ARSHILA'S POV
Zayan.
Shirtless.
DAMN.
One hand grips the bathroom door handle, the other dragging a towel lazily through his wet hair, droplets sliding down his neck, disappearing into the sharp lines of his chest. Not bulky, not grotesque—just lean, cut, built like someone designed him in a lab for the sole purpose of ruining my fucking life.
He looks up. Eyes lock with mine.
And I—freeze. Wide-eyed. Lips parted. Breath stalled in my throat like a fucking idiot caught stealing cookies from the jar.
My brain: Blink. Blink, Arshila, for the love of God, blink.
My eyes: Nope. This man is shirtless, we're documenting the evidence.
I just stand there, staring like some dumb fan girl who accidentally walked into her celebrity crush's dressing room. Except he's not a celebrity. He's worse. He's Adam Zayan Tavarian. Which basically makes him Satan, but hotter.
He tilts his head slightly, hair dripping across his temple, voice low and rough when it comes out.
"Enjoying the view?"
Oh fuck no.
My throat betrays me, croaking out a pathetic little sound that I disguise as a throat clear. "Ahem. You act like a pervert."
That smirk. God, the audacity of it. The slow curl of his lips, smug as sin.
"Sexiest pervert you'll ever meet."
My stomach flips traitorously, but I roll my eyes so hard they almost dislodge. I spin on my heel, scoffing. "Congratulations on your award, I'm leaving."
I make it two steps before his voice hooks me again, smooth, unbothered, impossible to ignore.
"Not getting inside?"
I stop. Shit. Bathroom. Right. That's literally why I came here—to pee. Not to be ambushed by the fucking Greek statue reincarnated.
I turn back slowly, nose in the air like I've got my dignity intact. "Obviously. That was the plan."
He leans back slightly, stepping aside, giving me space, but the bastard doesn't move far. He's still right there, close enough that the air feels heavy with him. That scent—soap, expensive cologne, and something warm, dark, male—wraps around me like a rope.
I force my legs to walk like nothing happened, head high, ignoring the way my pulse is pounding out of control. I brush past him and slip into the bathroom, slamming the lock shut behind me like I'm fortifying a castle.
Then I just stand there. Back against the door. Heart doing gymnastics in my chest.
"Holy fucking shit."
My palms press over my face, dragging down hard. What the hell was that? The man opens a door shirtless and suddenly I'm a malfunctioning robot, staring, gawking, practically drooling like I've never seen bare skin in my life.
And it wasn't even flattering. It was worse. Because he was hot. Stupidly, unfairly hot. Lean muscle, defined lines, skin glistening under the light like every romance novel cover I swore I'd never touch. Not too bulky, not too soft. Just… perfect. Built. Deadly.
I groan into my hands. "I hate him. I hate him. I hate him."
…Except I don't.
My bladder interrupts, yanking me back to reality. Right. That's why I'm here. Pee. Not have an existential crisis about how Zayan's body looks like sin sculpted.
I shuffle to the toilet, sit, and finally—finally—relief. My head falls back against the wall as I whisper under my breath:
"Shit."
I step out of the bathroom, face carefully arranged in my best "nothing happened" expression. Because nope. Nothing happened. I did not just see Zayan half-naked and nearly combust. Nope. Not me. Definitely not me.
The air in his room feels heavier though, like it knows what I just saw. My feet drag as I cut across the room, eyes glued to the floor, counting the steps until I can open my door and pretend none of this happened.
My hand finds the doorknob. I'm seconds away from freedom when I glance, just once—
And freeze.
He's there.
Zayan.
Not gone, not vanishing into the shadows like his usual midnight routine. He's on the bed. Reclined back against the massive headboard, broad shoulders relaxed, long legs stretched out, like he owns not just the mattress but the entire fucking planet. And his eyes—oh god, his eyes—are locked on me. Dark. Flat. Expressionless.
I swallow. Hard. My hand tightens on the doorknob, brain screaming: Leave, idiot. Leave.
