumbles, cracks. "I don't even like him. I—I hate him."
He hums. A low, dangerous sound that feels like it slides right under my skin. He nods, deliberately, as if agreeing. But his eyes—his eyes are saying something else. Like he's already read the truth, tucked it in his pocket, and he's waiting for me to realize I gave it away.
My palms go clammy. My heartbeat stutters.
I look away too fast, pretending to focus on a stupid leaf on the plant beside me. "Whatever," I mutter. "Believe what you want."
But my pulse is racing. And I can still feel his gaze on me. Heavy. Hot. Like he knows exactly how much he's getting under my skin.
I don't know what it is at first. A heat, a slow prickling on the back of my neck, like invisible fingers dragging down my skin. Not from Izar. Not from me. Something else.
Someone else.
I freeze, still pretending to study the stupid plant leaf beside me, but the burn spreads—crawling across my arms, coiling tight in my gut. I know this feeling. I'd recognize it in the middle of a storm, blindfolded.
Zayan.
My eyes snap up before I can stop myself, and there he is. Striding down from the west wing, tall and predatory, like the mansion itself bows a little when he passes. His gaze already locked on me.
Izar reacts before I even can. He's on his feet in a blink, shoulders squared, jaw carved from stone. Gone is the faint smile, the warmth I managed to peel out of him minutes ago. He's back to the soldier—the lethal shadow that follows Zayan everywhere.
The air crackles when Zayan's eyes catch mine. No softness. No blush. Just fire. Hot. Burning. A collision without sound. My chest tightens painfully, like he's squeezing my lungs from across the damn room. I don't blink. Neither does he.
And then—his eyes flick to Izar. Sharp, cutting. "Let's go." His voice is low, lethal silk. A command, not a suggestion.
Izar doesn't argue. Doesn't even nod. He just falls into step behind him like gravity itself dragged him there. And yet…
As he passes me, Izar's eyes flick back—just for a second. Just long enough to form two words silently, lips barely moving.
Bye, friend.
My throat locks. And then my lips curve without permission, a small, shy smile tugging up, heat blooming across my cheeks. A blush. God. Me—blushing. It feels ridiculous and good and—hell—comforting in a way I didn't know I needed.
But the second that warmth touches me, the burn is back. Stronger. Hotter.
Because Zayan turns. He's still walking forward, slow, steady, but he twists his head just enough to glance back at me.
Our eyes crash again.
I look away too fast, heart pounding like it's trying to claw out of my chest. I focus on the stupid floor, the stupid plant, anything but him.
God. What the fuck was that?
The look in his eyes wasn't a look—it was a claim. A warning. A dare. It seared across my skin like fire, and I swear my pulse hasn't slowed since.
And worse—God help me—it was sexy. So goddamn sexy my body still hums with it, like he branded me from across the room without even lifting a hand.
I press my palms into the couch cushions, forcing myself to breathe. In. Out. Normal. But nothing about me feels normal anymore.
Because Izar's smile still lingers in my chest. And Zayan's fire still burns on my skin.
And I don't know which one will drive me insane first.
_________
Zayan pov
The halls of the mansion stretch out ahead of us, shadowed, cold. My steps echo steady, but inside me nothing is steady. Her smile—at him—burns through my skull like a brand I didn't ask for. My jaw flexes once, hard, before I let the words slip.
"What was that?"
Izar doesn't break stride. Doesn't even blink. He has that soldier composure nailed into his bones.
"What?" His tone is flat, unreadable.
I cut my eyes to him, sharp and unyielding. He knows exactly what I mean. I don't have to spell it out—the look, the blush, the fucking softness she gave him like it was nothing. Like it wasn't mine to choke on.
Finally, he tilts his head just slightly, enough for me to catch the flicker in his mouth. A smirk.
"I'm her friend now."
The words crawl under my skin like a blade sliding slow. Friend. He says it too easily, too simply. I let my mouth twist into something that looks like a smile but tastes like steel.
