"When??"
The word cracks the silence. It isn't a question. It's a demand, a knife edge pressed to my skin.
My body stiffens, throat seizing shut. His eyes—those fucking dark brown eyes—aren't just eyes right now; they're an execution ground. Under the moonlight, they're darker than the ocean beneath us, more dangerous than the silence stretched between us. And God help me, they're addictive.
I force the words through the tightening in my throat, sharp enough to cut. "After your death."
His chest rises slow, deliberate, as if inhaling my threat like it's smoke. His voice comes back low, breathy, dangerous. "Is that a promise?"
"Yes."
He chuckles, a deep sound that vibrates through the night, sliding over my skin like poison. His shadow towers, swallowing me whole, and I hate how still my body feels against the glass, as if moving now would mean I've already lost.
I spit the only defense I have left. "Move. I want to go."
He doesn't move. Doesn't even twitch. Just stays there, caging me in with his arms, his body a wall of heat and control.
My jaw locks. My hands curl into fists before I slam them into his chest with all my strength. He doesn't even flinch. Not a step. Not an inch.
My voice comes out sharp, a blade rattling against bone. "Zayan"
His smirk unfurls, slow and venomous. "Yes, wife?"
The way the word drips from his tongue is designed to cut me open. It does.
I bare my teeth, every syllable sharpened with fury. "Move."
And this time—slow, calculated—he does. He steps back. One measured move, like a king granting mercy, not a man giving ground. His eyes never leave mine, not for a second.
I don't breathe until there's air between us.
Then I tear past him, my fury slicing through the night. I storm off the balcony, each step echoing like a war drum, my pulse hammering, my nails biting into my palms. The walls feel too close, the floor too loud, but I don't stop until I shove my door open—my room, inside his room, a cage within a cage.
I slam it shut behind me. Hard. The sound reverberates like a gunshot through the silence.
For a second, all I can hear is my breath, jagged, furious, burning in my chest. But he's still out there. I know it. I can feel him—standing just beyond the door, his presence heavy, pressing through the walls, watching without needing to see.
He didn't need to follow me. He never does. Because even when I escape, I'm still inside him.
And I fucking hate it.
Zayan POV
She storms past me like a wildfire, all teeth and claws and venom, and I let her.
Not because she won, not because she broke free, but because watching her rage out of my cage is better than silence.
Her door slams, the sound ricocheting off the balcony walls. It's a clean shot straight through my chest, and fuck if it doesn't feel good. That sound means she's burning again. Finally.
For three nights she gave me nothing. No snarling comebacks. No sharp tongue. No teeth. Just silence. Cold, endless, suffocating silence. She thought it was punishment. Thought I'd choke on the absence of her voice.
And maybe I did.
But I hated it because silence is worse than hate. Silence means distance. Silence means she's retreating, and I don't allow retreat.
Now, though—now I see the fire back in her eyes, hear her threats rip out of her throat like blades, feel her fists slam into me with all her rage—and fuck, I missed this.
I stay where I am on the balcony, leaning on the railing, looking at the spot she just tore through. The moonlight paints the path she left, and my smirk drags slow across my mouth. My chest hums with satisfaction. She thinks she escaped me tonight. No. What she gave me was better. She gave me proof she still burns for me, even if it's through hate. Especially because it's through hate.
Her face still lingers in my head—the way her throat tightened when I asked when, the way she froze like prey caught under a predator's eye. And then that answer. After your death.
She spat it like it would cut me down. Instead, it carved me open in all the right ways. Because even in her threats, I'm inside her head.
She doesn't get it. She never will. Her fury isn't her weapon—it's mine. It makes her speak, makes her react, makes her circle me even when she wants to run. Silence is death. Fury is life. And I'll take her hate over her silence every fucking time.
My room swallows me in shadows, and there it is—her door. Shut tight. Like she actually believes wood and a lock can keep me out.
The corner of my mouth twitches. That door isn't a barrier. It's foreplay.
I strip down, let the shower scald me, steam curling around my body as her voice keeps replaying in my head. Move. I want to go. The way she shoved me with everything she had, as if she could break me. God, I can still feel her hands on my chest, trembling with fury.