Instead, I shake my head and mutter to myself, "Of course. Creeper deluxe."
I'm about to turn the knob when his voice slices through the silence, low and unbothered.
"Why do you always get up in the night?"
My hand stills. Slowly, I turn my head, glare aimed right at him.
"It's none of your business."
What am I supposed to say? "Oh, sorry Tavarian, my bladder's plotting against me"? Yeah, no.
His lips twitch into that infuriating half-smirk, and my blood pressure spikes instantly.
"Where do you go every night?" I throw back before I can stop myself.
That does it. His smirk dies. The room chills with the shift in his expression.
"That's none of your business."
I bark out a laugh. A sharp, sarcastic, waahhh look at this hypocrite laugh.
"Oh, WAAHHH. Of course. Mr. Privacy, the king of double standards."
His gaze narrows. For a second, it's just that cold war silence between us, then his voice comes quieter, sharper.
"So… you're friends with Izar now?"
My brows shoot up. Really? That's where we're going?
"Yeah. I am. Any problem?"
His jaw clenches.
"Yes. I do."
"Excuse me?"
He sits forward, voice dropping an octave like he's issuing a decree from his throne.
"I don't give you permission to be friends with him."
I actually choke on my own laugh this time. Permission? Fucking permission?
"Why the fuck do I need your fucking permission?"
"Because he's my man."
His. Man.
I blink, stunned, then bark out the most sarcastic laugh of my life. "So fucking what? He's your man, not your property. Last I checked, being friends with someone doesn't require your royal signature, Your Highness."
He doesn't flinch. Doesn't soften. Just sits there, chest bare, eyes on me like he could set me on fire if he wanted to.
And the worst part? My skin feels like it is on fire. Every curse, every glare, every sharp word is gasoline.
"Yes, it does."
The way he says it—calm, low, like it's law carved into stone—sets my whole bloodstream on fire.
I snort, shaking my head.
"Oh, get the fuck out of here with that caveman logic. What's next? You gonna beat your chest and piss around Izar like he's territory?"
His eyes sharpen instantly, that dangerous flicker that makes me want to both run and punch him in the face.
"Watch your tone."
I bark out a laugh, sharp, ugly.
"And what if I don't? What are you gonna do, huh? Slap duct tape on my mouth? Put me on mute like a TV remote?"
His gaze darkens, lips pulling into a slow curl—not quite a smile, more like a threat dressed as one.
"Don't tempt me. You wouldn't like what I do when people push too far."
Oh, fuck me. My heart trips, but my mouth doesn't care. My mouth never fucking cares.
"Big scary Tavarian. Ooooh. What are you gonna do, kill me with that stupid smirk? Asshole."
That word lingers in the air like I slapped him with it.
And then he moves.
Zayan pushes off the bed, slow, deliberate, like a predator that doesn't need to rush because it knows the prey is cornered anyway. Every step closer tightens the coil in my stomach, my pulse hammering like a jackhammer on cocaine.
I don't move. My body's screaming run, but my pride? My pride glues me to the fucking door. Chin up, eyes locked, giving him my best bro, I'm not scared of you face.
Inside though? My heart is belly-dancing, stripping, doing a full-blown sexy item number with tassels and fireworks.
He stops just inches from me, so close I can count the flecks of darkness in his irises. His voice drops, low, rough enough to scrape against my bones.
"You don't have permission to be friends with Izar."
I laugh—harsh, shaky, but loud enough to cover up the fact that my knees are plotting treason.
"Oh my god. Do you hear yourself? Permission? What the fuck am I, your pet? Last I checked, I didn't come with a collar and leash."
His head tilts, studying me, and the proximity is so insane I swear the air tastes like him—soap, skin, danger.
"You're not listening." His tone dips lower. "Izar is mine. My man. Which makes him off-limits to you."