"And how does it feel," I ask, my voice low, deliberate, "to be friends with her?"
Izar glances at me once, brief as a gunshot. His smirk deepens, just a fraction. "I just started. Maybe I'll give you the details later. Maybe."
I breathe out a short laugh, sharp enough to cut glass, but say nothing more.
The silence carries us the rest of the way to the east wing. My office. My sanctuary. My war room.
Izar closes the door behind us, locking it with a clean metallic click. The sound reverberates in my chest, final, sealing the two of us inside.
The heir and his shadow don't exist here. Not in this room. Here, we're stripped down to what we really are—partners in crime, architects of chaos.
I push off the floor and lean back against the desk, palms gripping the carved mahogany edge behind me. The wood is cool, grounding, anchoring the storm clawing at my ribs.
Izar doesn't sit. He never does when it matters. He moves with precision, flicking the switch that sets the projector humming alive. The room fills with pale light, maps and faces splashed across the long table like sins laid bare.
He positions himself at the far end, standing sentinel, the glow sharpening every edge of him. His gaze slices to me once, dark and knowing, before returning to the projected chaos we've built.
I watch him. Watch the quiet power he wears like armor, the way he commands silence without asking for it. And for a brief moment, the fire she left in my blood collides with the darkness of this room, merging into something sharper.
Business. Power. Revenge.
And Izar. Always Izar.
I let the silence stretch, let the hum of the projector thicken the air. Then I tilt my head, smirk tugging at my mouth as my fingers curl tighter around the desk.
"So," I say slowly, voice low enough to vibrate the walls, "let's begin."
The word tastes final in my mouth.
Begin.
Izar doesn't waste a second. The projector hums higher, flooding the room with maps, documents, grainy photos stolen from places men think are impenetrable. The long table is a battlefield of shadows and light—Lisbon glowing on one side, Zurich sharp on the other, like two beating hearts feeding a corpse.
He steps forward, hands braced against the table, shoulders squared.
"Funding. That's the spine." His voice is steady, clinical, but I know him well enough to hear the undercurrent—interest, hunger. He's smelling blood too.
"Cross doesn't stand without someone's coin propping him up. And it isn't local. He's a puppet with an imported leash."
My eyes trace the map. Dots flare along the Portuguese coast. Lisbon. The Tagus River spilling out into the Atlantic. Ships, ports, containers. Ghost numbers attached to real docks.
"Lisbon," Izar says, pointing. "Shipping lines. Front companies with names that don't mean anything—Golden Shore, Atlantic Prime, Cora Exports. I pulled the bills of lading. None of them check out. They manifest sugar, grain, timber, but the containers leave lighter than they should. Empty shells disguised as trade."
I tilt my head, fingers curling around the desk edge. My pulse steadies, sharp focus cutting clean through the haze.
"Shell companies feeding a shell empire. They don't fund him with cargo. They fund him with the illusion of it."
Izar nods once, dark eyes catching mine in the glow of the map.
"Exactly. On paper it looks like volume. In reality? Nothing but hollow boxes moving back and forth. They're laundering money through Lisbon. Clean, fast, hidden in maritime flow. The sea's a good graveyard."
A laugh slips from me, low, humorless. "And Zurich?"
The map shifts. Portugal fades. Switzerland sharpens. Cold, precise, banks scattered across the city like chess pieces. Zurich—where shadows keep their accounts dressed in suits.
Izar's voice doesn't waver. "Zurich finance houses. Old money. Heritage funds that survived wars. Shell trusts feeding into shell trusts. Layers so deep it would take a government five years to peel them back. But I've traced one vein." He gestures, and a red line pulses across the screen, connecting Zurich to Lisbon. "Cayman subsidiary. Backdoor transfers. Every cycle, money slips through Zurich, travels offshore, resurfaces as freight in Lisbon, then gets piped into Cross's fake assets."
I study the glowing web, my smirk slow, sharp, cutting across my face.
"Ghosts feeding ghosts. Invisible hands making a nothing man look like a king."