When I finally lay back on the bed, the sheets cool against my skin, the silence of the room isn't silence at all. Not with her so close. Her room inside mine—her presence seeping through the walls, her anger bleeding into the air. She thinks she left me behind on that balcony, but I'm still here, inside every inch of her space.
I close my eyes and laugh under my breath. Soft. Dark. Satisfied.
Now I just have to figure out how to sharpen her again tomorrow. How to drag more fury out of her chest, how to keep her spitting, snarling, feeding me with every ounce of venom she can summon.
Because that's the truth she'll never admit—she hates me best when she hates me loud.
And I'll never let her stop.
ARSHILA'S POV
The clink of silverware is too sharp in the morning. Too loud for my skull after last night. The staff move like ghosts—polished shoes whispering across the marble, heads lowered, hands precise as they finish setting the table. They line up the forks and knives like it's some sacred ritual, then they bow before leaving.
Bow.
My grip tightens around the coffee cup. That bow slices at me every damn time. I don't like it. Never did. Never will. It feels wrong—people bending their spines for me like I'm some throne, when really I'm just a caged animal at the head of a table too big for two people.
Because that's all this mansion holds. Just two people. Me and him.
Everyone else is banished to the outhouse. And calling it an outhouse is a fucking joke, because that place looks like a luxury hotel—sleek, glass walls, infinity pool, plush as sin. They live there like well-paid shadows, and they only appear when summoned. Which means inside this sprawling beast of a house, echoing with marble and silence, it's just me. And him. Always him.
I sip my coffee, bitter and black, trying to burn through the wreckage of last night.
Sleep didn't come easy. Not with his voice scraping my brain, replaying on a loop. Is that a promise? The way he caged me against the glass, his heat pressed into me, his smirk carving me open. The way I shoved him and he didn't move an inch. And the way he said it—wife—like a curse, like a crown, like he knew it would split me apart.
I spiraled. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted iron. I stared at the ceiling until 3 a.m. My rage burned holes in me. My hate kept me alive.
Or at least, I pretend it's hate.
Because the truth—the ugly, fucked-up truth—is that hating him is easier than anything else. Easier than admitting he's under my skin, easier than admitting my pulse trips every time his shadow hits me. Hate is safe. Hate is armor. Love? Desire? Need? That shit is fatal.
So yeah, I tell myself I hate him. And maybe I almost believe it.
The coffee is halfway gone when it happens.
Footsteps.
Heavy. Slow. Confident. That cadence—controlled, measured, each step announcing: I own this ground. I own this house. I own the air you're breathing right now.
Of course. Of fucking course it's him. Nobody else in this mansion walks like that. Nobody else on this planet walks like that.
I freeze, cup hovering midair, my chest tightening before I even turn my head. Because I already know. I already feel it.
And then—there he is.
Holy. Mother. Of. Shit.
He's a vision out of a fever dream I'd never admit to having. Compression shirt, black, plastered to his chest, stretched across those shoulders like it was custom-made to make me suffer. Black sweatpants hanging low on his hips, clinging in the wrong places, or maybe the right ones. His skin glistening, sweat dripping down his throat, catching on the hollow of his collarbone before sliding under the shirt. His hair damp, his jaw rough, his eyes darker than morning should allow.
And his body—fuck. His body is a sermon. A sin. A goddamn weapon wrapped in skin.
My brain short-circuits. My eyes? Traitors. Absolute traitors. They glue themselves to him, tracing every line, every flex, every shift of muscle under that shirt. And I hate myself for it. Hate how I can't turn away. Hate how he looks like something unholy walking out of his gym, like the devil himself decided to stretch in human form just to ruin me.
And then. He smirks.
Like he knows. Of course he knows.
Then the bastard winks.
Winks. At me.
Like he just caught me drooling and decided to stamp it into my skull forever.
My blood spikes so hard it's dizzying. Fury and heat tangled in one ugly knot. My body acts before my brain—middle finger up across the table. A single obscene salute in the middle of all this elegance and polish.
He doesn't flinch. Doesn't blink. His smirk curves wider, slow and sinful, eating me alive. And then—because of course he has to drag it out—he takes his sweet fucking time climbing the stairs. One step at a time, muscles flexing under damp fabric, his body gleaming like temptation incarnate.
I should look away. I should. I don't.