"Off-limits?!" I choke out a laugh. "Holy shit, Tavarian, you've officially lost it. You don't own people, you delusional prick. He's not a toy you keep on a shelf. He's human. He can talk to whoever the fuck he wants. And so can I."
His jaw flexes, his hand sliding lazily up the doorframe beside my head like he's staking a claim. The bastard's towering over me now, shadow swallowing me whole.
"Careful, Arshila." His voice is silk-wrapped steel. "Push me again, and you'll see how far my control goes."
My throat goes desert-dry. My heart is slamming so hard I swear he can hear it. But my mouth? My mouth's suicidal.
"You know what? Fuck your control. Fuck your rules. You can shove them right up your perfect, tight ass."
His lips twitch. Not a smile—something worse. Something smug, sinful. He leans in, his forehead almost grazing mine, and my brain officially short-circuits.
This is too close. Too close. Way too close.
"You're playing a dangerous game, princess." His whisper crawls across my skin, every syllable hot enough to brand me.
My pulse is a goddamn drumline now, banging so loud my ribs can't contain it. I grit my teeth, force myself to glare even as heat licks up my neck.
"Good. I like dangerous. Beats boring dictators with control issues."
For one insane second, our eyes lock like magnets, neither of us blinking, neither backing down. My lungs ache. My body's betraying me, buzzing, trembling, like it doesn't know if it wants to punch him or pull him closer.
Then—his hand moves.
I freeze. His fingers graze the knob by my hip. And with a sharp twist—
Click.
The door swings open.
And because the universe loves humiliating me, the second the door's gone from behind my back—I topple. Hard. Straight onto my ass into my room, landing with a graceless thud.
"Ow! You fucking son of a bitch!" I yelp, clutching my tailbone, glaring up at him like I could set him on fire with pure rage.
Zayan just looks down at me, that infuriating smirk cutting across his face like he owns this little victory.
"Sweet dreams, princess."
And with that, the bastard turns his back, strolls back to his bed, and reclines like nothing happened. Like he didn't just make me fall on my ass and set my nervous system on fire.
I sit there in the hall, fuming, humiliated, and vibrating with adrenaline.
"Asshole."
_____________________________________
My hip aches when I roll out of bed. Still sore. Still tender. Still reminding me of last night's little humiliation where a certain shirtless dictator decided gravity was his sidekick.
I rub the spot, muttering through gritted teeth, "Asshole. Goddamn, smug, manipulative, overgrown asshole."
Freshen up, I tell myself. New day, new me. Except—spoiler alert—it's not. It's the same day, same me, same bastard sharing the same oxygen.
By the time I'm ready and step out, I'm humming under my breath just to psych myself up. Just to keep the hate from bubbling. And then—voices. Male voices.
Shit.
He has friends over. The three fuckers.
My stomach does a neat little nosedive. Not because I'm scared. No. I'm fine with them now. Totally fine. Totally chill. Yeah.
(Translation: I'm fucked.)
I pad down the long hallway, keeping my steps light. And there—Rafaen. Tall, sharp, standing half-shadowed by the big potted plant near the side couch, scrolling through his phone like the world doesn't exist.
Good. He won't even notice me. I can just slip by, invisible.
I'm mid-step past him when—
"Did you get good sleep?"
I freeze like a deer in headlights. My spine straightens so fast it cracks.
He doesn't even look up from his phone. Just lets the words float like smoke. And then, slow, deliberate, his eyes lift, and he looks right at me.
That stare. Unblinking. Calm. Too calm.
I manage a stiff nod. Like my head's on rusty hinges.
He keeps holding my gaze for a second longer than necessary, and my stomach does a little lurch. Then—freedom. I break eye contact and bolt down the hall.
And there they are.
Voices, laughter, casual banter. The other two.
Ehsan perched cockily on the armrest of the couch like it's a throne. Razmir slouched on the cushions, lazy elegance radiating off him. And Zayan—Zayan, of course—sitting on the fucking floor, leaning against the couch like it's his kingdom.