Izar folds his arms, eyes on me now, not the screen.
"They're powerful, Zayan. This isn't just Cross. He's small. A dog on a leash. Whoever sits in Zurich, whoever holds those offshore lines—they're the real predators."
I let the silence stretch, heavy, thick. Then I push off the desk, slow, deliberate, closing the distance until I stand beside the table, the map light casting my shadow across it.
"Good," I murmur, almost to myself. "Predators are predictable. They think no one hunts them."
I drag my fingers across Lisbon's coast, the red veins glowing beneath my touch. My voice drops, low, lethal silk.
"Lisbon is movement. Zurich is shelter. One shows me where the money breathes. The other shows me who keeps it safe." I glance up, lock eyes with Izar. "We crack one, the other bleeds."
He tilts his head, studying me, then says, "So what's the move?"
The storm in my chest steadies into something colder, sharper.
"The move," I say, leaning forward, palms flat against the map, "isn't to attack. Not yet. It's to become. I want inside Lisbon's docks before the month turns. I want Zurich's finance houses whispering my name in their marble halls. I want to be so deep in their web they think I belong there."
Izar's mouth curves into that quiet, dangerous smirk of his.
"You want the leash."
I nod once, slow.
"And when I've got it," I whisper, "I'll choke them with it."
The room hums with the projector, with the storm building between us. Two wolves circling the same scent, both knowing the hunt is close.
Izar breaks the silence, voice even. "I'll start with Lisbon. Port records, customs officers, dock foremen. Everyone has a price. Someone there knows which containers matter and which ones don't."
"Good." My reply is a blade, sharp and fast. "And Zurich?"
"I'll peel their banks layer by layer. Someone signs those transfers. Someone old, someone arrogant. They'll have a blind spot. I'll find it."
I lean back against the desk again, the wood biting into my palms, and let the grin stretch across my mouth, dark and certain.
"Do it fast, Izar. Because every second Cross breathes on borrowed air, it stains mine."
He holds my stare, steady, unwavering. "Consider it done."
The maps flicker. Lisbon, Zurich, Cayman—veins of red pulsing like blood on the table. And in the silence, the storm sharpens into focus.
This isn't business. This isn't empire.
This is personal.
And Damien Cross's leash is already slipping.
The hum of the projector deepens, the Zurich map stretching wide across the glass table. Cold, perfect city—money's favorite coffin. My arms cross over my chest as I stare at the cluster of banks and trusts bleeding red on the screen.
"Tavarian offshore accounts…" I murmur, jaw tight, eyes dragging across the Swiss lines. "Some of them live here too."
The words cut heavier than I want them to. Tavarian. My own family's shadow. I don't miss the flicker in Izar's gaze when I say it—sharp, brief, but there. He doesn't press. He never does.
I push off the desk, step closer to the table, let the light crawl over my face.
"If I walk into Damien's world wearing the Tavarian name, the game's over before it begins. He'll fold. They all do. Fear, respect, the same old dance. That won't get me inside."
My hand drags across Zurich's veins, slicing the air between trust funds and shipping companies.
"I don't want his fear. I don't want his obedience. I want his confidence. I want him to see me as his reflection, not his executioner."
Izar shifts his weight, arms folded now, leaning into the glow. His voice is low, steady, testing.
"So you go in as someone else. Another mask. Not Tavarian."
I glance at him, the ghost of a smirk cutting my mouth.
"Exactly. Not heir. Not name. Just a man with money, hunger, and no crown behind him. Someone Damien can believe is hungry enough to want his scraps."
I let the silence hang, the storm simmering behind my ribs, then add, quieter—
"Because men like Damien trust hunger. They don't trust kings."
The projector flickers, Lisbon's docks bleeding into Zurich's vaults, a web of ghosts feeding one another. My eyes track the pulsing lines, fingers curling against the table.
"The key is roots, Izar. Damien doesn't have them. He borrows them. Lisbon gives him motion, Zurich gives him cover. We tear either, he falls. But if I come at him with Tavarian roots, he'll smell the soil before I even move."