I track him with my eyes, every shift, every sway, every deliberate movement. And he knows. He fucking knows I'm watching. That smirk stays carved into his face until he disappears at the top.
Only then do I exhale, sharp and shaky, coffee trembling in my grip.
My lips twitch. And before I can stop it, a smirk of my own breaks through, bitter and filthy.
"God," I mutter under my breath, low and raw, "thank you for the lovely fucking morning."
Because yeah—he's a bastard. A demon in sweatpants. A compression-shirt nightmare. And I'm an idiot. A goddamn fool who can't stop wanting the very man I swear I hate.
But at least I'm honest about one thing:
If mornings keep starting like this, maybe I don't mind the cage.
--------------
The plant-side couch is my temple. My hideout. My grave. I melt into it like it's the only thing in this house that doesn't feel like chains. Surrounded by green—the massive ferns, the glossy leaves, the smell of damp soil—I can almost pretend I'm not trapped in marble and glass.
And yeah, I'm giggling.
Like a fucking idiot.
Because his body. God, his body.
He isn't bulky. No roid-rage chest, no bloated arms. No, he's worse. He's carved lean. Muscles cut like a blade, not a boulder. His stomach rigid, lines tracing lower like a map I shouldn't even be thinking about. His arms long and strong, veins pulsing under skin, made for pinning, for caging. And that chain—fuck. That thin silver chain resting against his collarbones, glinting every time he moves, just enough to make me ache. It shouldn't be legal. It makes him look feral. It makes me insane.
I bury my face into the cushion, grinning like a lunatic, heat rising to my cheeks. My thighs press together on instinct, and I curse myself because I shouldn't. I shouldn't want him. I shouldn't think about him like this. But the more I tell myself don't, the filthier my brain gets.
God, I'm doomed.
"Madam."
The voice slices through the greenhouse bubble. I jolt upright so fast my neck cracks. The housekeeper is there, patient, hands clasped behind his back, eyes respectfully lowered. I scramble to sit straighter, try to cool the red burning across my face, pretend I wasn't just drooling over the thought of my husband's chain.
"Young master Shadin Tavarian is here."
My heart stops.
What the fuck?
I blink, wide-eyed, sure I misheard. Shadin? Here? In this house? He's never—never—set foot here before. And now suddenly—
I shoot off the couch, nearly tripping over a throw blanket, adrenaline spiking.
"Wait—what? Shadin's here?"
The housekeeper nods once, as calm as ever.
And I run. Barefoot, hair a mess, skin still flushed. I run through marble corridors like a maniac because—Shadin.
And then I see him.
Shadin Raizal Tavarian.
Sitting there like sin wrapped in silk, sprawled across the living room couch. His shirt collar undone, suit jacket draped careless, long legs stretched out, one arm slung over the backrest like he owns the place. His hair perfect, smirk sharper than a blade. A hot baby. A cocky bastard. My best friend.
"Broo," I blurt, breathless, "I'm so surprised!"
He smirks, teeth flashing.
"Surprised? Please. I should be the one surprised you're still breathing in here. Figured I'd check on you before you lose your damn mind."
I laugh, sharp and incredulous. "Oh my God, you didn't just—"
"What? Say the truth?" His eyes glint, dark and mischievous. "You, married to him? Feels like a bad punchline, princess. Thought by now you'd have strangled him with one of those silk ties and buried him under the garden."
I throw my head back, laughing louder than I should. "You're such an ass."
"And you love it," he fires back instantly, smirk deepening.
I shake my head, grinning, and flop down beside him on the couch, still buzzing with shock.
"So how's life, huh? How's everything on your side?"
He stretches, pretending to think, his voice dripping casual. "Good. Busy. Same old circus. But—" his eyes cut to me, sharp and deliberate, "I miss you."
I snort. "Miss me? I texted you yesterday, you bastard."
"Texts don't count," he shrugs, leaning closer, grin tugging at his mouth. "You know I need the real thing. You. Right here. Telling me all the insane shit in your head. Giving me headaches."
I narrow my eyes, trying not to smile. "Headaches? Wow. Love you too, bestie."
"Don't twist it." He points a finger at me, mock stern. "I'm saying I miss your chaos. That's all."