What the actual hell is this setup? A mafia sleepover? A villain brunch club?
I take one step into the room, my survival instincts screaming: Abort mission. Avoid. Evade.
So I pivot on my heel. Good plan. Best plan.
"Come here, babe."
The words cut through the air, casual as a knife to the throat. Ehsan's voice.
I stop dead. Slowly, my gaze flicks to Zayan. His eyes are already on me. Cold. Dark. Glacial.
Fine. He wants to play stone-faced king? I can play dirty.
I paste on my best sweet-little-bird smile and strut toward them. My heart's doing jumping jacks, but I'll be damned if I let it show.
Razmir's the first to speak, lazy grin tugging at his mouth.
"You just woke up?"
"Yes." I plop down on the edge of a chair like I own the place. "Yesterday I was attacked by…" My eyes slide—deliberately, slowly—to Zayan. "…gravity."
Silence. Then Razmir chuckles, oblivious. But not Zayan. Oh no. He just stares. That same look from last night—flat, dangerous, the silent version of run your mouth as much as you want, princess.
So I run it.
"And honestly? Brutal assault. Zero warning. No mercy. Just—bam! Down I went. My poor hip will never recover." My hand pats my side dramatically. "Some people, you know, they just watch. Let it happen. Maybe even cause it."
My eyes flicker to him again, daring.
Nothing. Just that same predator calm.
I lean back, smirk sharpening.
"But it's fine. Totally fine. Builds character, right? Pain is the best teacher, they say. And god, I'm practically a scholar now."
Ehsan whistles low. Razmir's grin widens. Rafaen's still silent in the hall, but I swear I can feel his stare through the walls.
And Zayan?
He doesn't move. Doesn't blink. Just sits there on the floor, every inch of him carved from ice, eyes fixed on me like he could snap me in half without lifting a finger.
The tension is a live wire now, crackling between us. Hate, sharp and hot, wrapping itself around every word I spit.
And deep down—deeper than I'll ever admit—something else thrums with it.
Because when Zayan looks at me like that, like he's deciding whether to destroy me or punish me—
…I don't know whether to run.
Or lean closer.
___________________________
Breakfast.
Of course, it's not pancakes and orange juice like normal humans. No. These assholes eat like gods dipped their spoons in gold. Perfectly poached eggs, smoked salmon, fruit arranged like a damn art exhibit. Even the coffee smells arrogant.
I sit anyway. Across from me: Zayan. His chair like a throne, his stare like a firing squad.
Beside me: Rafaen. Silent as a blade, dimples hiding under all that calm.
Ehsan sprawls with his usual cocky grin, a mole under his left eye catching the light every time he smirks.
Razmir lounges, mismatched eyes—amber and dark—making him look like trouble in human skin.
Four of them together? They look like sex and war made an alliance.
I grab my fork, pretend I don't feel Zayan's gaze cutting across the table. If I let him win this staring game, I might as well tattoo "obedient little pet" on my forehead.
They're already mid-conversation.
"He wants a bigger cut." Razmir drawls, picking lazily at his plate.
"Greedy bastard." Ehsan snorts, leaning back. "Doesn't realize he's bargaining with wolves. Men like him don't get bigger cuts—they get smaller coffins."
Rafaen finally speaks, low and sharp. "We warned him. Once. That's enough."
Their laughter is casual, cold. And I'm just here, stabbing a strawberry like it insulted me.
So I drop my little grenade.
"Razmir, you have an older brother, right?"
He pauses, glances at me, then grins. "Yes."
I smile sweetly, swirling my spoon in my coffee. "I met him at the wedding. And—full disclosure—I'm his huge fan."
The silence is sharp. Ehsan quirks a brow. Rafaen doesn't move. And across the table, Zayan? Doesn't even blink.
Fine. He wants to ignore me? Watch me light this shit up.
"How old is he?"
Razmir chuckles. "Thirty-one."