Izar's smirk sharpens, almost proud, but quiet.
"So we cut your roots. Give you new ones."
I meet his gaze, the light of Zurich's map carving steel into both our faces.
"Not cut. Hide. Tavarian stays buried. I'll build something else. A name no one questions. A trail no one bothers to check until it's too late. By the time they pull the mask, I'll already be sitting in Damien's chair."
The thought coils hot in my chest. I pace once, slow, then turn back to the table, tapping a finger against Zurich.
"Zurich will give me the bones for it. Money, signatures, shells I can wear. The same veins feeding Damien can be turned to feed me. All it takes is a hand inside the system, someone who knows which switchboard to flip."
Izar's brow tilts, calculating.
"You want me to pull one of his bankers?"
I shake my head, lips curving in something darker.
"Not pull. Not yet. I want you to watch them. The moment someone stumbles, the moment one of those marble gods shows a crack—I'll slide into it. They'll never know I'm not one of theirs."
The silence stretches, thick as smoke. The only sound is the steady pulse of the projector. Lisbon. Zurich. Cayman. A carousel of ghosts.
Izar finally says, voice edged with steel, "And Damien? What happens when he realizes you're not just another vulture circling his scraps?"
I let the smirk stretch wider, leaning into the glow, eyes never leaving the map.
"By the time Damien realizes, Izar… I won't be at his table. I'll be carving it out from under him."
The words settle heavy, final. I can feel Izar watching me—reading me the way only he can—but he doesn't argue. He never argues when I sound like this.
I press both palms flat on the table, veins of Zurich burning under my hands. My voice drops, low enough to scrape the walls.
"We start with Lisbon. Find me the cracks in the docks. Customs officers, port brokers, freight clerks—someone there's on his leash. Tug hard enough, the whole chain rattles."
Izar nods once, slow, precise. "And Zurich?"
"Zurich is mine." My eyes cut to him, steel to steel. "Every file, every ledger, every shadow. I'll peel their banks until I find the ghost writing his cheques. When I do, Damien's leash won't just slip—it'll snap."
The room hums louder, as if it understands. The web on the table flickers, alive. Two wolves circling the scent, teeth already bared.
And in that silence, I know one thing with certainty.
Damien Cross thinks he owns a leash.
He doesn't realize he's the one wearing it.
I stand back from the map, Zurich glowing cold, Lisbon bleeding hot, Cayman pulsing between like a ghost heartbeat. The lines tell me everything and nothing all at once. I know this much: I can't walk in alone. Not clean. Not fast.
"I'll need a middleman," I mutter, arms folding again as the thought curls like smoke. "Someone Damien already trusts. Someone who can open the first door without me having to kick it down."
Izar doesn't move. He rarely does when I think out loud like this. He just listens, still as stone, waiting for the pieces to land where they're supposed to.
I drag a hand through my hair, pacing the edge of the table.
"No Tavarian name. No Tavarian crown. That middleman is my ticket. Introduce me as another player with money to spend, nothing more. Damien will sniff it, circle it, test me. Good. That's what I want. I want him thinking I'm another dog begging for scraps."
My mouth twists into a grin that tastes like iron.
"He'll hand me the leash himself."
Izar only tilts his head, his silence steady, dangerous in its own way. He's filing away every word, ready to act on it, ready to bleed for it if I ask. And that—fuck—it coils tight in my chest, the reminder that no matter how sharp my teeth are, he's always the shadow at my side.
I stop pacing, fingers pressing into the wood of the table.
"We don't dig yet. Not inside. Not until the ground is soft enough to plant in. For now—just watch. Ports, bankers, middlemen. Find me the man Damien trusts enough to open his door. When I have him, I have everything."
Izar nods once. Nothing more. Like he already saw the shape of this plan before I spoke it aloud.
The room is heavy, buzzing, the projector throwing ghosts across the walls. I stare at Zurich a beat too long, and then—like a switch—the memory cuts in. Her voice. That soft, reckless way she'd said it two nights ago.