I roll my eyes, leaning back. "Oh please. You've got your little sidekicks to keep you entertained."
His smirk flickers, the smallest shift, and then—smooth—he changes the subject.
"You eating? Sleeping? Or just pacing these halls like a ghost?"
I catch it. That dodge. But I don't push, not yet. Instead, I grin crooked. "Why, you applying for housekeeper? Want me to send in a complaint?"
"I'd be a better housekeeper than the poor bastards here," he mutters, low, eyes dragging over the marble. "At least I wouldn't bow like they're worshiping at a tomb."
The words hang. A jab, soft but sharp.
And for a moment, his eyes flick to me—something hidden there. Something he doesn't say out loud.
Then he smirks again, covering it.
"Anyway. Enough about me. Tell me—how the hell haven't you blown this place up yet?"
I snort, tipping my chin high, defiant.
"Because I have to act like a Tavarian wife, right? Sit pretty, smile sharp, make it look like I'm carved out of marble just like this house."
Shadin leans closer, voice low, slicing through the air.
"You don't have to act like anyone. Be you. If you start faking it in here, you'll lose yourself. And once that happens, princess…" his smirk tilts, dangerous, "…this place will eat you alive."
My chest squeezes, but I laugh it off, too brittle.
"Yeah, well. Maybe I'm already halfway digested."
He tilts his head, eyes narrowing, but doesn't push. Instead—smooth pivot.
"So. How's he?"
The question drops like a stone in water. My pulse stutters. I force a shrug.
"He's… good. Sometimes. A jerk. But good."
Shadin doesn't respond. Doesn't even blink. His silence drags, heavy. And I—idiot—think back to the couch, to the chain, to his sweat, to the way I wanted him so bad my skin burned—
And that's when it hits me.
The air shifts. My skin prickles. Goosebumps race up my arms. I don't need to look to know. I feel him.
Zayan.
I drag my gaze up—and there he is.
Black jeans, dark shirt, two buttons undone, throat on display. But it's not the body that crushes me—it's the face. Hard. Cold. Eyes sharp enough to bleed. And he's not looking at me.
He's looking at Shadin.
And Shadin—smirks. Like he's been waiting for this exact moment.
"Long time no see, cousin."
Zayan doesn't answer. Just stares. The air between them thickens, heavy, vibrating. Anger, maybe hate. Whatever it is, it isn't family. It isn't love. It's war disguised as silence.
Finally, Zayan speaks, voice like steel.
"Why are you here?"
Shadin's smirk sharpens. He doesn't flinch.
"Don't flatter yourself. I didn't come to see you. I came to see her. Only her."
The words punch the air out of me. And Zayan—Zayan doesn't move. Just looks at him. That look says more than words. A warning. A threat. A promise. They're speaking without sound, a language I can't hear but feel in my bones.
I drag my eyes to him, stupid, reckless—and then I see it. His shirt clinging to muscle, those undone buttons, the chain of veins down his forearm. My breath stutters. My face burns hot. Too hot.
And then—Shadin's hand. Cold against my cheek, fingers brushing skin.
"Do you have a fever?" His brows furrow, smirk softening. "You're red. Burning."
My stomach flips. Instinct drags my gaze back to Zayan. His face—GOD. It's terrifying. His jaw locked, eyes darker than I've ever seen. Like he'd kill with a blink.
I jerk back from Shadin's touch, heart slamming.
"No. I—I don't have a fever."
The words sound thin, broken. My skin still burns. But not from Shadin's touch.
From the storm in Zayan's eyes.
Zayan's POV
The sound catches me mid-step.
A laugh. Not mine. Not from her bedroom. From the living room.
I stop. Every muscle wired, jaw flexing.
She's laughing. With someone.
I move slow, down the hall, every step quieter than breath. The closer I get, the tighter my chest coils. And then—
I see him.
God, no. Not him.
Shadin. My fucking cousin. Sitting too close on my couch like he belongs. That smirk on his face—the one I've wanted to break since we were kids. The snake in the family, disguised as her "best friend." My ass. He's here for her. Always has been. And he's showing it.
He's alive because of blood. And because she doesn't know. Doesn't know he looks at her like that. Doesn't know he wants her. And even if she did? She wouldn't care. She wouldn't touch him. Because I know her better than anyone. She's mine in ways he'll never understand.