I gasp dramatically, hand over my heart. "Waah. Perfect age gap. I like older men."
(Lie. Fucking lie. But oh, the silence is delicious.)
Ehsan promptly chokes on his coffee, coughing like a cartoon character. "Older men? GOD. You're out here collecting trauma like Pokémon cards."
Razmir laughs, leaning back. His mismatched eyes gleam like he's enjoying this way too much.
"My brother's a walking red flag. Sure, he looks like sin wrapped in silk, but he doesn't do relationships. He devours. Women leave in pieces. And somehow, they still come crawling back for more."
I tilt my head, smirk curving. "Sounds like my type."
Ehsan groans into his napkin. "No, it sounds like you're clinically insane. That's not a relationship, that's assisted suicide."
I flick my eyes across the table. Straight at Zayan.
Waiting.
But nothing.
He doesn't look at me. Doesn't twitch. Just keeps cutting his food with the kind of calm that makes you want to scream.
So I double down.
"Honestly, Razmir, your brother might be the smartest choice I've ever made. Older, experienced, dangerously handsome. If I had any sense, I'd marry him tomorrow."
Ehsan whistles low. Razmir smirks, clearly enjoying the carnage. Rafaen's stare feels like a blade pressed against my skin.
And Zayan?
He smirks. Just once. Cold. Sharp. Like he's already written my obituary.
But says nothing.
Not one fucking word.
And somehow—that silence is worse than if he'd ripped me apart.
Ehsan leans forward, grinning like he's spotted fresh meat.
"You know what, sweetheart? I'll never understand you. Older men. Red flags. Villains in tailored suits. You're basically volunteering for heartbreak with a gun to your head."
Razmir chuckles, tearing a piece of bread. His mismatched eyes glitter with mischief.
"Not heartbreak. She's aiming higher. Straight for destruction. She doesn't want a man, she wants a demolition crew."
"You're insane," Ehsan groans at me, hand over his heart like I've stabbed him personally. "And here I thought you were just self-destructive. Turns out you're clinically suicidal."
I smirk, stabbing a strawberry with unnecessary violence.
"At least my taste isn't boring. Sorry if you boys prefer your women safe and bland."
Rafaen's voice slides in, quiet but pointed.
"You confuse boring with survival."
I glance at him, catch the dimples ghosting into existence when his lips almost—almost—curve. Asshole.
And then, like clockwork, Ehsan pivots.
"Speaking of suicidal…" His eyes flick to Zayan, spark of amusement lighting them up. "Brother, how the fuck did you manage that contract? Man's got an ego bigger than this estate and swore he'd never sell."
The air shifts.
Razmir's grin curls.
"The Tavarians don't lose. Not in business. Not in blood."
Rafaen adds, knife sliding through his food with surgical precision.
"That bastard walked into negotiations thinking he had leverage. He walked out in silence. That silence? Louder than a gunshot."
I sit there, blinking, trying to stitch sense out of the pieces. Contract, leverage, silence. They talk about it like it's currency, like blood is part of the paperwork.
Ehsan shakes his head, laughing under his breath.
"No, but seriously. I want details. Zayan, how? The man swore he'd rather rot than sell. What did you do?"
Finally.
Zayan sets his fork down. Slow. Deliberate. Every movement controlled, like the world moves to his rhythm. And then his eyes—sharp, endless, impossible—lock straight on mine.
"I sent him flowers."
The room stills. My heart lurches against my ribs.
I blink. "…Flowers? Like rose or Orchids?"
His stare doesn't move. Doesn't waver. His voice slides across the table like a blade across glass.
"Lilies."
The word hangs.
Fragile.
Deadly.
He doesn't let me breathe before finishing.
"For his funeral."
My chest caves. Air burns as it scrapes my throat. The coffee cup nearly slips in my hand.
Ehsan barks a laugh, pounding the table.
Razmir actually throws his head back, mismatched eyes gleaming with savage delight.