If I ever met the Vigilante, I'd kiss him.
It hits me harder than I expect, slipping under my skin like a blade turned sideways. A laugh pulls from my throat before I can bury it—low, sharp, curling around the room like smoke.
Izar's eyes flick to me instantly.
"What?"
I smirk, turning my head just enough to meet his stare. "Nothing. Just remembered something your friend said."
The way his mouth curves tells me he already knows who I mean. A slow, dangerous smirk pulling at his lips.
"She's smart," he says, voice even but edged. "What if she knows it's all you?"
The question hangs between us, hotter than it should be. My grin spreads slow, sharp, cutting, my chest tightening with something that feels almost like fucking amusement.
"Then I'll get a kiss."
Izar straightens a fraction, eyes narrowing, voice dropping.
"What?"
I let the silence stretch, smirk fixed, and then I shake my head like it's nothing.
"Nothing."
The hum of the projector feels too loud now, the light too sharp on our faces. I step forward, snap the remote in my hand, and the room plunges into dim quiet. Maps vanish. Ghosts gone. Just the faint scent of burned dust and the echo of plans bleeding into silence.
Izar doesn't say anything else. He never presses when my tone cuts like that. He just walks with me, side by side, both of us carrying heat that doesn't belong to the walls of this office.
We push open the door, step back into the long corridor that leads to the main house. The air is cooler, cleaner, but my pulse doesn't slow.
Because Lisbon and Zurich might be burning on the other side of that door.
Because Damien Cross doesn't know he's already marked.
Because her voice still lingers in my head, teasing, daring—like a match waiting for a strike.
And because when I smirked just now, Izar saw it. He fucking saw it.
And he knows I never smirk without blood behind it.
______
ARSHILA'S POV
It's fucking midnight. Again.
And guess what? My bladder hates me. My bladder is the devil. My bladder is working overtime like it's on some corporate punishment schedule.
I slam my head back against the pillow and glare at the ceiling like it owes me money. "Seriously? Again? Middle of the night, for what? To pee. Fucking pee."
And the best part? The architectural genius—Mr. Adam Zayan Tavarian, heir of the fucking world—did not build a bathroom in my room. Not even a tiny one. Nope. Apparently, I have to waltz into his royal-ass room every time nature decides to be a bitch.
So now, here I am, tiptoeing across the cold floor like some idiot thief, muttering curses under my breath. My hand hovers on the doorknob to his room. I hesitate, because yeah, walking into the lion's den in the middle of the night? Not my smartest move.
But then I roll my eyes. "What's the worst that can happen? He eats me alive?" …Actually, that sounded way dirtier than it should. Whatever.
I crack the door open.
His room glows in this soft, golden light—like it's some dream sequence straight out of a movie. My breath snags. It's too perfect, too quiet, too… him.
My eyes go straight to the bed. Empty.
Of course.
Because the bastard is always missing at night. Where the fuck does he even go? Midnight business meetings with the devil? Is he running a mafia side hustle? Or is he fucking Batman? Because disappearing at ungodly hours, brooding, —he checks all the boxes.
I snort to myself. "Yeah, sure. Tavarian by day, Batman by night. Figures."
Still, my bladder is screaming at me, so I stalk toward the bathroom door. It's huge. Double doors, heavy as hell, like he built it for a king's throne room. I reach out to push one open, annoyed, already rehearsing how I'll glare at him tomorrow about his interior design choices—
But before I touch it, one door shifts. Slowly. From the inside.
My stomach drops. My body freezes like a goddamn statue. The door swings open wider, creaking just enough to sound dramatic. And then—
There he is.
Zayan.
Standing there.
Shirtless.
DAMN.
____________________________________
Author's Note
Okay but like… did you really think that was it? You've seen Zayan obsessed, you've seen him possessive—now you're about to see what happens when he actually starts moving his pieces. How far is he willing to go? How messy is this about to get? Yeah… keep flipping, because the calm you just saw? That was the warning shot.