Still, he's here. Testing my patience. This early in the morning. And she—she's sitting there with him. Smiling.
My fists clench. God, I want to rip her out of his reach and smash his face into the floor until the smirk is gone forever.
And then she notices me. Her eyes widen. His smirk widens too, like he's been waiting.
My blood burns. I picture killing him. Making it look like an accident. But even then, Grandfather would suspect me. The old man sees through me like glass. That doesn't mean I won't kill him. It just means I'll make sure no one ever finds the body.
And then it happens.
Her face—flushed. Red. And his hand—on her cheek. Touching her.
That bastard touched her.
The storm inside me breaks open. My vision tunnels.
But my mouth? My mouth smiles. Slow. Venom dripping.
I step fully into the room, my voice calm, casual. A lie.
"How you doing, bro?"
He leans back against my couch like it's his. That smirk plastered across his face.
"Good, babe. Better than ever."
My teeth grind, but my grin doesn't slip.
"Glad to hear it. How's my uncle and aunt? Good? Healthy?"
His eyes flicker—quick, sharp—but his voice stays lazy.
"They're alive. Thriving. Why? Thinking of visiting? Or maybe sending flowers when the time comes?"
I chuckle. A sound sharp enough to cut.
"Funny. I was wondering how they'd handle losing a son. Maybe in some… accident. You know me, cousin. Accidents follow me around. I don't mean them. But they happen."
His smirk holds, but his jaw ticks. I see it. I always see it.
"Careful," he murmurs, low. "Grandfather wouldn't like that."
I lean down, just enough for only him to hear, my smile never breaking.
"Grandfather already knows me. Knows I'm dangerous. But suspicion isn't proof. And by the time anyone finds what's left of you—if they find it—you'll be dust."
For a moment, silence. His smirk cracks, just barely. Then it slides back in place, thinner.
"You think you scare me?"
I tilt my head, my smile a razor.
"No. Fear's not the right word. You're not afraid of me. You're afraid of what I'll do when patience runs out. And, cousin—" I pause, eyes cutting through him, "my patience has a short leash."
His eyes narrow, but he doesn't move. Doesn't flinch. Just smirks again.
I straighten, brushing invisible dust off my shirt, still smiling, still venom.
"Anyway. Thanks for stopping by. Always nice catching up with family. But you look busy. You don't have any plans to leave?"
He laughs, low, leaning back with that same infuriating smirk.
"Not really. I was enjoying the view."
The laugh that leaves my throat is soft. Deadly.
"Careful, cousin. Views change fast. Sometimes they disappear. And sometimes—they're taken away. Permanently."
And the silence that follows tastes like blood.
Shadin leans back deeper into my couch like he's the king of it, one arm stretched along the backrest, casual, smug. His smirk stretches slow, deliberate, like he's savoring the tension.
"This is why I like you, Zayan," he drawls, eyes glinting. "Sharp tongue, sharper temper. If I were a girl, I might even fall for you."
My smile curves wider, but it's not warmth. It's a blade unsheathed. I let my gaze drag over him, slow and assessing, like I'm already picturing how to break him piece by piece.
"If you were a girl, cousin, you'd already be dead."
His smirk flickers, just a twitch, but he masks it quick. He tilts his head, pretending unbothered.
"Tsk. That mouth of yours. You should respect your elders."
I scoff, the sound low, sharp, echoing in my chest.
"Elders?" My grin is venom, pure poison. "You're only ten months older than me. That doesn't earn you respect, bro."
That last word drips like acid, every syllable carved to mean one thing: bitch.
His eyes narrow, but his smirk stays. Always stays. That's the thing about snakes—they keep smiling right up until you crush their heads.
"Ten months," he echoes, lazy. "But still older. Still above."
"Above?" I lean closer, elbows on my knees, my smile cutting razor-thin. "Let's get something straight. You've never been above me. Not in school. Not in business. Not in this family. You've been crawling behind my shadow since the day you opened your eyes. And you'll die in it too."
His laugh is soft, mocking. "There it is. The Tavarian bite. I wondered when you'd bare your teeth."
I let mine show. Not the kind that laughs. The kind that tears.