Even Rafaen—fucking ice-statue Rafaen—lets the ghost of a grin crack through.
But me?
I can't laugh. Can't even force it. Because his eyes haven't left mine.
And there's no joke there. No wink. No exaggeration. Just that razor-edged calm that screams truth.
He tilts his head, studying me like prey that wandered too close.
"So…" His voice is silk-wrapped violence. "Do you like lilies?"
My lips part. Nothing comes out. My pulse is a drum, wild and frantic, every beat echoing against my ribs like it's trying to escape.
I force my hand up, force the cup to my lips. Sip. Anything. The coffee scalds my tongue, but it's better than answering.
His mouth curves—just barely. Not a smile. A verdict.
And he looks away.
Conversation floods back in, their laughter and banter filling the room. But my heartbeat is still stuck on that word.
Lilies.
And the way he asked me—like maybe he's already chosen the bouquet for my grave.
°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°
Zayan's POV
She says it like a dare.
"Honestly, Razmir, your brother might be the smartest choice I've ever made. Older, experienced, dangerously handsome. If I had any sense, I'd marry him tomorrow."
Her smirk cuts across the table like a knife, but her eyes—her eyes flick to me.
Always me.
I drop my fork, press my tongue to the inside of my cheek, feel the sharp edge of bone grind against restraint. She doesn't even know what the fuck she's playing with. Or maybe she does, and that's what makes her reckless.
Razmir's grin widens, mismatched eyes sparkling like he's feeding off the chaos. Ehsan whistles like she's just set fire to the curtains. Rafaen doesn't move—his stillness sharper than a scream.
And me?
I watch her. I always fucking watch her.
The way her throat works as she swallows, hiding nerves behind bravado. The way her fingers drum against the handle of her coffee cup, steady on the outside but betraying just a tremor underneath. She thinks I don't see. She thinks she can aim her bullets at Razmir's ghost of a brother while I sit here, untouched.
She's wrong.
The table buzzes again, voices overlapping, but my focus is a sniper's scope locked on her mouth. She licks her lip without realizing, and I swear my jaw could break from how hard I'm clenching it.
Then Ehsan, loud and shameless, cuts through it all.
"So what are you two newlyweds doing, huh? Honeymoon yet? Or are you still in the knife-play-foreplay stage?"
Her head jerks toward me—then away. Quick. Too quick. Like even looking at me burns.
I lean back in my chair, let the silence stretch long enough for the weight of it to settle, then let the words roll out low and sharp.
"Fuck off."
Ehsan throws his head back and laughs, the kind of obnoxious sound meant to scrape nerves raw.
"Oh, brother, don't get so touchy. I'm just trying to make small talk. Lighten the mood. Keep the bride from plotting her escape."
"Lighten the mood?" Razmir cuts in, voice dripping amusement. "You just poured gasoline and tossed a match."
Rafaen's knife slides clean through his food. He doesn't look up, doesn't need to. His words are flat steel. "Enough."
But Ehsan? He's grinning at me, eyes flicking between us like he's discovered a new form of entertainment.
"You two radiate more tension than a firing squad. It's better than TV."
I ignore him. My eyes haven't left her. She still won't look at me. She stares at her plate, at the bleeding strawberry she stabbed to death, at anything but me.
Because she knows. She knows what I'd do if she held my gaze for one second too long.
The phone in my pocket vibrates.
A single buzz. Clean. Controlled.
I pull it free, glance at the screen.
Izar: Everything is ready.
The corner of my mouth curves, slow. A smirk without warmth, sharp as broken glass.
My thumb locks the screen, and my mind sharpens, cold, merciless.
Damien, I'm coming for you.
××××××××××××××××××××××××××××××
Author's Note
If you've made it this far, you've survived bathroom tension, denied permission, and breakfast with killers. Tell me—were you laughing, panicking, or side-eyeing Zayan's lilies line? Drop your thoughts, theories, or just scream at me in the comments. Your reactions are my fuel
.