Inside, my head is a firestorm. He's sitting there, smirking, talking like he belongs. Like he has any claim in this house, in her presence. And she—she's watching us. Those wide eyes flicking between us like she can't decide if this is family banter or the start of a war.
She asks, voice soft, breaking the air:
"You guys… okay?"
I don't look at her. Not yet. If I do, I'll give away too much. This isn't for her eyes. Not yet.
I keep my stare locked on him, my grin never faltering.
"Of course we're okay," I say, voice smooth, venom wrapped in silk. "Family, right? Always family."
Shadin chuckles, low, leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees, mirroring me.
"Always, cousin. Family until the grave."
My smirk sharpens, eyes locked with his.
"Careful with that promise. The grave comes quicker than you think."
The silence that follows isn't silence at all—it's the hiss of snakes, the echo of knives being unsheathed, the hum of two predators circling the same kill.
---
ARSHILA'S POV
I don't breathe. Not really. I just sit there, stuck between them, watching words slide back and forth like knives disguised as smiles.
At first it feels casual. Family banter. Cousins catching up. But the longer it goes on, the more it coils around me, tight, suffocating.
Because it doesn't sound casual. Not at all.
It sounds like they're circling each other. Hunting each other.
I glance from Zayan to Shadin, back again. Their eyes don't leave each other. They don't blink. If I didn't know better, I'd swear they wanted to eat each other alive—not in some filthy way, but like predators. Wolves.
Shadin shifts suddenly, breaking the silence, his smirk turning playful, almost nostalgic.
"You know," he says, tilting his head toward me for the first time, though his eyes flick back to Zayan immediately, "when we were kids, I used to take his toys all the time. Didn't matter what it was—if he wanted it, I made sure it ended up in my hands. He'd rage, snap, throw punches, but in the end? I always walked away holding it."
I blink, startled, then laugh a little, because it sounds ridiculous. Childish. A story of cousins stealing each other's stuff.
Zayan doesn't laugh. Not even close. His jaw tightens, his grin razor-sharp.
"Yeah," he murmurs, voice dark silk, "you always did like touching things that didn't belong to you. Problem is… toys break when they're in the wrong hands. And you were never good at keeping them whole."
I frown, glancing between them. The words don't sound like they're talking about toys at all.
Shadin smirks wider, leaning back again, arms spreading along the couch like he owns it.
"Maybe. But I enjoyed it while it lasted. Besides, it wasn't about keeping them. It was about proving I could take them. And oh—how he hated that. Didn't you, cousin?"
His eyes glitter when he says it. Like there's a dare buried under every syllable.
Zayan leans forward, elbows on his knees, his smile looking more like a wolf baring teeth.
"Hated it?" His laugh is sharp, humorless. "No. I just waited. Because I knew eventually you'd choke on what you took. And when you did? I'd be there, watching. Enjoying."
Shadin's gaze flickers—just for a second—but then he laughs too, low and lazy.
"Always patient, aren't you? That's the difference between us. I don't wait. If I see something I want, I take it. Simple."
"And that," Zayan cuts in, his tone suddenly sharp enough to slice skin, "is why you always lose. Because you mistake having something in your hand for actually owning it. You've never owned a damn thing in your life. Not toys. Not respect. Not even your own shadow. You're just a thief playing king."
My stomach twists. This isn't just talk. This isn't cousins catching up. This is something else, something sharper, and I can't quite put my finger on it.
Still, I force a laugh, awkward, cutting in.
"You guys… sound like you hated each other as kids."
Neither of them looks at me. Not even for a second. Their eyes stay locked, the air between them thick with something I can't name.
Shadin tilts his head, his smirk curling slow.
"Hated? No. He was always fun to toy with. Easy to provoke. See, the thing about Zayan—he pretends he doesn't care. But he feels everything. Deep. Possessive. If you touch what's his, he snaps. Every. Single. Time."
Zayan's smile doesn't move, but I swear the temperature in the room drops. His eyes burn holes through Shadin, sharp, lethal.
"Funny," he murmurs, voice soft enough to kill. "You talk like you've lived long enough to know me. But you've barely survived the times I've let you walk away. Don't mistake mercy for weakness, cousin. One day, you'll forget the difference. And that's when I'll bury you."
A chill runs through me. The words sound calm, but the way he says them—it's not a threat. It's a promise.
Shadin chuckles, leaning forward again, his elbows brushing his knees, his smirk close enough to taste like smoke.
"See? That's why I enjoy you, Zayan. You keep me sharp. Without you, life would be boring. Predictable. Who else could spar with me like this?"
Zayan's grin widens, venom dripping.
"You confuse sparring with surviving. Big difference. Sparring, you walk away tired. Surviving, you crawl away lucky. And one day, cousin, your luck runs out."
I swallow hard, my pulse pounding. God. They're not joking. This isn't banter. This is blood with a smile painted over it.
Before I can move, Shadin stands. Smooth, slow, towering. The smirk never leaves his face. Out of instinct, I rise too.
And then it happens.
His hand slides against mine, fingers brushing, curling. Holding. Casual. Too casual.
My breath catches—surprised, frozen.
But Zayan—
He moves so fast I barely register it. One second, I feel Shadin's hand, the next—I'm yanked back, hard, my body pulled flush against Zayan's chest. His arm bands around me, iron-strong, keeping me behind him, out of reach.
And he steps forward, blocking me completely, his body a wall between me and Shadin.
His eyes lock on his cousin, no smile now, just that lethal stillness.
And I realize—whatever this is, whatever they're saying without saying—
I'm in the middle of it.
And the storm hasn't even started.
Zayan doesn't move for a long moment. His body stays rigid in front of me, solid, shielding, like he hasn't quite decided whether to let Shadin walk away breathing. His voice when it finally cuts through is calm—too calm.
"Maybe you should go, cousin," he says, low, smooth, dangerous in its simplicity. "You might get LATE."
The smirk that curls across Shadin's face makes my stomach knot. He tilts his head—not at Zayan, but at me, because even with Zayan's frame blocking me, his eyes cut around him, seeking mine. And when they find me, they gleam with something I can't name. Something that makes my pulse jump for all the wrong reasons.
"I'm going, babe," he says, casual, almost affectionate, like the word belongs on his tongue. "I'll see you later."
Later. The word hooks deep, and I don't know why.
He steps forward, passing Zayan, and I feel Zayan's entire body shift, his focus narrowing like a blade following every move his cousin makes. I think it's over. I think he's leaving.
But then Shadin stops, his back still to us. He doesn't turn fully, just glances over his shoulder, the smirk still playing on his lips.
"Ah," he says, voice smooth, deliberate, "I almost forgot. We'll see each other for one week. Must be close."
The words hang there, heavy, confusing, sharp in ways I don't understand.
One week? Close?
My brows knit, but before I can ask, he waves—lazy, like this is all a game—and walks out the door. I hesitate, then lift my hand too, awkwardly waving back because that's what politeness does to me when I don't know what else to do.
Zayan doesn't wave. Doesn't move. His face is stone, carved in something unreadable, but his mood—God, I can feel it bleeding off him in waves. Dark. Furious.
The door clicks shut.
Zayan retreats a step, like he's about to leave the room altogether, but I grab his hand before he can. My fingers curl tight, holding, pulling him to stop.
He turns, slow, his eyes meeting mine. And the weight in them makes my throat dry.
"What did he mean by that?" I ask, my voice small but sharp enough to cut. "The one week thing?"
He doesn't answer right away. Just stands there, still, his gaze locked with mine like he's deciding how much to give me. How much to keep.
Finally, his voice comes. Low. Even. Heavy.
"The Tavarian Annual Day celebration."
I blink. Confused. "What?"
"Every year," he says, still watching me, still not blinking, "the entire family stays one week in Grandfather's house. No excuses. No leaving early. Everyone under one roof."
My heart drops.
One week.
Together.
Everyone.
My voice cracks out before I can stop it. "Everyone?" I repeat, my chest tightening. "Like… everyone?"
He doesn't flinch. Doesn't soften. Just nods once.
The nod feels like a verdict.
I freeze, cold shooting down my spine, my stomach sinking.
Everyone. Him. Me. Zayan.
And THE TAVARIANS.
All under one roof.
One week.
I stare at Zayan, my hand still clutching his, my thoughts spiraling.
And all I can think is—
I'm doomed.